"Phoebe?" Stewart almost gasped in astonishment when he opened his door to find her standing outside it, swathed in her dressing gown. "What are you doing here at this time of night?"
She gave him a wry smile. "You forget - this is an old house." When she saw that he was still frowning in confusion, she elaborated, "The floorboards creak, so when the person with the room above yours starts pacing about in the middle of the night, it tends to wake you up."
Stewart grimaced. "Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."
Phoebe scoffed and slipped past him into his room before he could stop her. "I didn't come up here looking for an apology, John."
Reluctantly, Stewart turned around. "Then what did you come for?"
Shyly, Phoebe sat on the bed. "Just to… look after you."
"Phoebe!" His mouth was open wide, like a fish searching for food, and he could say no more.
Innocently, Phoebe asked, "What is it?"
"Look here," he said severely, raising his finger in warning as he stepped closer, "if you really think I'm the sort of man who'd take you to bed without marrying you, then - "
He was silenced by Phoebe's soft giggles. "Oh, love, of course not. When you make love to me for the first time - a long way down the road from where we are now - there is going to be a wedding ring, no risk to either of our reputations and - " (she bounced experimentally on the mattress and winced when it groaned) " - a much more comfortable bed." She shrugged, a little bashful. "I just thought… well, we could at least fall asleep together. Wouldn't that help, at least a little?"
God in Heaven. What she was suggesting was thoroughly immoral, not to mention scandalous. Even if they curled up together under the quilt as chaste as babes, if they were caught - if anyone saw so much as her leaving his room come morning - they would both be ruined, whatever story either of them told about what had passed between them. Sir Anthony and Lady Strallan were extremely liberal employers, but there were limits even to their understanding.
If anyone even knew that they had had this conversation, they would likely both find themselves unemployed and without references.
If his parents ever got wind of it… His mother'd die of shame. His father'd tan his hide for him, adult or not.
And yet…
Anything was better than spending the rest of the night pacing the same six feet square of space, with shells going off in his head and the ghost of cordite in his nostrils and the oozing slime of mud over his feet every time he stopped.
Mouth dry, Stewart nodded.
"Well, then." Phoebe's smile was gentle and welcoming as she slid under the covers. "Come to bed, John."
"Edith?"
Anthony's voice, roughened with weeping, woke her. She opened her eyes as he levered himself up from her chest. "I'm crushing you, sweetheart. Sorry."
Firmly, Edith pulled him back down. "Not at all." She brushed her fingers through the hair that fell over his forehead. "How do you…?" She stopped. "Silly question. Forgive me."
"No, it isn't." Anthony kissed her gently. "A little better. Calmer. Thank you."
"I really… didn't do much at all."
Anthony's look said otherwise.
Weak, wintery rays of sun woke Phoebe early the next morning. That, and John's hand stroking her hair and murmuring, "Quarter to five, love. Time for you to be getting back to your own room, I'm afraid." Letting out an indistinct groan, Phoebe buried her face further into John's pyjama jacket and shook her head in silent refusal.
John chuckled softly - a deep rumble that vibrated against her cheek - and tugged one of the curls he had been smoothing a moment ago. Without looking, Phoebe reached up and batted his hand away.
"Phoebe, love, if we're caught, we'll both be skinned alive," John insisted, reaching his hands down to her armpits and levering her up as if she weighed no more than a feather. Phoebe winced as her muscles protested - she had slept half on and half off John, head on his chest, one leg slung across him, stomach pressed uncomfortably against the mattress. "Yes," she said decisively, massaging the kinks out of her neck. "Definitely a more comfortable bed next time."
"No complaints over here," John reassured her and got up. Phoebe struggled up from the mess of quilt and sheets and slipped her dressing gown on. John opened the door and leaned out, checking for other early risers, but the corridor was empty. He nodded to Phoebe that the coast was clear, and then bent to kiss the very tip of her nose as she slipped past him and vanished from sight.
Then, shaking his head at the odd turn that the previous night had taken, Stewart turned to make the bed. Plumping up the pillows, he found himself smiling.
They smelled of her.
Edith sleepwalked through much of the following morning. Anthony, likewise, was a ghost, who walked and talked and had no character within him at all. He went out walking to the Home Farm directly after lunch, taking Stewart with him; Edith watched them anxiously from the library window, Elinor at her side. His silence worried her, but at least she could rely on Stewart to look after him. They would look after each other.
"Is Anthony cross with me?" Elinor asked, in a small voice.
"No, of course not, my sweet one," Edith replied, surprised. "Whatever makes you say that?"
"If he's going to the Home Farm, he usually lets me come with him," Elinor explained plaintively. "And he didn't even ask this morning."
Gently, Edith lifted her up for a hug. "Anthony," she said firmly, "could never be cross with you. He had a nightmare last night, that's all, my love."
"But it's the morning now," Elinor complained. "Hasn't his nightmare gone away? When I have nightmares, you always say that things will look better in the morning."
Edith sighed and kissed Elinor's cheek. "And usually they do, sweet one. But… sometimes they don't."
"What was Anthony's nightmare about?" Elinor asked. "It must have been very bad."
"Yes," Edith murmured. "It was very bad. You know Anthony fought in the War, sweet one?"
"Mmm-hmm." Elinor nodded seriously.
"Well," Edith began carefully, "it was frightening and horrible for him, and that's what he has bad dreams about."
"Isn't there any way we can help him?" Elinor asked. "Like how you sing to me when I have bad dreams?"
"I'm afraid not, sweet one," Edith replied sadly, and Elinor's face fell. "We must just be very kind and patient with him for a while, I think."
When Anthony returned, he was looking calmer and more present; he squeezed Edith's hand and lifted Elinor up to be hugged and kissed. "Mummy said you had a nightmare," Edith heard her whisper to him. "Can I do anything to make it better, Anthony?"
Anthony smiled faintly at Edith over Elinor's head. "Yes, my dear. You can be your own sweet self. That makes everything better."
"I may… sleep in the dressing room tonight," Anthony announced, head poking out of the door of said room as Edith sat at the dressing table in the main bedroom that evening. He flushed with embarrassment. "In case of any more… disturbances."
"Will that make them any better?" Edith asked, looking at his reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. Her tone made it clear that, despite the phrasing she had used, she most certainly did not believe that it would.
"Probably not," he acknowledged. His mouth twisted sourly, and he added, "But it will, at least, spare me the shame of being a man willing to put his wife through the horror of witnessing them."
Edith set her hairbrush aside with a sharp, almost angry, snap, rose and turned to face him. Her arms were folded over her chest and she looked supremely unimpressed. "We've had some variation of this conversation before, I believe, and I'm not generally in the habit of repeating myself."
"Edith - " He couldn't look her in the eye, much less face her, and her heart ached when he turned away from her to stare into the fire, his shoulders hunched as if he were keeping in some strong emotion. Gently, she went up and hugged him from behind, linking her arms firmly around him and pressing her cheek to the tense muscles in his back.
"Y-you… you would never even think of abandoning me," she whispered, "not even in my darkest, most awful moments, and if you think I'm going to leave you to fight this on your own, then you've bloody well got another thing coming, Anthony Strallan. Nothing about this could make me think any less of you."
He turned in her embrace, the haunted look still in his eyes. "Edith… if I hurt you - I couldn't bear - "
"I know." Softly, she kissed his mouth. "But if you hurt yourself and I wasn't there, then I couldn't bear it, Anthony. Please. Come to bed."
