Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Did you truly have to jump off another ship?”
“Darling, I had to escape to return to you. I raved all the way across the ocean that I was a viscount, that I’d been kidnapped, so they thought I was a madman. They had doctors come for me, to lock me in a sanitorium for the rest of my days, so it was up and over. The water was colder there than the Mediterranean.” He touched her face, her hair, as if he couldn’t believe he was really there with her. “Oh, Rosalind, how I longed to come back to you every moment of every day. I’ve missed you so.”
She could hear her mother and Lady Warren urging the ball guests to proceed to the dining room for refreshments, since, clearly, none of them would go home until the magistrate arrived to deliver justice for what Brittingham had done. Many continued to stand around her and Marlow, watching the emotional reunion that probably ought to have taken place in private.
“I suppose we have had our come-out at your parents’ ball after all,” said Rosalind, feeling a bit hysterical. “Come out as a proper husband and wife in love.”
“God, how I love you. I’m sick with it.” Marlow could not seem to release her. “I love you. I never left you. I never could. By God, I never could.”
*
Marlow clung to her, saying words that felt like prayers, words he’d repeated to himself a thousand times in fear and darkness, suffering deep emotional pain. He’d hoped if he said them enough times, somehow she’d feel them across the distance.
“Do you believe me?” He pulled back to gaze into her tear-filled eyes. She looked in shock. “Rosalind, you must believe I wouldn’t have left.”
“I do believe you. It’s only… I ought to have known. We gave up on you. I’m so sorry we didn’t realize what had happened to you.”
“How could you have known? Who would have believed Brittingham could be so dastardly?”
“All that time, you were in such desperate straits. I’m sorry for believing otherwise.” She sobbed and touched his shirt, his plain, rough cotton shirt he’d bought with his laborer’s wages. He could have changed into better clothes at home, before he confronted Brittingham, but he couldn’t spare even a moment to make himself presentable. He’d come straight here for her touch, her angelic, healing presence.
And to accuse Brittingham, who’d robbed him of an entire year.
“How were you to know?” he said, trying to comfort her. “I hadn’t the best reputation as a steady gentleman, and I’d already run off to India once.” His attempt at lightheartedness failed in a cracking voice. “Don’t cry, please.”
“Why don’t the two of you go upstairs?” That was his mother, firmly guiding them from the cluster of onlookers. “Let us find you some privacy. Let’s go to the nursery.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rosalind, her gaze still bright and tearful. “You have a daughter, darling.”
“A daughter? My God.”
“Her name is Sylvie. She has your features, not mine. I think she looks so much like you.”
His heart pounded as his wife and parents led him to the darkened nursery chamber. The servants exclaimed as they all crowded in, calling for a light.
“Oh, ma’am,” said the nurse to Rosalind, with a questioning look amidst the hubbub.
“This is Sylvie’s father,” she explained. “My husband. He was kidnapped and now he’s returned.”
As she spoke, Rosalind reached into an ivory-curtained crib and produced a very angel wrapped in knit swaddling. The infant blinked awake, allowing him a second’s glance at pale blue eyes before she closed them again and opened her mouth in an adorable yawn.
“I cannot believe it,” he whispered.
“You must hold her, my love. You must cuddle her instantly. Sit down.”
His father brought a chair and his mother gave a little sob as he took the babe. Rosalind had stopped crying, though, and was all smiles. Marlow leaned back into the cushioned armchair, cradling his precious bundle.
“She is so light,” he said, amazed. “So tiny and delicate.”
“She is only a few months old,” his wife explained. “They’re small at that age.”
“My goodness.” He could not look at his child’s face long enough or deeply enough to suit him. His daughter, Sylvie. He stared at her, then realized he was crying without meaning to. He dashed the tears away before he looked up at Rosalind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. For her. For her birth.”
“You are here now.”
“Was it very hard?”
She paused a moment, her throat working, then said, “Yes, it was very hard. But you are back with us again. We shall make up for lost time.”
He reached for her hand but couldn’t let go of his daughter yet. His child, his baby. More family was crowding upstairs, along with his friends. He had feared in the darkest depths of his soul he’d never see any of them again. To escape his captors, he’d jumped off a ship and swum through churning waters until his arms nearly failed. Then he’d been trapped in a different way, without an identity or any money to secure passage home. He’d worked as a laborer for months, clearing land, farming, building, saving every meager wage for a return ticket to England.