Andrew Lord of Despair(95)

Gareth scorned Astrid’s forgiveness, and he would not tolerate any from his wife, for he had been no use to Felicity. No use at all.

“I love her too,” Astrid reminded him. And he heard what she mercifully hadn’t said: I need to say good-bye to my sister, just as you need to say good-bye to your wife.

After the hell of the past twenty-four hours, he owed Astrid that much. “I will be back.”

He rose from the bed, feeling aged and hopeless at the sight of his sleeping wife, so pale, but at least at peace. The emptiness that threatened him was beyond tears, beyond sorrow. Felicity had held on, and fought, and fought, finally bringing their children into the world. But she’d labored in vain for too long first, becoming dangerously exhausted and offering up too much of her life’s blood to bear their children.

He kissed Felicity’s cheek, then made himself walk away from the bed. When he gained the chilly corridor, the house was dark, the servants abed. A few candles had been left lit in sconces, but silence, cold and oppressive, pressed in from all sides.

He moved toward the stairs, thinking to walk out the front door and breathe in the cold night air. To perhaps keep walking, until he could walk no farther, breathe no further.

But someone sat near the top of the stairs, hunkered like a child intent on spying on grown-ups in the entryway below.

Andrew, waiting for him, with the patience and selflessness Andrew had shown him in years past. His brother, his friend, his entire surviving adult male family. The sight made Gareth even more sad, his heart more leaden. He got exactly one step past Andrew on the stairs before sinking down on the step below him, exhaustion and sorrow colluding to halt all progress toward the oblivion and darkness beyond the door below. Gareth wrapped his arms around his knees and bowed his head.

***

Andrew waited in the gloom, dreading to hear what his brother would tell him. The euphoria of having assisted with the birthing had faded as the nursery maids had scurried in to help Astrid with the new arrivals, and Andrew had been left alone in the dark to wait and pray.

“My dear wife,” Gareth began in a rusty whisper, “has given me…”

Gareth’s breathing hitched, and Andrew’s heart broke.

“She has given me,” Gareth went on, “two beautiful, fat, squalling babies. The younger, a daughter, we have named Joyce… in honor of my unworthy self…”

Another pause, while the silence of the house absorbed these quiet, desperate words.

“And a son, named Penwarren, in honor of the boy’s dear uncle… I am much concerned…”

Andrew waited, fearing to hear the worst, wishing he could spare his brother the words, knowing it was Andrew’s place, his burden, and his privilege to be the one Gareth spoke them to.

“I am much afraid,” Gareth corrected himself, “that my wife is soon to give her life, so I might have… our children… to love.”

He had pushed the words out, spoken so Andrew would know the terrible pain to befall the household, but he was still laboring to form more words. “Andrew…”

Andrew reached out, unable to let his brother grieve in isolation. He settled a hand on the back of Gareth’s neck, trying to communicate whatever paltry comfort his love for his brother might be.

“Andrew… if it hadn’t been for my selfish, thoughtless pleasures…”

“Hush. Just hush.” Andrew slipped his arm around Gareth’s shoulders while Gareth began to shake with silent, shuddering sobs. Andrew wrapped him tighter then, a fraternal presence the only rope he could throw to his weeping brother.

No words could comfort a sorrow as deep as this, a regret as deep as this. Andrew had lived with regret and sorrow for thirteen years, and he knew better than anybody the futility of comfort, the burden of despair, but he held on to his brother and hurt for him and cursed a God who would allow a man to love, then punish him for it so bitterly.

The heat that came from Gareth’s body enveloped Andrew. His brother’s weight at last grew heavy against his shoulder, and his body seemed to ease.

“Gareth, you love your wife, and she loves you.” Andrew’s chest constricted, for he’d nearly said: she loved you. Past tense. “She has no regrets, save that her health was not equal to this task. She does not blame you, and you must not blame yourself.”

“Ah, but I must,” Gareth said, easing away. He sat up, but he did not take himself from the circle of his brother’s arm. They sat thus, once again sharing grief.

“Listen to me,” Andrew began quietly, for now it was his burden and privilege to speak, while Gareth must listen. “The woman you love yet lives, and your children, thanks to her, live as well.”