Page 77 of The Captive
“GoodGod, of course I’m not indifferent! She was my wife, I loved her in my fashion, and while her death was ruled accidental, she herself committed the accidental misuse of the drug that took her life. That is nigh suicide, Gilly, recorded as accident only out of deference to her title, or perhaps to her daughter’s memory of her, and had I been here,itwouldnothavehappened.”
“Don’t do this.” She leaned into him, pressed her face to his arm, even as she kept her hand on his back. “Helene blamed herself for the child’s death, blamed herself for sending you away when there was no spare in the nursery. She howled with the anguish of it like a wounded animal, and it was no more her fault than it is yours. You said it yourself: everyone dies. Everyone. Instead of cursing yourself for being taken captive, you must celebrate that you yet live.”
She shook him by his arm; then she rose to her knees and wrapped both arms around his shoulders.
“Helene had choices,” she went on, “and if she chose to take her life, there is nothing anybody can do about it. You have a daughter, you will have more children, you will laugh and love and live. You will.”
“Do you think she killed herself?”
The countess sat back down on her heels, and Christian was both relieved to be free of her embrace and disoriented, like those irises, dug up, cut loose, all their tender parts exposed to the sunlight.
“Only Helene knows what her intentions were, but she said nothing to me about wanting to die. It’s easy, with one dose taken, to become confused about how much was consumed and when. By low light, many drops can look like a few, days blend, memories blend. Laudanum deaths are legion among the ill.”
“If she did…take her own life…” Christian set his hand spade down. “I was missing, soon to be presumed dead, her son was gone… If she did, I cannot blame her.”
Dirt was everywhere—on his gloves, his breeches, on Gilly’s blanket, and the same dirt that grew flowers provided a final resting place for the mortal remains of people who had been loved while they’d walked the earth.
“You must not blame yourself, either, Christian. Never once did Helene express any sentiment reproaching you for being taken captive. Never.”
They sat in silence for long minutes before the countess yanked up one more root, tossed it on the pile, and sat back again. “I owe you an apology,” she said.
“For?”
“Thinking you were indifferent to your losses.”
“You have your own guilt to manage in that regard,” he said, but he felt too hollow to explain what he meant. Hollow and curiously light. “We all grieve differently.”
She nodded and passed him the little spade, and it seemed to Christian the roots came up more easily after that.
***
Gilly forced herself to focus on the gardening, but her insides were in an angry, disbelieving uproar.
What kind of mind would make a man choose between his family on the one hand and his comrades in arms on the other? Between home and hearth, and the men under his command?
And it was no credit to this Girard person that he’d ceased his taunts early in Christian’s captivity. The seed of self-castigation had been planted in fertile soil and allowed to flourish at the expense of Christian’s sanity.
Watching Christian tear at the hapless irises, Gilly realized the duke had tried to take his own life, or at least contemplated it. She’d had her concerns, particularly when she’d walked in on him with a razor in his hand, a wild look in his blue eyes.
God.
God.
Or the devil. She’d long ago given up trying to comprehend how the Deity could command loyalty when so many of His creations were left in abject, blameless misery. Only a cruel God could strike down small children with wasting diseases, or make the elderly suffer lonely years waiting for death after the passing of a mate.
She silently gave thanks—again—for her widowed state.
“Have you anything to drink in that basket, Lady Greendale?”
She wanted him to call her Gilly, never that other name.
“Cold tea. Help yourself. You’ve made fine progress.” Far more than she had, but then, he was far stronger.
“I probably traumatized the ones in the ground as much as the ones in your basket.” He sat back on his heels and drew his forearm over his brow. At some point, he’d turned back his cuffs and opened the throat of his shirt.
“These are not cuts,” she said, running a finger over the skin in the bend of his elbow. He set the jug of cold tea aside, allowing her to trace a series of round, red scars that looked all too familiar.
“Cheroot burns. They hurt like hell but heal fairly quickly.”
