Interlude | The Cost of Living is Dying

He stood on the familiar porch, and knocked on the black painted door. His back was stiff from the long train ride from London. He shifted his shoulders and glanced up. The sky overhead billowed with dark clouds threatening another chilly rain. He glanced down when the door finally opened.

"Oh. It's you, is it? It's about time you came."

He stared at the Hale's servant, then nodded politely, too tired to do otherwise. He stepped inside, grateful for the respite from the biting wind, and set down his bag. She took his hat, overcoat, and muffler.

"Master's in the library."

"Where's my wife?"

The servant clutched her hands over her apron, her face contorted in indecision. Then the woman sighed, tears filling her large soft eyes. "She's upstairs with the mistress."

He nodded. "I'll see myself up."

"Don't take her away from her," the servant burst out. She flushed red. "The mistress don't have much time left, you see, an' she needs Miss Margaret near her at the end and—"

He laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, "I want to see my wife, not steal her away." It had been almost three weeks since he'd spoken to Margaret. The few letters she'd sent sat in his pocket nestled next to the brief note from Doctor Donaldson calling him home. He'd kept them there all the while he was away.

The large woman stared at him blankly for a moment before nodding, and dabbing at her face with her apron. "Go on then. The second room on the right. I'll send up tea for you. God bless you, Master."

He climbed slowly, limbs and back still aching, stopping on the first floor. Mr Hale sat in his library, staring into a small fire, his hands dangling over the chair arms. John stood silently and studied him for a moment. The urge to find his own wife sharpened as he saw the future loss waiting for the older man written in the shadows of his face. He'd been gone too long. He mounted the stairs again, his keen ears searching for any hint of her voice.

A soft yellow light spilled onto the hall rug from an open door. A lamp burned on a small table in the second bedroom. Mrs Hale lay propped on a mound of pillows in the bed, her breathing the low and slow rattling gasp of the dying. Margaret lay curled in a chair next to her, asleep. Her face was paler, thinner, and more careworn than when he'd left. He let out a breath, a fierce burning thing turning over in his chest, like an animal waking. Perhaps the servant was right to worry. He wanted to take her away from this room, from this desolate place that had already stolen so much from her; he wanted to spare her this sorrow and every sorrow life would inevitable require them to endure. Yet he could not.

He bent and gathered her limp body in his arms. Her old room, though sparsely furnished, would serve well enough. He could not keep the sorrows of the world at bay, but he could see that she had a proper place to sleep. He silently thanked God for his wife's simple tastes in fashion as he quickly removed her boots, and loosened her dress. He didn't know if she had a change of clothes or nightgown, but her shift would be sufficient for now.

Her eyes fluttered open, "John?"

"Aye."

"But... you're in London." She didn't seem to understand, not fully awake. She clutched at his hand. "You're supposed to be in London."

"I was," he laid her skirts, underskirts, and blouse over the chair. "Doctor Donaldson sent for me." He quickly removed her corset, set it aside, and then pulled the bedclothes over her. "Sleep now."

"Stay." She still clung to him, her hands now fisted in his shirt, her eyes boring into his. "Please stay."

"Aye, I'll stay."

"Here," She tugged him closer, her lips brushing his, "Stay here, with me. Please."

The shutters rattled in a gust of wind, a howling reminder of the cold. Rain splattered against the window panes.

"You need rest."

She shook her head, kissing him again. Her mouth was sweet and warm. John shuddered as her tongue slid against his. She rarely kissed him like this. Desire and guilt twisted together as he melted over her like wax in a flame. He'd missed her, missed her softness, her touch, her taste, her smell, her very presence. Time slowed to the soft flicker of the single candle as she helped him undress. Shoes first, then jacket, his knitted cardigan, shirt and undershirt. Mouths and hands explored skin and muscle, hers as eager as his own. He refused her nothing, gave her everything.

"John," She sighed into his mouth when he pushed into her, threading her fingers into his hair. They moved together in an easy rhythm, gentle and unhurried, almost languid, in defiance of the terrible sorrow hanging over them. And then she sighed again, a low breath of pleasure and release, trembling around him. He followed her with grumbling exhale. She clung to his neck, weeping, and he held her tight.

"It's alright." It was true and yet it wasn't, but he said it anyway. "It'll be alright."

He slipped from the bed when her breathing finally sank into the thick rhythm of deep sleep. He pulled on his cold dirty clothes, blew out the candle, and shut the door, careful to soften the harsh click of the latch. In the next room, he sat stiffly in the chair next to Mrs Hale. A grunt escaped him, aching muscles complaining, in spite of the warm content settling under his skin. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his neck.

"Master?" Dixon appeared at the door, a small tray of bread, cheese, and a steaming cup of tea. "Is she...?"

"Sleepin'." The prowling animal inside him grew restless. He thought of his fierce wife, uncharacteristically fragile and delicate in her grief. He hated to see it. "In her room."

"Thank God for that. You take this an' eat now." She fussed about, handing him his tea and some bread and cheese. "I reckon' you've nothin' decent all day. We've not much on hand but it'll do."

"Thank you," He grumbled, taking a dutiful sip of the tea. It warmed it him all the way to his toes. Dixon bustled about for another moment or so before bobbing a hurried curtsy. "Anything else for you, Master?"

"No." He crossed his arms, biting back a yawn. He would keep this vigil for his wife, for as long as she needed him to.