Since Naomi had arrived at Galewick Manor, the servants maintained the household under the strictest conventions of mourning. Black crepe covered the windows, the manservants wore black on their arms, and the maids’ uniforms consisted of dark gray gowns, worn beneath the blackest of aprons.
Naomi had security, she and Amelia lacked for nothing, and yet her world was dim and colorless. It was not until late spring that she found relief in the garden. Inside the manor was dark and depressing but outside, Mother Nature was slowly unveiling a variety of blossoms in the most spectacular fashion. The myriad of colors and sunshine finally gave Naomi permission to breathe.
If flowers could come back to life after the bitter cold of winter, then hope would always have meaning.
There would always be winter. There would always be death. But spring never failed to usher in life and sunshine.
Amelia, Naomi’s brightest spot of color, loved being outside as well. Naomi made it a habit to walk her daughter outside in the sunshine following her morning nap despite Nurse’s concerns. Naomi had put her foot down, insistent that the fresh air wouldn’t hurt Amelia.
In addition to the enjoyment of strolling through the gardens, Naomi loved dressing her daughter up for their outings in pretty muslin gowns, little pastel bonnets Lady Tempest had ordered made along with the tiniest shoes Naomi had ever seen for their outings. She refused to dress her baby in blacks.
While observing mourning, Naomi hadn’t made any friends in the nearby village, nor had she been able to accept any of the invitations she’d received.
It was as though the world had moved on without her, and by dressing and walking her daughter through the garden, she could almost feel normal again.
“Oh, look here, Ami.” Naomi crouched onto the perfectly manicured lawn. “It’s a butterfly.”
“Ba.” Almost five months old, her daughter was becoming sturdier but wobbled in her arms when she turned to see what her mother was pointing at.
Naomi steadied her sweet girl by placing a hand on the back of her head. “Butterfly,” she repeated.
The colorful creature hovered and flitted and Naomi stilled when it landed on her arm. Watching her daughter was the one thing that provided absolute joy. Amelia’s eyes widened and Naomi laughed out loud when her tiny arms began flapping in excitement, sending the butterfly off in fear for its life.
The sound of one of the terrace doors opening and closing and then uneven footsteps crunching along the path had both she and Amelia turning to glance toward the house. Naomi likely was going to have to argue with the nurse again. That woman was like a dog with a bone about some things.
But two people approached, and from what she could make out between the hedges and vines and trees, neither of them appeared to be female.
Her heart lurched and then dropped to her shoes when she caught a glimpse of red. Both wore a uniform. The last time a soldier had come to visit her, it had been Luke. His visit had heralded the news of Arthur’s death.
“Who’s there?” Her voice caught and was barely more than a whisper. “Hello!” She waved so that whoever was there would see them.
A man ducked beneath some branches and blue eyes locked onto her.
“Luke!” Her breath caught, and her heart sent bubbles of happiness flowing through her limbs. If she hadn’t been balancing Amelia on one hip, she would have thrown herself into his arms.
He was alive and he was here, and except for the dark shadows under his eyes, he seemed as healthy as he’d been before he left. Love shone from those eyes.
He’d come back to her.
And he smiled, but then a bleak look entered his eyes, almost as though he was apologizing for something.
“I missed you so much.”
She couldn’t contain how happy she was just to know that he was uninjured and safe. But just before she could say another word, the second soldier stepped out of the trees as well. He moved haltingly and leaned heavily upon a cane. He was thin and bent over, and when he finally glanced up to catch her eyes, his face was thin and pale and sallow.
But those eyes, even lined by a jaundice of yellow, were quite unmistakable.
Because they were the eyes of her husband.
It was Arthur. He wasn’t dead. He was here.
Luke rushed forward just in time to keep Amelia from falling as black encroached on Naomi’s vision and the world tipped and spun around.
“Arthur?” His name passed her lips. Was it really him? Was she dreaming? Was this a nightmare?
“Naomi, sweetheart.” He was a shadow of the man she’d married almost one year ago to the day.
It wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be him.
And then there was nothing.
Chapter Eighteen
Voices penetrated the oblivion first. Some that made sense and others that didn’t.
A hand was stroking her head. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m here. Wake up.” It wasn’t Luke. It was a familiar voice but it was all wrong.
Arthur was alive and she ought to be happy about it. And she was. For his mother. For his brother. For their daughter. But what kind of woman was she that she wasn’t happy for herself.
How could it be Arthur?
The sound of Amelia crying forced her to return. Her baby needed her. Amelia was real.
Naomi forced her eyes open and then blinked. Naomi had not seen a ghost. The eyes staring down at her weren’t the clear blue of a summer sky. They were brown… a sickly brown. The man who had returned with Luke was Arthur. Chestnut hair hung in tangled strands around his face and the breath that met her nostrils tempted her to turn away in revulsion.
She pushed him away instead, but he only drew back enough so that he could assist her to a sitting position.
She looked beyond him, casting her gaze about in search of reassurance and comfort until she found what she sought, a few feet away, holding Amelia protectively.
Luke! But the four of them were not alone.
Lady Tempest hovered nearby, and her eldest son was crouching behind Arthur.
A man who had been presumed dead. But how? Why?
“Luke?” Naomi spoke his name instead of so many questions. He would know. “What? How?”
“You didn’t get the letter. Blackheart didn’t get it.” Luke’s voice came out flat. She had never before seen him so defeated.
“Letter?” she repeated dumbly.
“I sent word to Blackheart. I wanted to protect you from the shock of this… He was supposed to tell you.”
An odd part of her brain acknowledged the miscommunication. “He’s in London with your sisters. Help me up.” She was trapped on the ground by her skirts. Instead of Luke rushing forward, however, it was Lord Tempest who offered his hand.
Upright again, she got a better look at Arthur. Either he had been injured and was barely recovered or he had been very ill.
Or he was dying.
Last November, she would have been devastated to see him this way. She would have fallen into his arms, overjoyed. She would have demanded his family send for a physician immediately and usher him to their chamber.
But she didn’t know this man. Had she ever?
“Perhaps we should go inside,” Lady Tempest suggested. “Arthur needs to rest.”
Even if Naomi hadn’t realized something was wrong with him, she would have known after taking one look at his mother. Her son, who had been presumed dead, had come home alive, and yet her eyes were filled with sadness and the lines around her mouth seemed even more pronounced.