Sometime later he congratulated the lad on a job well done, left the courtyard littered in orange rinds, and went in search of Pauline. At last, he found her in the infirmary.
Such a cozy scene. His repaired clock occupied the center of the fireplace mantel. On the hearth rug, Pauline had three little ones piled in her lap like kittens, as an older girl read aloud to them all from a book of fairy stories.
The irony ripped open his chest and went straight for his heart. This picture before him—Pauline, children, sweetness, the fairy-tale ending—it was everything he could want in life. And everything he could never have.
He hadn’t wanted to fall in love with her. Lord knew, he’d tried his best to avoid it. But now it was too late. And he couldn’t even employ the younger man’s trick—talking himself out of the emotion, pretending he felt something less. Perhaps his heart did lie at the bottom of a black, fathomless well, where he’d succeeded in ignoring it for years. But he’d dug deep while waiting for his daughter. Now the pump had been primed.
He knew what it was to love. And this was it.
God help him.
He remained silent in the doorway, unwilling to interrupt. Not knowing what he’d say, if he dared. He’d probably blurt out a stream of desperate raving. Don’t leave me, I love you, I can’t go on without you. He’d send the children screaming. They’d have nightmares for weeks.
So he just stood there, silently reeling on the edge of life-long desolation.
Until a thin, high-pitched sound pushed him over the edge.
Pauline snuggled the little ones close. Beth had reached the most delightfully gory part of the story—the bit with the dragon who plucked out black hearts with a single claw. But just as the heroine of the story prepared to face the ultimate test, they were interrupted by the high, keening cry of an infant.
“Oh, it’s that new one,” Beth said. “Always wailing. He’ll be sent to the country soon, I hope.”
“Poor thing,” Pauline said. “I didn’t know we were so close to the nursery.”
Beth turned a page. “It’s straight across the corridor.”
She looked up, toward the corridor in question.
Oh, no.
Griff stood in the doorway, mildly rumpled and devilishly handsome as ever. But his face . . . Oh, his face had gone the color of paper. One look at him and she knew. He was in torment.
“I have to go, darlings. Beth will finish the story.”
They fretted and mewled and tugged at her skirts. “Will you come back, Miss Simms?”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m going home tomorrow night. I have a sister who’s missing me. And I’m missing her.” She gave Griff a cautious smile. “Perhaps his grace will visit another day.”
“I . . .” From the other room, the babe wailed again. He winced.
“I know,” she said to him and hurried to gather her bonnet and wrap. “We’ll leave at once.”
They made hasty strides for the front gate. Pauline struggled to keep pace. She knew Griff was racing his emotions, determined to outrun the epic landslide those cries had set off.
He couldn’t outrun it forever. The grief would catch up with him eventually, but she didn’t want to see him plowed under here. Not with so many people about.
She hurried toward the front entrance.
But then, without a word, he turned and passed through a side door instead. Pauline changed course and chased after him as they made their way to the street. His face had that same blank, unfocused look he’d worn the other day—the day when he’d walked off into the London streets and wandered them all night.
“Griff, wait,” she called. “You can’t leave me behind.”
“The carriage is in front. The coachman will take you home.”
“But what about you?”
He gestured aimlessly at the bustling, anonymous streets. “I need a walk. Some time. It will pass if I can just . . .” His voice failed.
Her heart ached for him. Perhaps he had successfully outrun these emotions for months now. But this was one race he was losing.
“Just leave me.”
“No,” she said as they reached the curb. “Not this time. I’m not leaving you alone.”
With a brisk wave, Pauline hailed a hackney cab. “What’s the name of that church?” she asked the driver. “The one all the way on the other side of London?”
The black-clad driver peered down his sharp nose at her. “St. Paul’s, you mean?”
“Right. We’re going there.” She climbed into the cab, knowing Griff would have to follow. He wouldn’t let her drive off alone.
“I don’t want to go to a bloody church.” He slung himself down across from her, folding his long legs into the cramped, dark cab.
“Neither do I, really. I just needed some destination that was far away. I know you need time, but you need to be with some—”
She bit the word off. He didn’t need someone. He needed her.
“I’m not leaving you alone right now,” she said. “That’s all.”
He tugged a silver flask from his breast pocket and began to unscrew the top. His fingers were too clumsy to manage it. With a disgusted curse, he hurled the flask into the corner of the cab.
Pauline bent to retrieve it, calmly unscrewed the cap and held the flask out to him. “Here.”
“You need to leave me.” His hands were clenched into fists on either knee. “I’m not in control of myself. I . . . I might lash out.”
As if he could ever hurt her. “I’ll duck,” she promised.
“I might weep.”
“I’m already weeping.” She dabbed her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“I . . .” He bent over, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Jesus. I think I’ll be sick.”
“Here.” She held out her bonnet. “Use this.”
He stared at it.
“Really. It’s so ugly. You could only improve it.”
His eyes met hers, wounded and dark. “I can’t make you leave me?”
“No.”
“Damn it, Simms.” As he looked away, he pressed a fist to his mouth, as though to suppress a flood of emotion.
But she could sense there were cracks in the dam.
She moved forward on the seat until their knees met in the center of the coach. “You’re safe,” she whispered. “In this space, with me—you’re safe. Whatever happens in this cab will remain here. I will go home tomorrow night. No one need ever know.”