THE WORST DISASTERS often happened while you slept.

This lesson reared its head for the first time when Matthew discovered the following morning that his father had passed in his sleep. From that day forth, he prayed that whenever a crisis struck, it would be when he was alert enough to deal with it. Matthew's prayers went unanswered, for the occurrence reared its ugly head again.

His new butler, whose name he could not place, shook him awake in the middle of the night. "Mr. Whitfield...Mr. Whitfield..." he repeated over and over. When Matthew finally sat up in bed, he nearly swung at the old man out of irritation.

"There better be a damned good reason why you've woken me up so early," he growled.

"It's your wife, sir. She's been shot."

Matthew had never gotten out of bed so fast, tossing riding boots over sleeping clothes with sleep still in his eyes. His heart was racing with panic. He hoped that this was a drunken nightmare. "How did this happen?" he exclaimed.

"I wasn't given exact details, Sir. Just that you should come to the Dubois household immediately."

The Dubois household? There was a ball there, if Matthew remembered correctly, one he'd decided not to attend. He buttoned his breeches with purposes and sped down the staircase steps. But who would have reason to shoot Rose? "Is my horse ready yet?" he asked the butler.

"Yes, sir," the dutiful man replied.,

Matthew climbed his faithful stallion and raced like a hellion to the Dubois residence. When he found out who had shot his wife, accident or no, he would tear them limb from limb. He arrived there breathless and bedraggled, witness to a few coaches departing the residence. He stormed through the front doors, where Frances was waiting for him. That was not the first person he saw when he walked through the doors, though. The first person he saw was a rather satisfied looking Victoria, sitting on the floor. At that moment, everything fell into place. Matthew rushed at her in a surge of heady rage, and he really would've done something unfortunate if Frances wasn't there to stop him.

"Don't, Matthew," Dubois pleaded. "You know you'll regret it."

"She shot her!"Matthew fought against Frances' hold. He connected eyes with the despicable woman. "I swear to God, if she's dead I will kill you."

Victoria had the gall to smile at him. "I hope to God she is."

Those words were the straw that broke the camel's back. He broke free from Frances' grip and grabbed a handful of Victoria's locks in one swoop. "Mr. Whitfield," cried a voice from the top of the stairs. All members of the party looked up at a servant whose apron was covered in blood. "Your wife is upstairs."

Matthew took one last hateful glance at Victoria before sprinting up the steps. The servant guided him to a room where faint moans could be heard. Nothing could've prepared him for the sight he saw. The sheets of the bed where Rose lay was soaked through with blood, she lay bare in her chemise, her forehead beaded with sweat. Elisabeth stood at her side, whispering meaningless comforts. She looked up at Matthew with tearful eyes once he entered the room. "Where's the bloody doctor?" he yelled.

"We're trying to locate one," Elisabeth whimpered. "It's not an easy task in the middle of the night."

Matthew gazed at his suffering wife in the candlelight, hopelessness pounding against his shoulders. Rose's eyes found his. "Matthew," she whispered. He kneeled at the side of the bed and traced a finger carefully against her forehead.

"Rose," he breathed. He brought his lips to her burning forehead. "I'm so sorry, my love."

Her weak fingers found his and squeezed them. "No fault of yours." His beautiful wife smiled. "You didn't tell her to shoot me."

"I might as well have," he whispered raggedly. "She was my mistress."

Rose brought his knuckles to her trembling lips. "It's alright, really. If anything, this incident proves your words really did the trick." At this inappropriate joke she laughed which only produced a groan of pain. The fingers at Rose's forehead trailed down to cup her cheek.

"Don't talk if it hurts you, darling." His voice was on the edge of tears.

"It's alright Matthew, really." She tapped her lips against his knuckle again. "I haven't lived the most happy life, but you've been the highlight of it. I can gladly pass knowing I loved a man completely who loved me just as much." The mention of death filled Matthew with alarm. He turned to Elisabeth with an impressive scowl.

"My wife is not dying today! Get me a doctor, now!"

