CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JANE WOKE UP in Augustine’s bed, the coverlet rumpled and tugged half off. Daylight streamed in through the windows. She wasn’t wearing her nightgown; it sat, carefully folded, where she’d put it the previous morning. Her dress remained in a crumpled heap by the side of the bed where she’d discarded it. Her housecoat hung neatly where it had hung the night before.
The night before.
Cold panic washed through her, and she looked around, frantic, for any sign of Augustine. The last she remembered, she’d been in his study, had seen the red-eyed woman in the window. And then there was nothing, no memory, not even the sense of lost time. Augustine’s side of the bed was empty, but the pillow still had a deep depression in it, as if he’d only just left.
She rose from the bed cautiously, flinching away from the bedframe and the gathered shadows beneath it. She couldn’t bring herself to dress fully, too afraid even in the light of day. Instead, she drew her housecoat around her. She paused just long enough to pull her slippers on, then went to the door.
Jane hesitated, biting down the urge to call Augustine’s name like a frightened child. It was day. The rain had stopped. The halls would be brightly lit by the gas sconces, and below she’d find Augustine sitting down to breakfast. Mrs. Luthbright would be there, and Mrs. Purl.
She had nothing to fear.
Easing the door open, she peeked out into the hall. Everything was as it should be. She slipped out and padded down the runner, down the front stairs. The house revealed nothing, and her heart had begun to slow by the time she stepped into the dining room.
Nobody was there, but she could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. She started toward it, only to be interrupted by the creak of a door. Her entire body went rigid.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lawrence,” Mrs. Purl said. “I didn’t know you would be wanting help getting into your clothing this morning. If I had—”
Jane turned, pasting on a gentle smile, or her closest approximation of one. “Oh, no. No, don’t worry. I’m quite used to dressing myself. I just … wasn’t sure where Dr. Lawrence was. Is he out on call?”
“No, ma’am. He’s walking the grounds, but breakfast will be set out shortly.” She turned to go, then paused. “Pardon my manners, Mrs. Lawrence, but Mrs. Luthbright and I were both happy to hear that you remained in residence another night, with the doctor.”
“Is that so?” Jane asked, then flushed as she remembered how wild with abandon they had been.
“It’s a large house to be alone in at night,” was Mrs. Purl’s response, before she dipped a curtsy. “I’ll go out and fetch the doctor, tell him you’ll be down to breakfast shortly.”
“I’ll be down to breakfast now,” she said.
Mrs. Purl looked pointedly at her quilted wrap, but Jane just took her seat at the table, once more fixed upon the thought of lurking shadows.
It was only a few minutes before Augustine appeared in the door. He was fully dressed, his jaw freshly shaven and his hair carefully set. Just as composed as he’d been on their wedding day. There was no trace of concern in his eyes, and confusion rocked her.
He had to know. He had to be worried for her, for what had driven her into his arms.
“Good morning, Jane,” he said, smiling. “How did you sleep?”
Her brow furrowed. What an odd way of putting it. He was acting like she hadn’t collapsed in an overwhelmed faint. She looked to the doorways. Was he concerned about an audience again?
“I…” She couldn’t find the words. Instead, she watched him closely as he sat down across from her, willing him to give her any sign that he remembered last night.
His smile faded to a concerned frown.
“Bad dreams?” he asked.
Her heart sank. “No,” she said. “I had trouble sleeping last night. As did you.”
“I slept like a child. For the first time in quite a while, to be honest.”
Something is wrong. “You were awake,” she said. “I saw you. In your study.”
His brows drew down farther, and he reached across the table, offering her his hands. She gave him one of hers, and he clasped it loosely, thumbs stroking at her knuckles. “The house—it tends to provoke bad dreams. Nightmares, even. I was in bed all night, with you. It must have been a dream.”
“It wasn’t,” she said, shaking her head.
“What was it about?”
“I … I came to the library to read. I saw people, but they weren’t people, and they ignored me and headed for your rooms. I followed them, and…”