home

search

21st May, 1840

  The broom moved in quiet strokes across the floor, the bristles dragging up bits of dust and lint with each pass. I swept absently, my mind far from the dull rhythm of cleaning. It had become almost second nature now—the motion, the sound, the feel of the wooden handle beneath my fingers. My thoughts were elsewhere, orbiting around Benedict like a moth to a fme.

  I learned more about him over the past few weeks during our nightly chats. His father is a viscount by marriage, though Benedict himself didn’t seem to lean on the title. He rented a modest apartment in town and didn't live with his family in Watford. That struck me as odd.

  Watford was closer to the hospital than my own home. I made the long trip daily without compint, often arriving earlier than most. Why wouldn't he? Why live in a rented room when he could stay somewhere quieter, greener, and far more comfortable?

  I tried not to specute, but I couldn’t help wondering. Perhaps he simply preferred the independence, or maybe the carriage rides were too dull for him. Or maybe—maybe—he didn’t want to be near his family. He had mentioned that he didn’t get along with his older brother, Andrew.

  There had been something in his voice when he said it. Not bitterness exactly. Weariness, perhaps. As though the weight of that retionship was one he had carried for far too long.

  I slowed my sweeping, lost in the thought. What sort of brother made a man like Benedict look for space? What kind of past did he carry that made the quiet halls of King's feel like a better home than the countryside? “Sister Geldart!” Constance’s voice rang out, breaking me from my reverie. “It’s your turn for the hourly vitals.”

  I blinked, pausing mid-sweep. “Right,” I said quickly, setting the broom aside. The sunlight through the windows had shifted. I’d lost more time than I’d meant to.

  Constance was gathering up some linens for a patient who just threw up their lunch. She gave me a cheeky look as I approached. “Sweeping the ward or sweeping through your thoughts again?”

  I chose not to answer, though the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me. Instead, I reached for the first patient's hand and let the structure of the task pull me back into focus. After seeing to the first few patients—Mrs. Hay with her persistent wheeze, and young Florence whose fever had broken just that morning—I moved toward the bed near the window where Emily Pasley sat upright, the morning light catching in the soft curls that had escaped her cap.

  She looked markedly better. The pallor that had clung to her skin for the past week had given way to a gentle flush, and her eyes, once dulled by fever, now had a spark of mischief to them. Her bnket was folded neatly at her waist, and she was fussing with the hem of her nightdress's sleeve.

  “Good afternoon, Emily,” I said, already smiling as I reached for her chart. “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself.”

  She grinned. “I feel much improved, Sister. I even managed some toast this morning. Without any persuasion.”

  “Well now,” I said, gncing over her, “that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” I sat on the stool beside her bed. “Let’s see how everything looks, shall we?”

  She nodded, obligingly turning her face so I could press the back of my hand to her cheek and neck. Warm, but not arming. Her pulse was steady beneath my fingertips. “I told you you’d get better,” I said as I worked, “You were far too stubborn to let the fever win.”

  Emily ughed—a soft, wheezy sound, but a ugh nonetheless. “Stubbornness runs in the family. My mother always said I’d argue with death if it came knocking.”

  “She’d be proud, then,” I replied, watching the mercury line rise in the thermometer. “You’ve done just that.”

  Emily gnced toward the window, watching the leaves sway in the spring breeze. “When do you think I’ll be sent home?” she asked quietly.

  “Soon. Perhaps tomorrow, if you stay steady today. We’ll let the doctor make the call, but you’re nearly there.”

  Her shoulders eased, her hands twisting together in her p. “I miss my garden,” she murmured. “And the cat. And my daft brother shouting at the paper every morning.”

  I smiled. “You’ll be back before you know it. And your brother will be shouting just as loud, I’m sure.”

  “I hope so.” She looked at me then, her voice soft. “Thank you, Sister. You’ve been... kind.”

  I shook my head, a little embarrassed by the sincerity in her eyes. “Just doing my job.”

  “No,” she said, more firmly. “It’s more than that. You made the hard days feel less... lonely.”

