she not safely delivered of the child?’
‘No, Madam. she was not. Elizabeth is dead. The child lives but my wife is dead.’
It was chilling, as was the unemotional delivery. ‘I am sorry.’
Not knowing him well enough to commiserate—for what would I say to him, not knowing the terms of his marriage?—all I could do was offer a cup of wine. Pouring it myself, I urged him to sit, closing my hand over his shoulder where all the muscles were taut.
‘Did you love her greatly, sir?’
If it was a true love match I might regret opening wounds, but I could not ignore the silently borne pain.
‘It was not a love match, Madam, but we had an affection. It is a grief that stays with me.’
It touched my heart. I knew of such grief for John. Not lover but friend whom I missed more than I would have thought possible.
‘Did you laugh together?’ I asked.
He looked up, surprised perhaps at what might appear an inconsequential thought.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
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