There was Ellingworth. Huddled beneath a rosebush. Lying on his side.
Unmoving.
Please. Please, God. Don’t let him be dead.
Dread gathered like a rain cloud as she rushed toward the bulldog. Ellingworth was on the opposite side of the rosebushes, so she had to race down the length of the aisle and around the other path to reach him.
“Ellingworth, darling. Hang on. I’m coming.”
When she rounded the corner, she stopped short.
Rafe.
His dark green coat had blended in with the shrubs, and she hadn’t been able to see him from the arbor. But he was there, crouched beside the unmoving bulldog, one of his big, knotty boxer’s hands placed to the dog’s side.
Rafe didn’t raise his head. But Clio sensed he knew she was there.
She swallowed a lump in her throat. As she moved closer, all the urgency was gone from her steps. “Is he . . . ?”
She couldn’t even ask the question.
He shook his head no.
Relief flooded her as she covered the remaining distance to Rafe’s side. “Oh, thank goodness.”
Now that she was closer, she could make out the slight rise and fall of the dog’s breathing. Thank heavens.
But even though the dog was alive, all the vigor seemed to have gone out of Rafe. He was so quiet.
“Best not to leave him lying here,” she said, trying to sound cheery. “Poor old dear. The ground’s so wet and cold. Let’s bundle him up and carry him in. Don’t worry, we’ll have him mended in a trice. I’ll send for the veterinarian from the village. The one from London, if you like. There’s some excellent beef loin Cook has from the butcher. It was meant for our dinner, but it will be perfect for Ellingworth. We’ll mince it finer than—”
Rafe shook his head. “It’s no use, Clio.”
“Of course it is.”
“He’s not gone yet. But he’s going.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than the dog released a faint, wheezing breath.
“No,” she protested. “No, he can’t be dying.”
“It won’t be long now. This is the way with dogs.” His voice was quiet and emotionless as he stroked the dog’s ear. “Just how they are. They know when it’s their time. So they slip away and find a quiet place to—”
His voice broke, and Clio’s heart broke with it. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her emotion, not wanting to distress dog or man. Nevertheless, her voice wavered as she reached to stroke Ellingworth’s paw. “We’re here, darling. We’re here, just as long as you need us.”
Rafe said, “You should go inside. I’ll stay with him.”
“I’m not leaving either of you.”
After rubbing her hands together to warm them, she reached out and placed a gentle touch to Ellingworth’s paw. “What a good boy you are. How proud you’ve done us.”
Rafe stood just long enough to remove his coat. As he sat beside her, he moved to drape the coat over her shoulders. A thoughtful gesture, but Clio stayed it with a shake of her head.
She took the coat from his hands and draped it over the dog instead. “He needs it more than I do.”
One by one, their party grew.
“Oh, dear.” Daphne and Teddy made their way down the path. “Is he . . . ?”
“Soon,” Clio said.
“Jesus and all the saints.” Bruiser joined them, for once not bothering to hide his broad, common accent. “Not now. How can he do this to us now? Surely there’s something to be done.”
Phoebe found them next. “He’s fourteen,” she said, crouching next to Rafe. “The typical life expectancy of a bulldog is no more than twelve years. If you compared his existence to a human life, he would be nearing one hundred years old. So there’s really no reason to be surprised. Or, for that matter, to grieve. He had a long life.”
Rafe nodded. “I know.”
“Just the same, I . . .” Phoebe threw her arms around him in an awkward hug. “I’m sorry about your dog.”
Oh, dear. Now Clio was certainly going to cry.
Ellingworth’s breathing grew rattling, raspy.
“He’s going, isn’t he?” Daphne buried her face in her husband’s lapel. “I can’t look.”
“We’re here, darling.” Clio sniffed back her tears and stroked the dog’s wrinkled head. “We’re all here with you. Be at peace.”
And then the rasping breaths ceased.
All was quiet.
“Here you all are.” Piers joined the group. “Is that Ellingworth under the rosebush?”
No one knew what to say. Clio reached for Rafe’s hand.
“I tried,” Rafe said hoarsely. “I tried my best, but I should have known . . .”