Always in April

VIII.

Cecelia woke at dawn with her head still throbbing, but when she got up to pour herself a glass of water she found she was steady on her feet, if unfathomably heart weary. She felt trapped in her parents' house and, besides, it came to her suddenly that it was time — it was the last week of April. They were sure to be there.

She dressed and let herself out the back door, then crossed the dew-covered grass that led to the gate to the park which was silent and foggy in the early morning, and empty but for herself. The noisy hurt inside her quietened at the stillness of it all until she felt quite calm — aching, but calm. She took the path towards the woods and wended through the trees until she came to the glade, and there they were: bluebells everywhere, dancing underfoot, silver-purple in the bright slants of early morning light through the trees, blanketing the ground where Sebastian had proposed.

And there, too, was Sebastian, sitting on a fallen log in his shabby greatcoat, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, so lost in thought that he apparently had not heard her approach. She froze under an oak tree. Had he been here all night? Impossible! He had changed his clothes. He wore a plain brown suit and muddy hessians under his greatcoat, not the black stockings and slippers of last night. He had gone and, for whatever reason, come back at almost dawn.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

He jumped, startled, then got to his feet and halfway closed the distance between them.

"I received word last night that you were taken ill. I was waiting until the house would be awake to ask for you." He looked uncertainly at her. "Are you alright?"

"I only fainted. I feel much better now." She took a step towards him and then stopped. "Sebastian. Last night. I'm sorry."

He kept her gaze, as though deciding if she meant it. "I've not had an affair," he said. "Especially not with Lady Shipman."

"I know that now. I knew that last night, by your reaction. But when I heard the gossip, I didn't know. And I was afraid. So when I saw you dancing with everyone else and ignoring me, I... I was jealous. Angry."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "I'm not clairvoyant, Cecelia. If you don't tell me how you feel, I might not understand."

"I couldn't even do that. I couldn't even speak to you."

"Not just last night. These past three weeks. At any time you could have told me how you felt."

"It goes both ways, Seb. You don't tell me how you feel either. You don't tell me anything."

He opened his mouth as if to protest then sighed instead. "What do you want to know? Anything you ask, I will answer."

Cecelia had not expected such a concession. She faltered, then steeled herself.

"I heard you were shot protecting the ambassador. I heard you almost died. Is it true?"

He winced. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His face closed over. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Seb." She took another step closer. She could have reached out and touched him now, but she did not dare. "Seb, that's a lie."

The closed-over expression wobbled about the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Sir William wanted to send for you," he said reluctantly. "I told him not to. I didn't want you at my sickbed. Nor my deathbed, if it came to that."

She took a deep breath of chill morning air. She could understand, very well, really. She was no comfort to him. It would have been a wonder if after six years' absence she could have been. "And when you were better, why did you not say?"