🥀

The next few days blended together in a feverish haze. I couldn't separate my imagination from reality. I smelled my mother's soft, sweet perfume and felt her lips press against my forehead. "You'll get better, my beautiful rose," she whispered. "I promise." I felt my father's rough hands on my shoulders.

"Wake up, you stupid chit. You're wasting coin on doctors I don't need," my father barked. The sound of his voice made my body physically ripple with pain.

There was one constant throughout these delusions, though. A voice I hoped was not a figment of my imagination. A steady, strong voice reading through the passages of a book. The voice rubbed my wrists with a tender thumb, kissed my forehead and my cheek, ever so often stained me with tears. "I love you, Rose," the voice whispered. "Please, wake up." My heart surged with love for the owner of the voice. I desperately wished I could place it, but my head was submerged under a frustrating cloud.

My half-existence continued for an eternity. Foreign objects spooned liquids and mashed edibles into my mouth, which I almost always spat back up. The room twirled between blinding brightness and darkness, my mother kissed me, my father assaulted me, and the voice comforted me. One day, I was plagued by the burning urge to urinate. It felt like my bladder would burst if it wasn't relieved. I opened groggy eyes, which took quite the effort, as it felt as if they were pasted shut. I was in a bedroom I didn't recognize, in a rather smelly gown. My stomach was pulsating with pain, but the need to piss won out. I rolled over to the side of the bed, and stood up, taking small steps to the door. The knob twisted and opened, just as I was about to touch it. Matthew entered the room, and gaped once he saw me.

"Do you know where the lavatory is? I fear I might wet myself if I don't meet it soon." He was still gaping, and I feared I saw a hint of tears in his eyes as well. I locked my ankles together. "Where is the lavatory, husband?" He extended a hand to carefully touch me as if I was a ghost. Losing patience, I pushed past him, running down the hall. A servant caught sight of me and cried out joyfully.

"You're alive!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, and in desperate need to relieve myself. Where is the lavatory?"

She took a gentle hold of my arm and guided me to lavatory, where I finally let go of my swollen bladder. Upon returning to the room, I saw Matthew still frozen in the doorway. Elisabeth was there too along with a man holding a large black bag. A doctor, I presumed. Elisabeth gave a watery smile as I came into view. "You're finally awake," she whispered.

"Yes." I sat back on the foot of the bed, the pain in my belly now a chief concern. "May I have another dress? These nightclothes are an embarrassment."

"Of course," Elisabeth answered.

"How do you feel, Mrs. Whitfield?"

I put a hand on my stomach as the events of the past came crashing into me. Elisabeth's ball. Victoria's pistol. I'd been shot by my husband's mistress. Leticia's words rang true, my life was very bad play indeed. "I'm in a bit of pain. How long have I been unconscious."

"Two weeks, ma'am," the doctor answered. "I was able to successfully remove the bullet and block most of the bleeding, but you contracted an infection. From there, it was only a matter of waiting to see which course you'd follow. You're a very strong woman, Mrs. Whitfield."

I smiled at the physician before turning my eyes at my husband. He was still stuck in place. I attempted to rise to my feet, but the three of them moved to stop me.

"You're still very weak," Matthew said. "I wont let you delay your recovery on my account. I've already caused you enough distress as it is."

"You've caused me no distress, my love. You were the guiding voice while I was in a stupor. I couldn't have survived without you."

"It's my fault," Matthew insisted. "I'm the reason she shot you. You deserve much more than me as a husband."

"You're wrong," I insisted. "I couldn't have gotten more lucky." I gave Elisabeth a glance. "Can I bathe myself? I really need one."

"I'll send a servant to help you." I turned back to my husband. "We'll discuss this later. You mustn't keep blaming yourself. It won't do."

Everyone steadily poured out of the room and a servant came in to usher me to the washing room. I felt like a new woman after I re-emerged from the warm, rose-scented water, scrubbed vigorously by a determined servant girl. As soon as I donned

a clean-smelling nightgown, I told her to send for my husband. He entered the room with red-rimmed eyes. I immediately wondered how I'd made him cry. Surely, my rise from slumber hadn't affected him that much.

"How do you feel?" Matthew asked.

"Ghastly," I replied honestly. "Gun shot wounds are nothing to sneeze at."

