Page 72 of Duke of Moonstone
Emily’s fingers clutched the front of Frances’ nightgown. Her body trembled. “I had a dream.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Frances smoothed her hair. Slow strokes, steady and rhythmic. “It was only a dream. It cannot hurt you.”
“They were in the carriage.” Emily’s voice broke. “Mama and Papa. And the horses... The horses would not stop?—”
“Shh.” Frances held her tighter. “You are here. You are at Evermere, and I am with you, and nothing is going to happen.”
“Do not leave.”
“I will not leave. I am right here.”
Emily pressed her face against Frances’s shoulder. The trembling persisted—waves of it, each smaller than the one before. Frances rocked her gently. She hummed—not a tune exactly but a low, steady sound, like Lavinia had hummed to her when she was little, and the darkness had felt too big.
Minutes passed. Emily’s breathing slowed. The gasps became shudders, and the shudders became sighs, and the rigid grip on Frances’s nightgown loosened by degrees.
“Frances?”
“Yes?”
“Will you stay?”
“All night. I promise.”
A figure appeared in the doorway then, and she looked up.
Alexander stood at the threshold in shirtsleeves and breeches, his coat absent, his cravat gone, and his dark hair disheveled in a way that suggested he had dressed in the moments between the scream and the corridor. His face was tight. His eyes flicked from Emily to Frances and back, and the worry was evident—visible in the set of his mouth, the tight line of his shoulders, and the way his hand gripped the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“She had a nightmare,” Frances said quietly, over the top of Emily’s head.
He nodded once. His gaze remained on the child.
“Is she...”
“She is calming now.” Frances continued stroking Emily’s hair. “She will be all right.”
He remained standing there. He neither entered nor left, simply watching them—Emily nestled against Frances, Frances’s hand gently stroking the child’s dark hair. An unreadable expression flickered across his face, but Frances paid it no mind, focusing instead on Emily’s warmth and the child’s need for her attention.
“You should sleep,” she said to him. “I will stay with her.”
He gave another nod. He gazed at Emily for a long moment then at Frances. Their eyes met across the dimly lit room—over the bed, the child between them and all the unspoken words—and Frances sensed the burden of it settle in her chest, as if something had been gently placed there by an unseen hand.
He turned and walked away. His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Frances moved to the chair beside Emily’s bed. She drew the child’s hand into her lap and held it, and Emily’s fingers curledaround hers with the trusting grip of a child who believed, at last, that someone would stay.
“Tell me about the adventures you’ve read,” Frances murmured.
“There was a mouse who wore a little hat,” Emily whispered. Her eyes were closing. “A blue hat. With a gold button.”
“That’s rather charming.”
Emily’s breathing evened. Her hand went slack. Frances stayed.
The night crept on. Frances dozed—not properly or deeply but in the shallow, broken way of someone keeping watch. She woke to check Emily’s breathing, smoothed the covers, and dozed again. The chair was uncomfortable. Her neck ached, and her shawl had slipped from one shoulder. The room was cold, but none of it mattered.
Gray light was the first to arrive, seeping through the gap in the curtains—thin and pale like pewter. Frances stirred, feeling her back complain and her neck protest even more. As she shifted in the chair, she gradually became aware of something that had not been present before.
Weight. Warm, across her shoulders.
