The pain of it washed over him as he sat up and cradled his head in his hands.
His head pounded. He blew out a long breath, feeling as if he had run to Cornwall and back. Lifting his gaze, he surveyed the room.
His heart beat anew.
Beatrice sat before the empty fireplace. Sleeping. Keeping vigil.
He didn’t deserve her. No man could ask for a better friend. Or so he prayed, as he swung his gaze to Kit.
His brother was curled up on the floor under a blanket. He recalled Beatrice maneuvering them into this room, tucking them in, and making sure no one wobbled or broke their neck.
He felt a wave of appreciation for her, but also a crash of doubt as he remembered that everything had gone terribly wrong the day before.
What role had Beatrice played in that? He couldn’t think on it. Not yet. He needed cold water—and fast.
Quietly, Will stood, took his blanket, and oh so carefully tucked it around Beatrice. Her spectacles drooped on the edge of her nose. She was so damned perfect.
And yet…
No, he did not know what happened with Margaret. He wouldn’t judge.
She must’ve been exhausted, poor thing, putting up with him and his brother in the middle of the night. Drunken fools, the both of them.
Will headed down to the kitchen.
Dawn’s first gray light barely touched the windows. It was not yet six a.m. Mrs. Riley, the cook, was still abed, and the tweeny had not lit the fires.
He was glad that he was alone in the vast, perfectly clean kitchens.
Soon the rooms would be a riot of action. Trays readied, bread baking. There’d be no peace then.
He found a jug of cold water, poured it out into a simple clay bowl, and splashed his face and hands. A cold bath would arrive in his room by six. But he needed this now. Anything to shake his dream away and the feelings it had brought.
God, he had not seen his mother’s face so vividly in his mind for twenty years.
It was almost as if he had touched her…
He closed his eyes at the bitter sweetness of feeling her embrace again, even if in a dream.
He’d spent most of his life trying to forget that memory, to forget the pain, to forget the realization that love was the very devil.
That it stole people away and broke them.
Margaret had abandoned Kit.
Why was love so cruel? Surely, it shouldn’t make people abandon…
He swallowed, crushing that thought.
Love should have made it impossible for Margaret to hurt Kit. Instead, it was that love which was causing Kit insufferable pain now.
What the devil did that mean?
Poets were all bastards. There was nothing sweet about love or the pain it brought.
In one day, love could bring devastation. Yesterday morning, Kit was a happy man, excited to wed his bride. By nightfall? Heartbroken.
Love could destroy quickly.