And he would do – or be – nothing more. He would do his duty, no matter how painful; he would be a solid arm to hold, and a solid voice in her defense at Brunnhold, and then he would give her over, as was his duty. As had always been his duty.
It was his strength that was needed, not that weakness.
He was glad, at least, to have the thick, stiff material of his dress uniform between him and her once again. Slow, careful steps. He was grateful for the even footing of the hardwood floor; he did not think there was anything to snag or bump her ankle.
Pup was her shadow, the whole way to the bed. He heard his claws clacking on the dusty wood, one step at a time along with them. He tried not to be grateful for the comfort; that, too, would be taken away from her. He tried not to entertain any fantasies about the opposite.
He heard the hard impact of Shadow on the bed first, the creak and rattle of mattress and frame. The mattress was likely not very good. He frowned, letting go of her reluctantly as she sat on the edge; he thought that he could imagine the uneven pressure of the springs.
I’m used to going without, he imagined her saying, in her soft, matter-of-fact voice, I’ll be fine.
Her thanks was a soft murmur. He could not seem to accept it, either, and so he grunted sharply again. He heard the sloppy sounds of Shadow licking her.
He had paused, hesitant. His fingertips were at the collar of his jacket again. It seemed highly improper, to take it off in such close proximity to her bed, and with her in it. Under normal circumstances, he would have done nothing of the sort. If anyone walked in on them at that very moment, what might they think? There was an awkward prickling in his cheeks once again.
Her voice came again, and he nearly jumped.
A good family dog, she said. He had been on the verge of wishing her a comfortable sleep, in his usual harsh, taciturn way. Instead, all that came out was a strangled clearing of his throat.
“I do not make promises which I cannot keep.” His voice was quieter than he had expected. He had not, in fact, expected to say that at all.
He had not. He had never, even back then. Pull yourself together, Inspector, he ordered himself again sharply.
It had not been a children’s story, wherein if only he had been a stronger, he might have prevented her going. It had not been his promise to break or to keep. He could not have, should not have, done anything. It had been a fact of life; passivity happened. The children were taken to Brunnhold or Anastou, as befit them. That was the way the world worked.
Wanting to keep his hands busy, he had already begun to unbutton his jacket, stiff and mechanical. He paused at the bottom, listening to Shadow lap at her again with his tongue. “I shall do all that I can,” he added. “If not me, then a colleague, or one of my staff.”
The Beauvilliers’ staff, he nearly said; after the wedding, he would have a household himself, and he would have to think of hiring servants. The Beauvilliers had promised a sizeable property as a gift, and a sizeable property was very good for a dog.
(Like Briarwood Hall, he thought, aching. Only this time – it was his name the Beauvilliers wanted, to strengthen their new wealth with his ancestry. Strange. He had been willing to give up his name for her, once, no matter how important Father had been to him. Only he had prepared himself for that for nothing, in the end. A year in Bastia, and Mother had behaved as if she had never heard the name Steerpike in her life.)
“I shall see that Shadow keeps the name which you have given him,” he said, his voice all the harsher and colder for the burning in his eyes. He took off his jacket matter-of-factly; far from chill, it was almost a relief to be out of the thing. He extended it through the dark to her. “Here is my jacket,” he said sharply. Then: “Please.”