He lowered his eyes as if he was ashamed. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"How many times must I tell you stop apologizing?"

"It's just not about Victoria. If I hadn't forced our separation these past couple weeks, you wouldn't have been shot."

"You don't know that," I pointed out. "I probably would've still attended Elisabeth's ball, except you would've been by my side."

"If I'd forgiven you long ago, we would've been too busy in the honeymoon phase of marriage to concern ourselves with balls."

The comment provoked the brush of butterfly wings against my stomach. "Too busy, hm?"

Matthew smiled faintly at his implication, but it quickly disappeared. "I never should've turned you away."

"Matthew..."

"You were gone to the world for two weeks, burning with fever, calling out for your mother and father." He stared at me the same way he had when I'd just woken. "I thought you were going to die. I was sure of it."

I beckoned for him to come closer and Matthew hesitantly accepted my invitation, joining me at the foot of the bed. "I'm not dead, and I won't let you blame yourself. I'm the only person in this world to absolve you of guilt and please hear me when I say that you are absolved husband. If anything, I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Matthew blinked at me in surprise. "For what?"

"I remember your voice when I was gone. Your tender words and touches are what pushed me to survive. I wouldn't have been alive if it weren't for you."

"You're being kind. We both know that's not true."

I set my hand against his and squeezed it. "It is." We sat there for a moment without speaking, not needing to say anything. "Were there any interesting developments while I was gone?"

"Victoria is in jail." The mention of his former mistress turned his eyes cold. "Her parents have wrote me very apologetic letters about her behavior."

"Have you written back?"

Matthew shook his head in the negative. "I like to avoid thinking about her as much as possible."

"Maybe I can pen a reply. They're decent people."

"Princess Lettie has visited you several times since you were injured."

"Oh, goodness. I should write her a letter assuring her of my recovery."

"You're not recovered quite yet. And anyway, Elisabeth can write to her about your waking up. Although, something tells me she might dally."

"Whatever for?"

"They didn't really get on the few times Leticia visited," Matthew informed me.

"Oh." A small smile played on my lips. "Not on my account, surely."

"On your account entirely." The both of us released a small laugh.

I smoothed the edges of my gown. "Well, I'll have to fix that once I'm recovered. I can't have my two dearest friends at each other's necks." Matthew sighed and shook his head. "What?" I asked.

"Elisabeth wasn't a very good friend to you," he said.

"Not recently, no. But, she helped me get through the hardest years of my life after my mother and father and died and during my years of marriage to you. She's not perfect, but she's trying. I see no harm in giving our friendship a second chance."

Matthew's eyes glowed. "You're so good to people, even when they do not deserve it. There's just so many things to love about you."

My eyes lowered at his compliment and my body temporarily forgot the searing pain in my stomach. "Do you think it's safe for me to travel to Whitfield?" I asked, changing the subject.

"I asked the doctor the same question while you were bathing. He says that it'll probably be safe in a week. In the meantime, I'm afraid we're still at the mercy of the Dubois'."

"It's not so bad though, right?"

"No, not really." Matthew intertwined his fingers with mine. "I think I might steal one of their cooks. The food here is excellent."

🥀

My week of recovery at Elisabeth's breezed by. Although I could only ingest soup on account of my accident, Matthew hadn't paid the cooks empty compliments, for the soup was divine. Leticia called twice, full of questions, apologies, and gifts. I enjoyed she and Elisabeth's frequent spars as I did my best to help them get along. Despite my comfortable stay, I couldn't wait to return to the mansion with my husband.

The following weeks with Matthew were heaven. There was lovemaking nearly every night, intimate dinners, and daily walks through my sacred sanctuary. One such a walk brought an unexpected surprise. Matthew pointed to a bed of tulips. "What's that there?" he asked. I inspected the tulips closer, but I found nothing out of the ordinary.

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning around. Matthew was on his knees, with an open black box in his hands. The box held a delicate, gold ring with a band crafted expertly to replicate thorns with a center cut perfectly to form a rose, studded with tiny, dazzling rubies. My eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"Rose," Matthew began softly. "Will you marry me?"