Always in April

III.

It was difficult for Cecelia to sleep that night, very conscious of Sebastian lying in the room three steps across the corridor. It did not feel real. Six years she had been married, and six years she had neither seen a hair nor heard a whisper of her husband. At times, she had almost forgotten she had one. Once, in the blackest depth of the night, she got out of bed and crept across the passage to his door. She did not go in, but she listened for the sound of his breathing. The bed creaked, and she fled back to her room.

In the morning, she dressed with rather more care than usual then sat regarding her reflection in the mirror and trying to make up her mind what to do about all this. Her mind was still unmade when, ten minutes before breakfast, she crossed the passage and knocked at Sebastian's door. A sleepy grunt was her only response, so she walked in.

He was nothing more than a lump under the covers, the flash of a stained shirt collar peeping out from the blankets, and a tuft of fair hair sticking up at all angles. In the light coming through the windows, she saw now that his hair was darker than it had been six years ago, nearer the colour of sand than sunlight.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

"Mmph."

"It's ten minutes until breakfast — I always eat at nine. I get so hungry in the mornings."

"You always had an appetite," Sebastian said sleepily. "I think I'm hungry too."

Covers quaking and billowing, he rolled over and levered himself to a sitting position. His movements were awkward, slow, like an old man's, and the weary set to his eyes had not faded with rest. Her heart gave a leap of alarm which was not entirely subdued by telling herself that really she should be annoyed he had said nothing of being unwell last night.

"You look poorly," she said. "Should I send for the doctor?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"I was injured and took ill. That's all. I'm better now, but Sir William insisted I take leave. That's why I'm here."

Faint colour was seeping into his pale cheeks now. Cecelia relaxed.

"You're not going to die, are you?" she said. "If I knew you were, I'd have left you at Lady Peyton's."

He smiled briefly, but it wasn't like it used to be. "I promise."

"Then I'll send your breakfast up and you can stay in bed."

She did so, and he remained in his bedroom for long after, after his trunks came from Lady Peyton's, after Cecelia had gone down to the drawing-room for her usual visiting hour.

It was Miss Astley who came first. Cecilia had suspected she would. She came, worse, with her mother. Mrs Astley no doubt had heard the gossip of Cecelia's marriage and had told her daughter all of it. After the requisite round of greetings and how-do-you-dos, Mrs Astley started it.

"My daughter has been telling me how handsome your husband is," she said. "I tell you, Lady Cecelia, I do not take her word for it. My daughter is too easily impressed."

"If you won't take her word, you're hardly more likely to take mine," Cecelia said. "I've a reason to be biased."

"He was not so handsome," Miss Astley sniffed. "I merely said, I was surprised, since you kept him hidden away, that he was not an ogre."

"He is very busy with his work in Paris."

"I didn't even know you were married!"

Cecelia smiled pointedly. "There are so many things you do not know, Miss Astley."