Читать книгу The Wicked Redhead - Beatriz Williams - Страница 24

I STAY WITH Patsy until she falls asleep in her bed in the room she shares with Evelyn. The wee Fitzwilliam sprig doesn’t even stir throughout this disturbance, just lies there under her white counterpane, sweet cheek turned to the moonlight. I stroke Patsy’s hair and count the beats of her breathing. The house around us has gone still; even the slight, worried murmuring of the doctor and his wife has died into silence.

My own room is the one next door. I slip inside and climb under the covers, which smell drowsily of lavender. The window’s cracked open, releasing all the heat of the day, and for some time I listen to the strange, wild music of the Atlantic Ocean and recollect the night I spent in Southampton, when that same water beat against my shore in exactly the same key. Isn’t this supposed to lull you to sleep? Lavender sheets and the ocean noise? Well, it doesn’t. I turn on one side and the other. Stare at the blank ceiling and see visions of violent death, of lifeless faces, though I tell myself I’m safe and sound, safe and sound, nothing to fear.

Start to get angry.

I’m the lucky one, aren’t I? Survived all this trouble to find myself lying in a soft bed by the sea. I ought to be happy. Ought to be sleeping the sleep of the fortunate.

I sit upright. Stare at the billowing curtains. Throw off the counterpane, slide from the bed, and take my dressing gown from the hook on the door.