His manhood lay against his leg, looking entirely different than it always had been in her presence. Like him, it was suspended in time.
India kept talking as she washed, softly telling Thorn stories of the more extraordinary households she’d seen.
Every so often she would stop and ladle a spoonful of water into his mouth, holding his head up so that some of it ran down his throat.
Just as she drew the sheet back to his waist, there was a tap at the door and Mrs. Stella appeared, followed by a footman with more hot water. She was clearly restored to her efficient self. “I ordered the ingredients you wanted, and I have Rose and Clara supervising as Cook bakes a special cake for the master.”
India smiled at her. “What a splendid idea. Thank you, Mrs. Stella.”
When the door was shut again, India turned her attention to Thorn’s hair. Blood and river water had dried it into a stiff helmet, so she washed it over and over. All the time she kept speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, though she occasionally stopped and begged him to wake up.
By the time she was satisfied that he was clean, the bed was completely soaked. She pulled the bell and supervised as footmen moved him into the connecting bedchamber, the one meant for the lady of the house. The irony of that did not escape her.
The evening wore on; the butler appeared and asked if she would like to join Messrs. Dusso, Bink, and Geordie for the meal. She declined, but stepped from the room to greet the gentlemen.
Mr. Bink pressed a brown bottle into her hands. “It’s Edison’s Magno-Electric Vitalizer,” he told her earnestly. “The best stuff in London. It’ll jolt him right awake. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll find some of them tablets they make for rousing one’s manhood. That’ll do it!”
India thanked him and hurried back to Thorn’s bedside. Something deep inside her believed that by talking she was mooring him to Earth, and that if she gave up and left him to silence, he might just drift away.
Late that night, exhausted, she began to slur her words and finally broke into tears.
She hated to cry. She had learned as a child that crying did nothing. You could cry for hours, but the house would still be dark and echoing when you stopped. Crying didn’t make you warmer, or less hungry.
But now the emotion welled up in her throat and she couldn’t stop. When she got enough control to speak again, the words that came were no longer soft and soothing.
“Why—why did you go into the river?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “You should never have risked your life when your father and Eleanor love you, when Rose loves you . . . when I love you!”
She choked again, appalled to find that she was almost shouting at him, when she should be coaxing him back to consciousness with loving kindness. But she’d used up all of the tender words she had.
“I love you,” she said again, her voice breaking on a sob, “but I hate you too, because this is the first time I told you so, and you aren’t even listening. I hate you for making me fall in love with you. I hate you for wanting to marry someone sweet and fluffy as a duckling instead of me.”
The worst of it was her own role in the drama: she had thrown away the only beautiful thing in her life. Even if Thorn wasn’t dying, he was finished with her. And he did deserve better than she.
She had lied to him in their most intimate moments. She had never truly trusted him with her most valuable truths: not with the fact she had never been with a man, nor with the fact that she, of all people, would never desert a child.
Loving him was an anguish that she felt in her entire body, as if two of her bones were grating against each other.
“You broke my heart,” she cried. “You broke—you broke my heart!”