“I’m tired of chasing a magical cure. I think I shall go home soon. Things are in order here.”
“In order? What are you talking about?” Graeme’s voice rose in alarm. “You sound as if—James, you’re frightening me.” He paused, then added, “It’s not like you to give up.”
James huffed out an exasperated laugh. “You’re bringing out the heavy artillery now. Next you’ll be telling me it’s for queen and country.”
“Don’t be a buffoon. You know very well it’s for me. For all of us who love you. I don’t want to lose you, James. Go see Dr. Hinsdale.”
“You’re bloody persistent.” James sighed. He was tired of hope; he was tired of fighting. And he was most excessively tired of keeping a stiff upper lip. “Where is this medical miracle worker?”
“You know where. You went there to talk Laura into breaking our engagement.”
“Ah. Yes. Close to Canterbury. Rather out of the way.”
“It’s not the ends of the earth. An easy day’s trip from here. I’ll take you.”
“No! No.” James saw the faint hurt on the other man’s face, but he couldn’t explain why he’d rather be alone. It was simply easier not to have to maintain the façade of stoicism. He tried to soften his abrupt words. “You have business to do, and you must get back to your wife and daughter. I’ll go to Canterbury before I return home.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll take a bloody oath on it. Now can we talk about something else?”
Satisfied, Graeme left the tender subject and returned to more raptures on the bliss of fatherhood, relieving James of the burden of conversation or, indeed, of even really listening. James leaned back, letting the familiar tones of his cousin’s voice wash over him.
James came to with a start, his heart pounding, his breath jerking in a gasp that set off a paroxysm of coughing. Graeme was gone. Thank God. At least he had not witnessed the wracking cough. It was embarrassing enough that James had fallen asleep in front of his cousin, like some decrepit ancient. The rest of the time he could not sleep, yearning to slip into oblivion, yet today, with someone there, he could not keep his eyes open.
With a snort of disgust, James pushed up from his chair. The butler would appear soon, no doubt, to pester him with afternoon tea, laying out an array of delicacies with his ever-hopeful expression. James thought of escaping, but there was nowhere else to go, nothing to be done. He had just spoken to the only person whom he would regret never seeing again.
Dem heaved to his feet and padded after James as he left the study and walked down the hall. He stopped at a door that was smaller, plainer than most in the house, for the small room inside had been refashioned from what had once been the butler’s pantry.
Dem sat down, letting out an almost human sigh. James smiled faintly and brushed a hand over the top of the dog’s blocky head. “That’s right. It’s the place you cannot enter.” He rubbed his thumb across the wrinkles that gave the dog his perpetually grave look. “I apologize.”
James stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and turned on the low gaslight. It was a small space, filled with several glass-fronted cabinets, too cramped, really, for his tastes. But it was imperative that the room be windowless and unventilated, sheltered from the touch of sunlight, air, and dampness that would ruin the ancient pages.
Not long ago, he had spent hours at a time here, carefully preserving his collection of medieval writings. Now he merely strolled past the cabinets, drinking in the beauty of the illuminated manuscripts, the gilt and jewel-like colors of the ornate letters, the cunning drawings hidden among the curlicues. Studying these painstaking works of countless monks never failed to soothe him.
Was it faith or art that fueled their efforts?
Cynically he had always assumed that it was a love of beauty that inspired the monks, the same joy and yearning that swelled in his chest as he gazed at them. But perhaps, in the good brothers, at least, that sweet ache had been faith. James was not well enough acquainted with such things to know.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of a display case, the vicious pain in his head increasing. His heart began its now-familiar pounding, stuttering in that way that shot a spear of panic through him. It would pass, he knew, but deep down he could not quite suppress the fear that this time it would not.
This was the last time he would see the manuscripts. He hated to leave them, but they were too delicate to pack and cart about the countryside. And his longing for the verdant gardens and spacious rooms of Grace Hill was stronger than his love of any art. It was time to go there.