  My chest tightened slightly. I reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Then I’ve done something right.”

  We sat there for a quiet moment, her hand warm in mine, the sounds of the ward dim and distant. For all the chaos and heartache this pce held, it also carried moments like this—small, quiet victories that reminded me why I came here in the first pce.

  “I’ll bring you a book after supper,” I said as I stood. “Something light. You’ve earned it.”

  Emily beamed. “No tragedies.”

  “No tragedies,” I promised.

  The ward had quieted long before I was ready to leave it. By now, it had become second nature—the st rounds, the final soft words exchanged with restless patients, the slow, methodical checking of bnkets and candles and water pitchers. The others had grown used to it, even Constance no longer asked why I stayed behind. They’d begun saying goodnight with a knowing gnce, and I would just nod, already drifting back into the rhythm of checking one more bed, straightening one more corner, smoothing one st brow.

  But tonight, there was an extra buoyancy to my steps. As I slipped my cloak over my shoulders and fastened the csp with quick fingers, my heart already beat in time with the thought of him. The corridors stretched out before me, dim and still. The candles flickered as I passed, casting long shadows behind me, but I barely noticed. I nearly bounded through the halls, resisting the urge to outright run. It had become its own ritual, this nightly meeting—unspoken but always anticipated.

  And when I stepped out through the side entrance, into the crisp night air, there he was. Benedict stood just beyond the side entrance, as he always did now, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his frame silhouetted against the faint gleam of the gasmp behind him. When he heard the door open, he turned, and the smile that broke across his face was like a private sunrise. “Evening,” he said.

  “Evening,” I returned, already making my way toward him. My steps slowed as I reached him, but the warmth spreading through my chest made me feel as though I’d never stopped moving.

  We walked in silence for a while, along the low stone wall near the edge of the Thames. The water moved steadily, dark and glimmering in the moonlight. Above us, clouds chased each other across the sky, pulling the moon in and out of sight. “How was today?” he asked after a moment, his voice quiet but certain.

  I exhaled, shoulders softening. “Busy, as always. But not unkind. Emily Pasley’s doing much better. Her fever’s down, her color’s back... she even had a bit of sass in her voice today. I missed that.”

  He gnced at me with a small smile. “You get attached.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “It’s not a bad thing.”

  “It feels like a dangerous thing,” I admitted. “But I’ve stopped pretending I can help people without caring about them.” He nodded thoughtfully, and I was grateful he didn’t offer empty comfort. Just his presence. That was enough. I shifted slightly, letting my arm brush against his. “What about you? How was your day?”

  Benedict let out a breath that was almost a ugh. “Long. Meetings. Ledgers. More meetings. I swear I’ve spoken to more accountants than people today.”

  “Poor thing,” I said lightly. “Should I pity you?”

  “Only a little,” he said. “Or enough to convince me to keep coming back here at night.”

  I smiled, eyes flicking to his. “That doesn’t take much convincing, does it?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Not anymore.”

  The breeze caught my cloak and tugged it gently behind me. I turned my face to the river, watching the moon dance across its surface, and then remembered. “Oh—my cousin sent a letter st week. My family and I have been summoned for Sunday dinner. The entire Brough family will be there.”

  “Brough?” he echoed, lifting an eyebrow.

  I nodded solemnly. “A wall of blondes. You’ve never seen anything like it. The light in the room actually changes when they all sit together.”

  He ughed, genuinely and freely, and I felt the sound echo in my ribs. “Terrifying.”

  “Truly. One of them likes to speak in unison with her little sister. I never know who I’m agreeing with.”

  “You’ll survive it.”

  “Barely. I’ll come back to work more exhausted than when I left.”

  He chuckled again, and then, for a few beats, we walked in silence. The kind of silence that speaks more than chatter ever could. Without thinking, I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He didn’t move. Just adjusted slightly, as if to make more space for me. The sound of the Thames filled the quiet—soft pping against the banks, distant footsteps on the street, the occasional call of a nightbird overhead. And then, as if plucked from the wind, I heard him say it: “I want to take you to meet my family.”

