The Garden's End (MLM)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

                "I'm so glad your fever's gone, Pip," Alice said that next morning. "Robert wouldn't talk much, though I gathered what I could from Jack."

They sat on the small couch they normally sat on beside the window, and Pip took some relief in the wildness of the flowers outside, the playfulness of the breeze.

He had woken rather slowly, his mind already replaying his conversation with Oliver the previous day.

"It was a strenuous few days," confessed Pip. "I'm so glad to be out of bed." He then realized what he'd said and covered his mouth with his hands. "Oh, I-I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"

"Oh, no, no," she chuckled. "Don't you apologize for being healed."

She said this with no small amount of longing or love, and not for the first time, Pip wondered what it was exactly that her husband suffered from. He wished he could somehow ease the pain.

"Though," she went on hesitantly, "I must say, Pip, you don't look entirely well. Are you certain you're not still ill?"

"I feel fine!" Pip lied, shovelling another croissant into his mouth. He moaned. "Did you make these?"

"Don't try to change the subject now," Alice warned, slapping his hand before he could reach for another roll to keep his mouth busy. She searched his face with narrowed eyes, and Pip avoided her gaze, attempting to keep any emotion or thought of Oliver from his expression.

He must've been far too in love to hide it, however, because Alice looked over her shoulder into the corridor as though to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in.

"Is it because of your lover?"

"Shh," Pip pulled Alice in closer by her arm, his voice hardly above a whisper. "Please, Alice, Lord Westcott cannot know."

"So it is because of them! Tell me, what's happened? Perhaps I can help!"

Pip did not think it a good idea. He couldn't reveal the topic of his and Oliver's argument without confessing to who it was.

"We . . ." he glanced back at the corridor. "We quarrelled."

"Concerning what?" she demanded.

Pip pressed his lips together. "I . . . cannot say."

Alice looked concerned. Did Pip truly seem so miserable? He reached for another croissant. Again, Alice batted his hand away.

"Ouch! Am I to be hungry as well as heartbroken?" he whined.

"You're heartbroken?" said Alice, incredulous. "Ridiculous! Who is it that could upset you so?"

Pip wanted to tell her exactly what was bothering him and who and why. He wanted to tell her about the thoughts that were swarming his mind, keeping him from any peace. He wanted, once again, for Oliver to be here and hold his hand. But he couldn't bear the thought of Alice being angry with Oliver, having an unpleasant judgement of him. Not for a moment.

"When you . . . met Jack . . ." he spoke slowly, carefully. "Did you ever . . . worry you weren't good enough for him?"

"Not good enough?!" she stood, and Pip, panicked, wrapped his arms around her small frame and pulled her back down beside him.

"SHHHH! There there," he whispered, patting her head as he may an angry dog. "Remember, we don't want my master and your husband to hear us."

"Sorry," she huffed, straightening her shoulders. For such a tiny woman, she was terribly strong. "I'm sorry, it's only . . ." she growled. "That blasted, dreadful woman was the only one who ever made me feel I wasn't enough! My old mistress, you remember what I told you about her?"