The silence in Sandra's sitting room was no longer peaceful; it was the heavy, watchful quiet of a sickroom, thick with unspoken fear. Sunlight, bright and accusing, streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing like nervous spirits. Sandra lay utterly still, propped at an exact angle dictated by Dr. Evans, every muscle screaming with the effort of immobility. The slight, persistent ache deep within her was a constant, terrifying reminder of the fragile thread suspending her pregnancy. The bleeding had stopped, the doctor confirmed upon his dawn visit, his face grave but cautiously relieved. *For now*. The words hung unspoken but understood. Placenta previa, aggravated by trauma, was a sleeping dragon beneath her ribs. Any disturbance could rouse it.
Paul was the embodiment of that watchful silence. He had barely left her side since dawn, a brooding sentinel in the armchair pulled close to the chaise. He didn't read. He didn't pace. He simply sat, his gaze fixed on her, or occasionally flicking towards the door as if expecting Crowe, or Death itself, to burst through. His knuckles were scraped raw – a testament to the second confrontation with Crowe Davies had hinted at. The fury that had propelled him then had condensed into a cold, hard mass of guilt and hyper-vigilance.
He watched her breathe. He watched the subtle shift of the blankets over her belly. He flinched if she so much as sighed too deeply.
"Paul," Sandra finally murmured, her voice sounding thin and alien in the stillness. "You need to rest. Or eat. Or… something."
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and intense. "I'm fine." His voice was rough, unused.
"You're not," she countered gently. "You look like you haven't slept in a week. And your hands…"
He glanced down at his bruised knuckles, flexing them unconsciously. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." She reached out slowly, carefully, her fingers brushing the back of his tense hand. He flinched again, then captured her hand in his, holding it tightly, as if anchoring himself. His skin was cold.
"I almost lost you," he said, the words scraping out. "Twice in one night. Because I wasn't vigilant enough. Because I didn't see Crowe for the venomous snake he was before he struck."
"This isn't your fault, Paul," Sandra insisted, squeezing his hand. "Crowe was a bitter man nursing a twisted grudge. He acted alone, in secret. Davies and his men found the saw in Crowe's cottage, filings matching the hook. He confessed everything – cutting the hook days before, setting the fire as a distraction when he saw Davies heading towards the woods. He wanted… chaos. Pain. He wanted to wound you, any way he could."
"And he nearly succeeded," Paul whispered, his eyes darkening as they drifted to her belly. "Isabella…" He choked on the name, unable to finish the sentence. The ghost of his first wife, lost in childbirth amidst violence and fear, was a palpable presence in the room.
"This is *not* Isabella," Sandra said firmly, forcing strength into her voice despite the tremor of fear beneath. "Dr. Evans is here. I am here. And I am fighting. But Paul," she met his tormented gaze, "I need you present. Not trapped in the past, or drowning in guilt. I need you *here*, with me. Alexander needs you."
The mention of their son pierced his defensive shell. A flicker of anguish crossed his face. "He cried for you last night. After Clara took him away. He didn't understand… why you wouldn't hold him." The memory clearly wounded him as deeply as any physical blow.
The image of Alexander's tear-streaked face, his little hands patting her arm, sent a fresh pang of guilt and longing through Sandra. "I know," she whispered, tears welling despite her resolve. "I hate it. But it's necessary. For now."
The door opened softly. Eleanor entered, carrying a tray with a bowl of clear broth and dry toast – Dr. Evans's prescribed sustenance. Her eyes took in the scene: Paul's rigid posture, Sandra's tear-bright eyes, the heavy air of dread. She set the tray down silently.
"Eleanor," Sandra said, wiping hastily at her eyes. "How is Mrs. Bell?"
"Resting more comfortably," Eleanor reported, her voice a calming balm. "The pain draught is helping. She's mortified about causing a fuss and insists you focus solely on yourself." She glanced at Paul. "Mr. Davies is downstairs, Lord Barton. He has… finalized matters with the constable regarding Crowe. He awaits your instructions."
Paul's jaw tightened. "Crowe confessed to attempted murder? Arson?"
"Fully," Eleanor confirmed. "He seems almost… proud of the havoc he caused. He's been remanded to the county gaol to await trial. Davies ensured the charges reflect the severity – the attack on Mrs. Bell, the fire, the endangerment of Lady Barton and the child."
"Good." Paul's voice was flat, devoid of satisfaction. Justice felt like cold comfort when the threat still lingered within his own wife's body. "Tell Davies to handle it. I'm not leaving this room."
Eleanor's gaze flickered to Sandra, a silent question. Sandra gave a tiny nod.
"Paul," Sandra said gently but firmly. "Go. Speak to Davies. For five minutes. Crowe attacked *Blackwood*. Your people need to see you, to know you're in command, that the threat is truly gone. It will reassure them. Reassure *me*." She saw the refusal forming on his lips. "I'll be right here. Eleanor will stay. I won't move a muscle. I promise."
