He swallowed and kept his eyes closed and then clenched them even tighter in an attempt to blot out the visual memory. If only he had been killed then. If only he had been able to get at that medication here in this very house soon after he had been brought home. If only . . .
He had almost forgotten what this felt like. He had almost forgotten how to control his breathing when he did feel it, how to turn his thoughts from the blessed lure of death to the weary business of living on. He had almost forgotten how to claw his way out and up.
He had to think of life as a gift, however unwanted. Yes, that was it. For whatever reason, his life had been spared that day and restored to him over the months and years following it. There must be a reason. If, that was—and it was a very large if—one believed in some sort of divine plan.
He thought back unwillingly on the events of the evening.
The visit to the theater had been George’s idea, though it had seemed a brilliant one. Chloe had not wanted to come to town. After her experiences last year and six years ago, she was skittish about mingling with the ton again. She would do it, of course. She had shown remarkable courage in the last few days. But here was a chance to ease her in gently, to allow her and the ton to see each other, but at arm’s length, so to speak. And the guests George had suggested asking to join them seemed perfect for the occasion. Chloe already knew and liked Hugo and Lady Trentham, and Kilbourne was the latter’s brother. His countess had always seemed like an amiable lady. George had described Lady Lyngate as reserved but charming.
It had promised to be a pleasant evening. Ralph had made a special effort during the carriage ride to the theater to help Chloe relax and had found himself relaxing too. He had been starting to feel more comfortable in his marriage than he had expected.
He had looked around the theater before the play began and acknowledged a few familiar figures with a nod. There was scarcely an empty seat apart from one box across and a little down from theirs. Shakespeare’s comedies were always popular. Chloe was looking around too, he had noticed, after an initial tendency to restrict her attention to the occupants of their box as if she was afraid that everyone was looking at her—as everyone no doubt was for a while.
He had been about to transfer his attention to the stage, where the action must surely be about to begin, when his eyes alit upon one particular box opposite and one tier up from theirs and upon one of the two couples who occupied it.
His heart had turned over. Or stopped.
He had looked hastily away but had the feeling that the lady had turned her eyes upon him just as he turned his own away. He had not glanced that way again for the rest of the evening, and he had not suggested leaving the box during the interval, a decision made easier by the fact that a number of people called there, most of them with the purpose of shaking Ralph by the hand and meeting his duchess.
He was not certain he had been seen. Perhaps he had not. The theater was crowded, after all, and he had been half hidden behind Chloe. Or, even if he had been seen, he might not have been recognized. He had changed in eight years.
Nevertheless . . .
How long did they intend to remain in London? Were they here on a brief visit, or had they come for the whole Season? Could he avoid them that long?
There was no chance of getting back to sleep. Ralph pushed back the bedcovers on his side of the bed at last, got up as quietly as he could so as not to wake Chloe, whose soft breathing told him she was asleep, and looked down at his dressing gown. He should go to his own room, get dressed, go down to the library. Pour himself a drink. See if he could lose himself in a book. Or in a bottle, though drunkenness was a form of forgetting in which he had never indulged. But somehow, alarmingly, he could not bear the thought of being quite alone. The sound of Chloe’s breathing was like a dose of some mild drug, just barely holding him back from the brink of a deep darkness that threatened to swallow him.
He left his dressing gown where it was and went to stand, naked, at the window, the curtains slightly parted. The square outside was in darkness. The night watchman must be elsewhere on his rounds. It was too early for any tradesmen. The room behind him was dark. No one would be able to see him standing here even if anyone were to look up. He braced his hands on the sill, bent his head, and closed his eyes.
It might have been ten minutes or half an hour later when he felt a slight warmth along his right side. She did not say a word. And she did not touch him with her hands. A blanket or a shawl came about his shoulders, making him instantly aware of the chill of the room, and her forehead came to rest against the edge of his shoulder.
God! Oh, God! He clenched his eyes more tightly closed and bent his head lower.
“I beg your pardon, Chloe,” he said. “I am sorry. Forgive me if you can.”
“It was just a silly quarrel,” she said without lifting her forehead. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, there is,” he said. “You must have needed me, and I was selfishly unaware of your distress. And then I treated you abominably.”
“You are forgiven.”
The abyss yawned.
“It is beyond your power,” he told her. “You cannot forgive me, Chloe. No one can.”
Not even God. He had tried that, on the assumption that it was God who had given him the unwanted gift of his life on the battlefield, and that it was up to God to forgive him if he was to find the will to go on. But he was not sure he believed in God—though he was not sure he did not. Either way, though, how could a mere concept or spirit or life force or whatever it was God was supposed to be forgive him for doing irreparable harm to people? It made no sense. It was too easy. It was not fair to those people. Divine forgiveness could bring him no comfort.