But her words had melted away, and all that was left was the low sound of a weeping that came from deep in her soul. Anthony held her, and then when she’d calmed a bit, he eased her down until she was lying on her side again, and then he held her some more, until she drifted back into sleep.
Which, he noticed ironically, was right about the time the last of the thunder and lightning split the room.
When Kate woke the following morning, she was surprised to see her husband sitting up in bed, staring down at her with the oddest look…a combination of concern, and curiosity, and maybe even the barest hint of pity. He didn’t say anything when her eyes opened, even though she could see that he was watching her face intently. She waited, to see what he would do, and then finally she just said, somewhat hesitantly, “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” he admitted.
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head. “It rained.”
“It did?”
He nodded. “And thundered.”
She swallowed nervously. “And lightninged as well, I suppose.”
“It did,” he said, nodding again. “It was quite a storm.”
There was something very profound in the way he was speaking in short, concise sentences, something that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “H-how fortunate that I missed it, then,” she said. “You know I don’t do well with strong storms.”
“I know,” he said simply.
But there was a wealth of meaning behind those two short words, and Kate felt her heartbeat speed up slightly. “Anthony,” she asked, not certain she wanted to know the answer, “what happened last night?”
“You had a nightmare.”
She closed her eyes for a second. “I didn’t think I had those any longer.”
“I didn’t realize you’d ever suffered from nightmares.”
Kate let out a long exhale and sat up, pulling the covers along with her and tucking them under arms. “When I was small. Whenever it stormed, I’m told. I don’t know for a fact; I never remembered anything. I thought I’d—” She had to stop for a moment; her throat felt like it was closing up, and her words seemed to choke her.
He reached out and took her hand. It was a simple gesture, but somehow it touched her heart far more than any words would have done. “Kate?” he asked quietly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I thought I’d stopped, that’s all.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and the room was so quiet that Kate was sure she could hear both of their heartbeats. Finally, she heard the slight rush of indrawn breath across Anthony’s lips, and he asked, “Did you know that you speak in your sleep?”
She hadn’t been facing him, but at that comment, her head jerked quite suddenly to the right, her eyes colliding with his. “I do?”
“You did last night.”
Her fingers clutched the coverlet. “What did I say?”
He hesitated, but when his words emerged, they were steady and even. “You called out to your mother.”
“Mary?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard you call Mary anything but Mary; last night you were crying for ‘Mama.’ You sounded…” He paused and took a slightly ragged breath. “You sounded quite young.”
Kate licked her lips, then chewed on the bottom one. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she finally said, afraid to press into the deepest recesses of her memory. “I have no idea why I’d be calling out to my mother.”
“I think,” he said gently, “that you should ask Mary.”
Kate gave her head a quick and immediate shake. “I didn’t even know Mary when my mother died. Neither did my father. She couldn’t know why I was calling out to her.”
“Your father might have told her something,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and giving it a reassuring kiss.
Kate let her eyes drop to her lap. She wanted to understand why she was so afraid of the storms, but prying into one’s deepest fears was almost as terrifying as the fear itself. What if she discovered something she didn’t want to know? What if—
“I’ll go with you,” Anthony said, breaking into her thoughts.
And somehow that made everything all right.
Kate looked to him and nodded, tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
Later that day, the two of them walked up the steps to Mary’s small townhouse. The butler showed them into the drawing room, and Kate sat on the familiar blue sofa while Anthony walked over to the window, leaning on the sill as he peered out.
“See something interesting?” she asked.
He shook his head, smiling sheepishly as he turned to face her. “I just like looking out windows, that’s all.”
Kate thought there was something awfully sweet about that, although she couldn’t really put her finger on what. Every day seemed to reveal some new little quirk to his character, some uniquely endearing habit that bound them ever closer. She liked knowing strange little things about him, like how he always doubled up his pillow before going to sleep, or that he detested orange marmalade but adored the lemon.
“You look rather introspective.”
Kate jerked to attention. Anthony was staring at her quizzically. “You drifted off,” he said with an amused expression, “and you had the dreamiest smile on your face.”
She shook her head, blushed, and mumbled, “It was nothing.”
His answering snort was dubious, and as he walked over to the sofa, he said, “I’d give a hundred pounds for those thoughts.”
Kate was saved from having to comment by Mary’s entrance. “Kate!” Mary exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. And Lord Bridgerton, how nice to see you both.”
“You really should call me Anthony,” he said somewhat gruffly.
Mary smiled as he took her hand in greeting. “I shall endeavor to remember to do so,” she said. She sat across from Kate, then waited for Anthony to take his place on the sofa before saying, “Edwina is out, I’m afraid. Her Mr. Bagwell came rather unexpectedly down to town. They’ve gone for a walk in the park.”
“We should lend them Newton,” Anthony said affably. “A more capable chaperone I cannot imagine.”
“We actually came to see you, Mary,” Kate said.
Kate’s voice held an uncommon note of seriousness, and Mary responded instantly. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes flicking back and forth from Kate to Anthony. “Is everything all right?”
Kate nodded, swallowing as she searched for the right words. Funny how she’d been rehearsing what to ask all morning, and now she was speechless. But then she felt Anthony’s hand on hers, the weight and the warmth of it strangely comforting, and she looked up and said to Mary, “I’d like
to ask you about my mother.”
Mary looked a little startled, but she said, “Of course. But you know that I did not know her personally. I only know what your father told me of her.”
Kate nodded. “I know. And you might not have the answers to any of my questions, but I don’t know who else to ask.”
Mary shifted in her seat, her hands clasped primly in her lap. But Kate noticed that her knuckles had gone white.
“Very well,” Mary said. “What is it you wish to learn? You know that I will tell you anything I know.”
Kate nodded again and swallowed, her mouth having gone dry. “How did she die, Mary?”
Mary blinked, then sagged slightly, perhaps with relief. “But you know that already. It was influenza. Or some sort of lung fever. The doctors were never certain.”
“I know, but…” Kate looked to Anthony, who gave her a reassuring nod. She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I’m still afraid of storms, Mary. I want to know why. I don’t want to be afraid any longer.”
Mary’s lips parted, but she was silent for many seconds as she stared at her stepdaughter. Her skin slowly paled, taking on an odd, translucent hue, and her eyes grew haunted. “I didn’t realize,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you still—”
“I hid it well,” Kate said softly.
Mary reached up and touched her temple, her hands shaking. “If I’d known, I’d have…” Her fingers moved to her forehead, smoothing over worry lines as she fought for words. “Well, I don’t know what I’d have done. Told you, I suppose.”
Kate’s heart stopped. “Told me what?”
Mary let out a long breath, both of her hands at her face now, pressing against the upper edge of her eye sockets. She looked as if she had a terrible headache, the weight of the world pounding against her skull, from the inside out.
“I just want you to know,” she said in a choked voice, “that I didn’t tell you because I thought you didn’t remember. And if you didn’t remember, well, it didn’t seem right to make you remember.”