Ralph did not come to the dining room for dinner, and Chloe decided not to have him summoned. She ate alone and then sent off a short note to Nora explaining that they would not be going to a private concert at which they had arranged to meet Nora and Lord Keilly. She spent the rest of the evening alone in the drawing room. She tried reading but gave up the attempt when she realized she had turned perhaps three pages in half an hour but had no idea what she had read. She worked doggedly but without enjoyment at her embroidery.
And she wondered for surely the dozenth time if this afternoon’s visit had made any difference at all to Ralph. Was his sense of guilt so deep-seated that he would never be able to let it go? Was he willing to accept forgiveness even though it would seem none was necessary? Would he be willing now to live again? And if so, what about her? Where would she fit in his life? Would he be forever sorry he had married her? And if he was not willing to be forgiven, or, more to the point, to forgive himself, what then? Could she go on like this? But she did not have much choice, did she?
She put away her embroidery eventually and got to her feet though it was early to go to bed. What else was there to do? She was feeling horribly depressed though she ought not to be. This afternoon’s visit had really gone very well indeed. And surely it had gone a long way toward setting Ralph free.
She paused when her foot was on the bottom stair leading up to her bedchamber and looked toward the stairs going down. Was he still there? Or had he gone out some time during the evening without her hearing him? She hesitated for several moments longer and then took the stairs down. The footman on duty in the hall scurried ahead of her to the library and opened the door. He closed it behind her after she had stepped inside.
A branch of candles had been lit. There was no fire burning, but it was not a cold night. He was slumped in a chair beside the fireplace. He had removed his neckcloth and opened the neck of his shirt. But he was still in his coat and waistcoat and pantaloons and Hessian boots from this afternoon. His hair was disheveled as though he had run his fingers through it a time or two. A half-empty glass stood on the table beside him, though he did not look drunk. A glance toward the sideboard assured Chloe that all but one of the decanters there were still full, and even that one was not depleted by more than a glass or two.
He looked across the room at her.
“Where do memories live?” he asked. “Have you ever thought about it, Chloe? Suddenly we remember things that happened years ago, things we have not thought about since, yet they are as vivid as the events were when they were happening. Where have they been in the meanwhile? You would think we would need heads the size of a continent just to store them all.”
He did not sound drunk.
“What have you been remembering?” she asked him.
“Mostly school days,” he said. “People tell boys, and maybe girls too, that those are the best days of their lives, but as boys we scoff at them and hurl ourselves headlong at adulthood. I hate to perpetuate a cliché, but they were the best days.”
She walked toward him. There was no stool beside his chair. The chair on the other side of the hearth seemed too far away. She lowered herself to her knees before and to one side of him, set a hand on his knee and rubbed it slightly before setting her cheek there instead, her face turned away. His hand came to rest on her head, and his fingers played gently through her curls.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Ten o’ clock.”
“Ten?” He sounded surprised. “I missed dinner, did I? Were we not supposed to go somewhere with Nora and Keilly this evening?”
“I sent our excuses,” she told him.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Was it something you were particularly looking forward to? And you gave up your afternoon visit for me too.”
“It was no great sacrifice,” she told him.
“I have been remembering every scrape and antic I got up to with those three,” he said, “and every debate and quarrel. Every laugh we had. Every holiday we enjoyed together. And those early days in the Peninsula. There were not many of them. They were cut down far too soon. The reality of war was shocking, you know, to four boys fresh out of school, with only idealism and high spirits and energy to buoy us. But there were good times. There was laughter. We were laughing over something at breakfast that morning even though we knew what was coming, and I suppose the laughter was tinged with fear. I wish I could remember what had amused us, though I suppose it was something quite trivial. And then, just an hour or so later, I watched them die.”
His hand smoothed lightly over her hair and fell still. Chloe gazed into the unlit coals. And then she heard a slight sound. Muffled laughter? Another memory? It sounded less like laughter the next time, though. She heard him swallow.
She raised her head and scrambled to her feet, and both his hands went up to cover his face.
“The devil!” he said. “Go away, Chloe. Get out of here.”
She turned and sat on his lap instead. She burrowed her head against him and slipped her arms as best she could about his waist. And she held him while sobs wracked him until he could no longer hold them in but wept and wept for three dead friends and the end of youth.
She held him for long minutes after he had finished and found a handkerchief and blown his nose and presumably dried his eyes.
“I never wept for them,” he said at last. “I never felt I had the right.”
“Until now,” she said.
“Is it possible,” he asked, “that they really do not blame me? That they never have?”