The internal war raged on his face – the desperate need to stay guarding her versus the logical understanding of his duties as lord of the manor, and Sandra's own plea. Finally, with agonizing slowness, he released her hand and stood. He looked down at her, his expression raw. "Five minutes," he rasped. "Eleanor, you don't leave her side."
"I won't, my lord," Eleanor assured him.
He left like a man walking to the gallows, every step radiating reluctance. The door closed softly behind him.
The moment he was gone, Sandra let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The weight of his fear, his suffocating protectiveness, had been almost as oppressive as the physical confinement.
"He blames himself utterly," Eleanor murmured, sitting in the chair Paul had vacated. She picked up the bowl of broth. "May I?"
Sandra nodded, grateful. "He's trapped, Eleanor. Trapped by Crowe's malice, by the memory of Isabella, by the terror of losing…" She couldn't finish, placing a hand on her belly. The baby stirred feebly, a movement that brought more relief than discomfort. "He thinks standing guard is the only way to keep us safe. But his fear… it's a cage for us both."
Eleanor spooned a small amount of broth, carefully bringing it to Sandra's lips. "He loves you. Fiercely. That love manifests as fear when danger strikes. Especially this…" she gestured delicately, "this unseen danger within." She met Sandra's eyes. "You carry a burden he cannot share, a battle he cannot fight for you. That helplessness terrifies a man like Paul."
Sandra sipped the broth, its warmth a small comfort. "I know. But I need him to be my husband, not just my jailor. I need his strength, not his panic." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Did Crowe say anything else? Why the east service door? How did he know?"
"Davies gleaned that," Eleanor said, offering another spoonful. "Apparently, Crowe worked briefly at Blackwood as a stable boy decades ago, before your father-in-law dismissed him for insolence. He knew the old servants' passages, the forgotten doors. He watched the house for weeks, learning routines. He saw the painters setting up the scaffolding days before. The pipe smoke… it was his carelessness, his signature arrogance."
A bitter taste filled Sandra's mouth, unrelated to the broth. Such a small thing, a forgotten disgruntled youth, festering into such a potent threat. "And now he's in gaol."
"And he will face justice," Eleanor stated calmly. "But his poison lingers here, in this room, in Paul's eyes." She set the spoon down. "You must fight that poison too, Sandra. Not just for the baby, but for Paul. He needs your courage now, more than ever. Show him the lioness isn't cowed. Show him the future you're fighting for is still bright."
Sandra absorbed Eleanor's words. She was right. Wallowing in fear, mirroring Paul's terror, wouldn't help anyone. She had to be the anchor, the calm center. For herself, for the baby, and for her husband, lost in the storm of his own past and present fears.
When Paul returned precisely five minutes later, his frame filling the doorway, his eyes instantly scanning her for any change, Sandra managed a small, genuine smile.
"All quiet on the western front?" she asked, her voice stronger than before.
Paul blinked, momentarily thrown by the attempt at lightness. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand automatically reaching for hers again. "Davies has it in hand," he reported, his gaze searching hers. "Crowe is secured. The staff… are relieved." He hesitated. "How are you?"
"Tired," she admitted honestly. "But the baby just kicked. Gently. But it kicked." She watched the flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. "See? Still fighting. Just like its mother." She squeezed his hand. "Sit with me, Paul. Not as a guard. As my husband. Tell me about Alexander. Tell me about the new rose Clara planted yesterday. Tell me about the world outside this room." She needed him to remember life beyond the cage of her sickbed, beyond the shadow of Crowe and the specter of loss.
Paul sank into the chair, her hand clasped tightly in both of his. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to expel the fear. For a long moment, he just looked at her, then at the gentle curve beneath the blankets. Slowly, haltingly, he began to speak, his voice rough but warming. He described Alexander's determined attempt to build a tower with his blocks, higher than before. He mentioned the vibrant yellow rose Clara had chosen for the edge of the herb garden, calling it a "sunshine rose." He talked about the progress Davies reported on the workers' village square.
He talked. Sandra listened. Eleanor sat quietly, a silent, supportive presence. The heavy dread didn't vanish, but it receded slightly, pushed back by the fragile warmth of shared words, the shared focus on life continuing. Paul's grip on her hand gradually loosened from a desperate clamp to a protective hold. He was still afraid, deeply afraid, but the raw edge of panic was softening. He was coming back to her, step by hesitant step, learning that love could manifest not just as a fortress wall, but as a shared hearth in the face of the storm. The cage of care was still there, but Sandra was determined to make it a space where hope, not just fear, could breathe. The battle for the future was being waged not only in her womb, but in the quiet connection of their intertwined fingers, in the shared stories whispered in the sunlit sickroom.