  The words hit me squarely in the chest. I pulled back just enough to see his face, unsure I’d heard him properly. “You... do?”

  He nodded, and his expression was earnest in that quiet, careful way of his. “I’ve wanted to for a while. I know it’s early still, but... I think about you. All the time. And it feels right. I want them to see who you are.”

  I stared at him, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I didn’t know what to say. “I—” I started, then stopped. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

  He beamed—there was no other word for it. A light burst behind his eyes, spreading across his face like sunlight through a window.

  Without a word, he pulled me into a hug, arms wrapping around me with a kind of quiet joy that made my breath catch. I froze for half a second, then melted into him, burying my face in his coat. I was blushing furiously, I could feel it, but I didn’t care. Not here. Not in this moment.

  His voice rumbled softly near my ear. “You’ve made me very happy.”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “You’ve made me very surprised.”

  He grinned wider. “Then we’re even.”

  And for a long, quiet moment, we just stood there. Overlooking the river. The clouds moved on. The moon shone down. And I knew—I was happiest when I was here. By his side.

  As we turned back toward the hospital, the mps along the outer wall flickering against the cobbled path, Benedict kept a steady pace beside me, hands still tucked into his pockets, though I caught him gncing at me now and then. “So,” he said after a moment, voice lighter than before, “when do you think it might work? To meet them.”

  I sighed, already picturing the mountain of roast beef and yers of blonde cousins waiting for me this Sunday. “Not this weekend,” I said with a smile. “I’m trapped under familial obligation. Charlotte would send a search party if I missed it.”

  Benedict chuckled. “Understandable. I wouldn’t want to come between you and the Brough blondes.”

  I ughed. “No one does. They travel in packs.”

  He pretended to shiver. “Then next weekend?”

  I nodded slowly. “Next Saturday might work. I’ll have the day off, and I can come into town early.”

  His face lit up again, that same beam of quiet delight that never failed to disarm me. “Perfect. I can’t wait.”

  We reached the drive where my carriage waited, nterns already lit, the footman standing dutifully by. Benedict turned to me as I stepped toward the open door, and before I could say another word, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek—quick, warm, and entirely unexpected.

  I froze, warmth blooming across my face, from my chest all the way to my ears. “Goodnight, Elizabeth,” he murmured with a crooked smile.

  I managed a breathless, “Goodnight,” before climbing up and settling into the seat. The door clicked shut behind me, and a second ter, the carriage jolted forward, the city slowly slipping behind. I touched my cheek absently, where his lips had been only moments ago. It tingled in the best possible way. Then, as the ride smoothed into the steady rhythm of wheels over stone, reality set in.

  How on earth was I going to expin this?

  The thought of telling my father outright was enough to make me flinch. He’d made his opinion of Benedict perfectly clear. Suitability. Standing. All of it tangled in his own sense of control and expectation. He wouldn’t just disapprove—he’d forbid it. And I wasn’t ready to make a battle out of this. Not yet.

  So… do I lie?

  Say I’m having supper with Phillipa, or perhaps Constance, something harmless and entirely pusible? I could. Phillipa would cover for me without hesitation, and Constance would likely help me embellish the tale if it came to that. But the lie tasted wrong before it even left my lips.

  Aunt Eliza. I could tell her.

  She’d understand. She always did. She wouldn’t rush to judge Benedict or tell me how to feel. And if I asked her not to say anything to Father—not yet—she would honor that. I knew she would. Yes. I would tell Aunt Eliza. And no one else. Not until I was certain.

  Not until I knew what kind of people raised a man like Benedict. Not until I’d sat at their table and seen their eyes when they spoke to him.

  I leaned back against the velvet seat, the city lights giving way to darkness as the countryside rolled in. The air inside the carriage was warm and still, but my mind raced with thoughts of next Saturday—what I’d wear, what I’d say, what I’d discover.

Recommended Popular Novels