Page 71 of Hearts Held
Stepping through the door, we are transported into a sanctuary of serenity and refinement. It’s my favorite room within the estate, and it will impress Brielle.
The focal point of my washroom is the pristine ivory clawfoot tub, which is positioned near a tall window adorned with delicate black lace curtains. During the daytime, the tub offers views of the lush English countryside, allowing natural light to cascade onto the polished tiles. The gentle glow of an Art Deco antler chandelier suspended from the ceiling adds a touch of warmth to the space.
Overlooking the tub, an intricately patterned wallpaper in soft green hues depicts scenes of blooming florals. A brass faucet with porcelain handles extends from the tub, providing a regal touch.
A meticulously crafted wooden shelf with a row of perfectly aligned glass jars filled with bath salts and fragrant oils adorns the wall, within easy reach.
I find Mrs. Foster folding the cotton towels and readying the bath. “Everything is ready, sir. Would you like me to stay?”
Carefully, I lower Brielle’s legs to the ground, her hands clutching my shirt, her feet unsteady as her petitebody leans on my frame. I softly whisper, “Brielle, you need to get into the bath. You are going into shock,” I calmly state.
The tremors increase in her hands as her small frame shakes harder.
“Brielle, do you want Mrs. Foster to help you into the bath?” I ask.
No response.
Guilt sets in that I did this to her. If I hadn’t allowed her to work for us, for Bobby to bring her into this life, she would have never been in harm’s way. Everything she endured this evening is my fault.
Letting out a long exhale, I exclaim, “Dove, you need to get into the bath. I don’t know shock like a nurse does, but I’ve seen what it’s done to some of my men.”
No response.
That’s it. I decide to take matters into my own hands.
“Brielle, I’m taking you into the tub. You need to wash up, and we need to ground you before shock completely takes over. You are shutting down and…” I place my forehead against hers, feeling the heat radiating from her temple. I exhale as my hand moves to cup her cheek. “And I got to admit this is terrifying me.”
Slowly, I grasp her wrists and try to remove her hands, but they have dug into my shirt. Her nails are nearly embedded in my chest.
Making an executive decision, I slowly walk her back to the tub, wrapping my arms around her small stature. The water slowly envelops our bodies as I climb into the large clawfoot tub with her, her trembling body still clutched to my chest.
“Sir!” Mrs. Foster gasps as she enters the bathing room with a stack of towels. She holds her delicate hand to her mouth, eyes full of surprise.
In a calm tone, I state, “I may need your help changing her afterward. I don’t believe she wants me to see her undress. Though, at this time, may we have some privacy?”
I look up at her to find Mrs. Foster’s questioning eyes, though she nods. “I’ll be right outside the hallway, sir. Shout when ready.” Then she leaves the room.
I muffle a thank-you under my breath as I watch the blood on Brielle and I merge with the water. She is on her side and fixed upon my chest. Still shaking.
“I’m going to slowly clean you off now, okay?” I whisper into herhair.
I hear her sniffle as her head slowly nods in agreement.
Taking a soft, wet washcloth, I carefully clean her delicate cheek, abolishing the crimson stains that mar her ivory skin. Small whimpers thread between her lips with each tender stroke. I clean her as best I can without becoming too invasive. Brielle slowly stirs underneath me, appearing to become more coherent with each passing moment. The waters become murky and tainted with red.
I tilt her head back, the water welcoming the strands of hair. Flecks of blood separate from the strands as the crimson merges with the warm water. Using the tips of my fingers, I massage shampoo into her scalp with small circles. Soon, instead of small whimpers, a tiny moan escapes Brielle. My fingers glide perfectly through her hair, relishing the simple yet intimate task. I am grateful she is allowing me to try to care for her during this time.
As I finish rinsing out her hair, restoring it to its natural color, I lean in, placing my nose against her scalp. I exhale in relief that she is safely in my arms, but unfortunately, she is in this state because of me.
I whisper into her hair, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This would have never happened if I had never let youwork for us.” Pulling her closer into my arms, I begin to feel her body rack with emotion.
Then, the most awful sound fills my ears and echoes off the washroom walls. Brielle’s wail. Such a harrowing, haunting cry as her small body curls into mine. I should have protected her.
For some reason, this sound is far worse than the cries that haunt my dreams from the battlefield.
I should have prevented her from joining us and avoided exposing her to this. She may have endured so much more before our encounter, but she began anew in Lockham. I painfully whisper again, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
She turns her forehead into my chest as her sorrow reaches into my soul, straining my heart and ceasing my breath. For several heartbeats, we sit there. I hold her close and attempt to comfort her.
