Claude sat in the shadowy light of the bedside candles, his eyes on Amelia's motionless body. The hearth fire snapped, sending leaping shadows across the room, but its heat did little to dispel the chill that had taken up residence in his chest.
She hadn't moved since the doctor departed.
Her skin was too pale, her breaths too short. The bandages around her ribs were harsh against her thin form, and the reddening bruises blossoming beneath them stood as testament to his violence. He had sent her into the storm. He had left her, his own obstinacy driving him, and she had almost perished because of it.
He gritted his jaw, his hands gripping the armrest of the chair next to her bed. He had fought wars, shed blood on battlefields by the score, and never once had remorse stricken him so as it did at this moment.
The door groaned open.
Claude didn't have to turn to recognize who it was. The aroma of lilacs, sweet but overpowering, wafted into the room before Isolde's gentle voice shattered the silence. "Claude, you must rest. Guarding her like this… it isn't needed."
His gaze stayed on Amelia. "Leave."
Isolde paused, but her footsteps drew closer rather than receding. "I merely meant that she will heal, and you mustn't weigh yourself down. You owe her nothing."
Claude's fingers dug into the arms of the chair. He should have consented. He should have nodded, let Isolde's words affirm the space he had worked so hard to keep between himself and his wife.
Something had changed.
He had seen the way the servants glared at him when they carried Amelia in, the way they had whispered among themselves when they thought he wasn't listening. Even Mrs. Thimble's usual clipped deference had been replaced with open disdain.
And it was Isolde, rather than Amelia, who had earned the chill of their reserve. The staff who had once disobeyed not at all now hardly even noticed her existence. They had made their choice.
"Perhaps," Claude said at last, his tone softer than normal, "I owe her much more than I ever knew."
Isolde bristled. "Claude—"
"I told you to leave."
A deep breath. Then, after a pause, the rustle of her skirts as she turned and walked away.
There was silence once more, interrupted only by Amelia's frantic breathing.
Claude let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He should have been relieved that Isolde was no longer there, but his thoughts were already descending into places worse. He hadn't realized it at first, too distracted by his own thoughts, but now—
Amelia was trembling.
His gut roiled. He leaned forward, laying a palm on her forehead. Too hot.
Damn it.
He strode to call the servants, ordering them fresh cloths and cold water. When they came, they almost didn't dare look at him, their disdain still burning. And yet, in spite of their anger, they did what he said, bringing him everything he required before vanishing once again.
Claude wet a cloth and laid it against Amelia's forehead, his fingers stroking against damp locks of her hair. "You had to be obstinate, didn't you?" he breathed.
A broken, whispery noise escaped her lips. His breath was lost.
He thought at first that she was awake, but her eyes were still closed. Then, speaking in a voice almost too quiet to hear, she said:
"…not enough…"
Claude furrowed his brow. "Amelia?"
Her eyebrows scrunched up, her head tilting ever so slightly on the pillow. "…never enough…"
His chest constricted.
He had witnessed men slide into delirious states before—had heard dying soldiers whisper loved ones' names as their brains drifted between madness and reality. But there was something in Amelia's voice, a sorrow so deeply ingrained it brought a strange pain through him.
"…always ignored… always cast aside…"
Claude's throat constricted.
He had never inquired into her past before they wed. He had assumed she had lived as most noblewomen lived, secure and sheltered. But there she lay, stuck in some delirious recollection, and the truth oozed from her lips in fractured pieces.
"…not pretty enough, not strong enough… never wanted…"
His hand tightened into a fist on the wet rag.
He had never wanted a wife. Not then. Not when obligation had tied them together. He had taken her, abandoned her, and cared not. And now, sitting next to her, hearing the burden of years of neglect fall from her lips, he felt something he had never permitted himself to feel.
Guilt.
She moved again, her breathing ragged. He let the air out of his lungs and reached for the cool cloth, pressing it lightly against her sweating skin again.