The memory still made him shudder: spirited Katharine turned wan and silent, shuffling along, her eyes vacant.
Rafe shoved aside the image and picked up a heavy bestiary from the table. It was open at the entry on jaguars. That, too, made his heart ache: the thought of Thea, sitting alone, reading about giant cats because she wanted to know more and he would not tell her.
“And you lived in the Dower House here,” Thea said.
“Right. My father had died, my mother moved to the Continent, and my brother John was the earl. He let us live there.”
He slammed the book shut and threw it into her trunk.
“That’s not mine.” She bent to remove it and hugged it to her middle. “And why never mention that Sally lived with you?”
He shrugged. “It’s not worth the bother of mentioning. Sally was good for Katharine. The whole arrangement seemed to be good for her. She went weeks without an episode of any kind. I was reading about new treatments for disorders of the mind, out of France. A Quaker is trying something similar in York. I was corresponding with a French aliéniste, and I thought—”
“I beg your pardon? An alienist?”
“A doctor of mental illnesses. I was considering taking Katharine to the Continent. She was happy; we all were. But then—suddenly; I don’t know why—her mind turned on her again. We maintained complete calm around her, and she had had no frights or shocks. Except she read that blasted Gothic novel. She believed it held messages for her. And then the crows… She kept talking about crows, saying they were coming to take her away, and accusing me of being a crow or in league with the crows, or… I don’t know.”
“Why did she believe you meant her harm?”
Curse you, Katharine had hissed, wild-eyed, in the grip of whatever nightmare consumed her mind, while the heavy gray storm clouds crackled and rumbled overhead. Dark and silent as the crow, and with just as evil intent.
“She saw a crow kill a sparrow.”
“That was all?”
He sighed. “A storm was building. She was outside and I was trying to coax her back into the house. She refused, insisting I meant to murder her. I knew we had to be calm with her, but I was tired, impatient.”
“Worried,” Thea suggested.
He waved off her excuses. “I lost my temper and tried to grab her. She escaped and ran to the stables, didn’t even saddle the horse…”
And he, the fool, he had wasted minutes fetching a vial of laudanum before going after her. Precious minutes during which she had mounted a horse and ridden away.
Thea unwrapped her arms from the bestiary and lowered the huge book to a table, frowning thoughtfully as she traced the ornate letters on its front. Just as she had traced the scars on his shoulder, a lifetime ago, back in the lake. Rafe tried to take all of her in, every angle and curve of her face and her body; he might never see her again.
She looked up and caught him studying her. Something flashed across the space between them, swift as lightning.
“Why was Ventnor so shocked to see Sally?” she asked.
“I left England the same day we buried Katharine. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“Did you never ask?”
“What’s the blasted point? It doesn’t change what happened.”
He could never change the past. He could never change Katharine’s death. He could never change himself.
Rafe forced himself to meet Thea’s eyes, forced himself to say, “You have to go.”
She lifted her chin. “Actually, I think I shall stay.”
Chapter 18
Thea met Rafe’s baffled gaze steadily. He was silhouetted against the window, his hair drying into a dark mane, the sun outlining his body under his shirt. How she wished he would accept her comfort, this strong, vital man, so caring, so hurt by life.
So determined to send her away.
Listen to him. He told her his heartbreaking story—of the young woman who endured such torment, and the young man who loved her but could not ease her pain—and then, as if none of it mattered, as if he were not a human in need of compassion or self-forgiveness—he turned around and ordered her to leave.
What else did she expect? True, she had intended to leave today, but that was before she’d discovered his deception, before she’d learned how he had suffered for his first, youthful love. It was impossible to stay angry over his lies, not now she understood his choice.
For a man such as Rafe—in his prime, titled, from an old, respected family—finding a bride would have been easy, despite his bad temper, rumors, and scars. He could have wed some wealthy lady, given her a house and allowance, and never spoken to her again. Such an arrangement would have raised no eyebrows; affection was rarely a consideration in aristocratic marriages. But instead he had chosen this ruse, preferring fraud and deception to marriage of any kind; indeed, he would have foregone the funds completely, so set was he on not taking another wife.