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The last hints of the afternoon light lingered in through the black-veiled windows. The house had finally grown quiet, the final visitor having left with muttered condolences and that pity-filled look that Kate had grown far too accustomed to.
The house smelled overwhelmingly floral, nauseatingly so, and she swallowed against the sour taste gathering at the back of her throat. She wished desperately that the weather was warmer so that she could open a window or two to dilute the stench.
The normally muted groan of the flooring echoed through the hall as Kate peeked her head in room after room looking for Anthony.
His study, where he had spent the better part of the last few days poring over arrangements and financial documents all ensuring Francesca’s security, was unnervingly empty.
The library, the sitting room, and their bedchamber all sat vacant.
She could just feel the start of concern gathering behind her ribs when she heard the rhythmic rocking of the chair in Edmund’s nursery.
From her place in the ajar doorway, Kate could see his silhouette illuminated by the lone candle on the nightstand. The crib in the corner was empty—Penelope had insisted on watching Edmund to give her a moment of reprieve—but Anthony stared at it intently.
He looked up at her with eyes that were tired and full of grief and loss when he heard the door push open.
She crossed the room without saying a word, her hand reaching out to him as she grew nearer.
Anthony took it immediately, as though he had been waiting for the offer but did not know how to ask for it. His fingers closed around hers with a faint tremor he made no attempt to hide, and he pulled her gently into his lap, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist like he was anchoring himself to her.
“Your mother took Francesca back to Killmartin House,” she said quietly, one hand lingering absently in the curls on the back of his neck.
He nodded, the tension that had been permanently set in his shoulders for the past several days slowly easing with each of Kate’s touches.
“She said she will stay there with her for a few more days. Until things…settle,” but the words tasted like a lie on Kate’s tongue. She wasn’t sure how things could ever settle. How life could ever feel normal after this.
Anthony buried his head in her hair. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“It is not fair.”
“It rarely is,” Kate answered steadily.
“John was younger than—” Anthony’s words broke off. Like drawing the comparison to his father would be the straw that finally broke him.
“I know.” Kate brushed a curl off his forehead.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Francesca looks at me as though I should have prevented it—that I might still send for the physician and undo what has already been done.” He exhaled shakily and quietly added, “As though I am still the viscount who can order the world into submission if only I try hard enough.”
Kate turned enough that she could face him. “Francesca is hurting. She doesn’t blame you anymore than you could have prevented such a thing.”
“I know,” his voice cracked on the words. “But I cannot bear that she suffers. I cannot bear that any of them suffer.” His grip on her tightened. “I cannot do this again, Kate. I cannot be the pillar while everything around me crumbles.”
There it was—not the viscount, not the head of the family, but the boy who had stood in a field and watched his father die. The same boy who had stepped into this role while he carried a grief too heavy for his young shoulders to bear.
She cupped his jaw, her thumb absently rubbing over the stubble of his beard. “This is not yours to carry alone,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “Not this time.”
Anthony searched her face as though the answer to a question he had never dared to ask might be written there.
“I have spent so long believing it my duty to stand between my family and their pain—to prevent it when I could, to lessen it when I might,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Like if I could absorb it—it would make it lighter for them.”
Kate’s thumb stilled against his skin. “This is not something that can be absorbed, Anthony. It is something that must be carried. But we will carry it together.”
His breath caught, and for a moment he said nothing. In that silence, she felt the truth of it—how rarely he allowed himself to lean, how instinctively he braced instead.
“I do not know how to do that,” he admitted.
The emotion of the day caused Kate’s throat to tighten in a way it rarely did, but she did not look away. “You will be a shelter for me,” she said through a shuttered breath. “And I will be a shelter for you. And we will not carry the grief of anyone else, but feel it and sit through it together. It is all we can do, Anthony. To be there for Francesca, and your mother and Michaela. Not to make the pain invisible, but to feel it in solidarity with them.”
“And if I lose you?” he asked, the question escaping before he could stop it. “If fate decides I have had my share of happiness and demands its return?”
Her fingers tightened around the lapel of his jacket.
“Then we have lived a life braver than most,” she whispered, letting her forehead rest against his. “Because we chose love knowing its cost.”
His breath shuddered against her lips. He closed his eyes, as though bracing himself.
“At one time,” he admitted, “it was a cost I thought too high.”
“And now?”
“And now,” he continued, drawing a steadying breath and meeting her eyes with his, “even if it is only for another day, or an hour, or even thirty more minutes with you, it will have been worth it.”
“It will have been worth it,” Kate agreed.
For a moment, he simply looked at her, as though committing her to memory. “True love is always worth the risk.”
She huffed a soft tearful breath and met his lips with her own, kissing him deeply, steadily, lovingly because she could.
Because at the end of the day, she had Anthony and Edmund and this life they had built and were building together.
They still had time, and she intended to savor it—even in a house that still smelled of mourning, even as the last of the daylight slipped away.