Page 85 of The Defiant One
"Stop it, Andrew. I don't want to hear such rubbish."
"It isn't rubbish, it is the truth."
"You're pushing me away. I can't let you do that anymore." Her voice gentled, became pleading. "I'm your wife."
He just raised a hand to his eyes, flung it away.
"I'm your friend."
He swallowed hard, fighting back the rising tide of emotion.
"And I'm the woman who's falling in love with you."
He turned to her in anguish. Celsie could see the faint glisten of what looked like tears in his eyes, a bleak, panicky desperation that beseeched her to leave him alone even as it begged her not to. She reached out and threaded her fingers through his. "Andrew," she said quietly. "I married you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. We took vows, pledging ourselves to one another. We're in this for the rest of our lives, and if you think I'm going to abandon you to whatever it is that so affects and frightens you simply because I might otherwise find myself embarrassed about your behavior, then you don't know me very well, do you?"
He put his head in his hands and bent his body over them, fighting a battle with his will.
"You are ill, aren't you?"
He just made an inarticulate little noise and nodded his head. A lump lodged in Celsie's throat, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids as her heart went out to him. How hard he tried to maintain his composure when it was obvious that he was coming apart at the seams. How hard he tried to push her away with anger, when it was all too apparent that he needed her with a desperation he could never admit. And how hard he had tried to pretend that whatever ailed him was no more than an embarrassing annoyance — when Celsie knew, deep in her heart, that it was something that filled him with dread.
It was terrible to be alone with your own fears.
Even more so when you were alone in so many other ways as well. As she had always been.
As Andrew was now.
She got up, moved to the other seat, and lowered herself down beside him. He didn't move, just sat there bent over his hands, suffering in his own private anguish. She put her arms around him and he leaned slightly into her, his shoulders lurching as hoarse sobs of fear finally claimed him.
"You shouldn't have to go through this with me," he blurted, still curled over his hands. "Oh, Celsie, it will be a living hell for you . . . a nightmare . . . why do this to yourself?"
She held him in her arms, comforting him, reassuring him that he was not alone and never would be. He would not uncurl himself and return her embrace, would not go that last step in trusting her. Oh, Andrew. . . . my heart aches so for you. She tried to find the right words. Tried to think of what she could say to comfort him. And then her heart found her own private dread, and her eyes filled with tears of their own.
"We cannot always take away the suffering of those we love," she said quietly. "But we can make sure that they don't suffer alone." A beloved face was there in her mind's eye, dark eyes gone cloudy, once youthful face grey with age. Tears began to slip from her eyes, to trickle silently down her face. "Freckles has a lump beneath his ear," she continued, as Andrew shook with silent anguish. "One of these days he'll probably stop eating. One of these days he will lie down and refuse to get up. One of these days he will die . . . and a big piece of my heart will die right along with him." Hot tears scalded her cheeks, falling on his mud-stained coat, soaking his bent shoulder. "But do you think I'm going to go away when that time comes, that I'm going to abandon him simply because it would spare me the pain and grief of watching him die? Do you honestly think I'm that cowardly, Andrew? That selfish?"
His shoulders jerked on a harsh sob. "I'm sorry, Celsie . . . I didn't know . . ."
"I know you didn't. But you'll be there for me when that time comes. Just as I'm here for you now . . . as I will always be here for you."
"I'm going m-mad, Celsie," he choked out. "My brain is dying and I'm scared, scared of losing my mind, losing my science, losing who I am and turning into a drooling idiot at Bedlam . . . "
"You don't have to be scared all by yourself, Andrew. You aren't in this alone. You have me."
"You must despise me . . . pity me . . . wish you'd never met me. Look at me, blubbering like a two-year-old . . ."
"Despise and pity you? No, Andrew. Never. You are an incredible man, but I don't think you realize that, do you? I want to be near you, with you. I want to share your life, as I want you to share mine." She made her voice deliberately light. "And sometimes I even want to strangle you, because you're the stubbornest, most defiant individual I've ever met and you should have told me this long before now."
"Yes, I should have — then you could have left me."
"Only in your dreams," she chastised.
Her attempt at humor found its mark. He gave a half sob, half laugh, and raised his head, drawing his hands down his face but still refusing to look at her. Celsie reached into her pocket and found her handkerchief. She passed it to him and he wordlessly wiped his eyes.
She sat and waited, watching his fingers squeezing and unsqueezing the handkerchief as he looked down at his hands, trying to find the words that would release him from his own dark prison of pain.
"It all started last Christmas," he finally murmured, still staring down at the crumpled muslin. "Do you remember hearing about the fire at Blackheath Castle?"
"Yes — it was on everyone's tongue."
