"I am when you're holding my hand," Cora said to her husband with a small smile. She knew he had worried about her constantly since her miscarriage. Was she cold? Was she in pain? How could he help? And it amazed Cora that he didn't blame her for the loss of their precious little boy. Instead, his blue eyes showed only love.

She still struggled with that sometimes, cursing herself for climbing out of the bath too quickly, although Mama's resent trip to show Cora the spot where their son was buried, next to Robert's brother who was stillborn, had helped. *

But Robert's touch helped even more. His touch had always made Cora feel better, no matter what the circumstance. Soft cheek strokes caused smiles, hand kisses caused her heart to swell, and every touch in their bedroom overwhelmed her with love.

His hand on hers today warmed her in a way nothing else could, as her soul still felt empty of their child.

And Cora particularly loved that he was willing to hold hands in public. They were hosting their annual garden party for the hospital benefit, and lords, local villagers, and all of their family were somewhere nearby.

How many times had Mama lectured them on their inappropriate displays of affection? Handholding was never acceptable. She also believed Robert stroked Cora's cheek too often, and Cora touched his arms too much, but nothing was as "unseemly" as holding hands at a public garden party.

But Robert clung to Cora's hand, anyway, fully prepared to face his mother's rath. Of course, she felt warm with his love.

*See my story "Behind a Tree" for more information on this.