Where Dreams Begin

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Dear Holly,” came Paula's kind, familiar voice, and the cloth moved diligently over her, ceaseless and untiring. Somewhere amid the delirium she heard Zachary as he snapped out orders to servants and sent a footman for the doctor, and there was some new hoarse note she had never heard in his voice. He was afraid, she thought dully…She tried to call for him, to reassure him that she would certainly get well again. But now that was only an elusive hope. It seemed this terrible inner fire would always be with her, burning and charring until she was nothing but an empty shell.

  A new doctor arrived, a handsome blond man who wasn't much older than herself. Having always been attended by gray-whiskered old physicians of renowned experience and wisdom, Holly wondered if Dr. Linley would be of any use at all. However, his cool competence was immediately apparent, and during his examination she felt her delirium receding somewhat, as if storm clouds had been driven at bay by an emerging sun. With a gentle briskness that somehow reassured her, Linley left behind some brandy tonic and sent for some broth from the kitchen, advising that she must eat to preserve her strength. He left to confer with Zachary, who waited outside the room.

  Finally Zachary came in to see her. Carefully he took the bedside chair and moved it to the edge of the mattress.

  “I like that Dr. Linley,” Holly murmured.

  “I thought you would,” Zachary said dryly. “I nearly turned him away at the door when I saw his appearance. It was only because of his excellent reputation that I let him inside.”

  “Oh, well…” Making an effort, Holly dismissed the subject of the handsome doctor with a feeble gesture. “He's moderately attractive, I suppose…if one likes that golden Adonis sort.”

  Zachary grinned briefly. “Fortunately you prefer Hades.”

  She made a sound that, given more breath, would have been a chuckle. “At this moment, you bear the god of the underworld…more than a passing resemblance,” she informed him. She watched his face, which was calm and self-assured as always, except that he couldn't conceal the skull-white color of his skin. “What is Dr. Linley's verdict?” she asked in a scratchy whisper.

  “Only a bad case of influenza,” he said matter-of-factly. “With some more rest and time, you'll be just—”

  “It's typhoid,” Holly interrupted, a weary smile curving her lips at his deception. Naturally the doctor had advised him to keep the news from her, to prevent worry from hindering her possible recovery. She lifted a slender white arm and showed him the small pink blotch on the inside of her elbow. “I have more of these on my stomach and chest. Just as George did.”

  Zachary stared thoughtfully at his shoes, hands shoved deep in his pockets as if he were deep in concentration. However, when his gaze lifted, she saw the gleam of hideous fear in his black eyes, and she made a crooning sound of reassurance. She patted the mattress beside her. Slowly he came to her and rested his dark head on her breasts. Encircling his powerful shoulders with her arms, Holly whispered into the thick locks of his hair, “I'm going to get well, darling.”

  He trembled all over and then recovered with startling quickness, sitting up and regarding her with a shadow of a smile. “Of course,” he muttered.

  “Send Rose away to protect her,” she whispered. “To my family in the country. And Elizabeth and your mother—”

  “They'll be gone within the hour. Except my mother—she wants to stay and help care for you.”

  “But the risk…” she said. “Make her go, Zachary.”

  “We Bronsons are a damned hardy breed,” he said with a smile. “Every time some plague or epidemic went through the rookeries, we came out completely untouched. Scarlet fever, putrid fever, cholera…” He waved his hand in the same gesture he would use to shoo away a gnat. “You can't make one of us ill.”

  “I would have said the same for myself, not long ago.” She shaped her dry lips into a smile. “I've never been really sick before. Why now? I wonder. I nursed George all through the typhoid and never had a single symptom.”

  The mention of her former husband caused Zachary to turn whiter, if that was possible, and Holly murmured contritely, understanding his terror that she would come to the same end as George. “I'll be all right,” she whispered. “Just need rest. Wake me when the broth is sent up. I'll drink every drop…just to show you…”

  But she had no memory of the broth, or of anything distinct, as fiery dreams engulfed her and the entire world dissolved into swirling heat. Her tired thoughts tried to break through the shimmering hot wall, but they were battered away like moths, and she was left with no sense, no words, nothing but the incoherent sounds that rose endlessly from her own throat. She was tired of her own ceaseless droning, and yet she couldn't seem to make it stop. She had no power over anything, no sense of day and night.

  There were times when she knew that Zachary was with her. She clung to his big, gentle hands and listened to the soothing murmur of his voice, while her body was racked with pain. He was so strong, so effortlessly powerful, and she tried in vain to absorb some of his vitality into herself. But he could not give her his strength, nor could he shelter her from the waves of fiery heat. It was her battle to fight, and to her weary despair she felt her will to recover fade, until all she was left with was the wish to endure. It had been like this for George. His gentle spirit had withered from the harsh demands of typhoid, and there had been no fight left in him. She had not understood until now how difficult it had been for him, and finally in her heart she forgave him for letting go. She was so close to letting go herself. The thought of Rose and Zachary still had power to entice her, but she was so tired, and the pain was pulling her irresistibly away from them.

  It had been three weeks since Holly had become bedridden—weeks that would forever blend in Zachary's mind as one long interval of exhaustion and misery. Almost worse than Holly's delirium were the intervals when she was lucid, when she smiled at him affectionately and murmured concerned words. He was not eating or sleeping properly, she said. She wanted him to take better care of himself. She would be better very soon, she told him…how long had it been?…well, typhoid never lasted longer than a month. And just as Zachary allowed himself to be charmed and convinced that she truly was improving, she would sink back into her feverish ravings, and he was cast into worse despair than before.

  It surprised him at times when a newspaper was occasionally placed before him along with a plate of food. After a few mechanical bites of bread or fruit he would glance at the front page of the paper, not to read but to marvel bleakly at the evidence that the rest of the world was going on as usual. The events in this house were catastrophic, soul-consuming, and yet business and politics and social events continued at their customarily brisk pace. Not that this trial of endurance was going unnoticed, however. As the word of Holly's illness had spread, the letters had begun to arrive.

  It seemed that everyone from the highest social circles to the lowest wished to express their concern and friendship for the ailing lady. Aristocrats who had treated the newlyweds with everything short of actual disdain were apparently now anxious to prove their loyalty. It seemed that as Holly's illness progressed, her popularity climbed, and everyone claimed to be her closest friend. What a great sodding mass of hypocrites, Zachary thought sullenly, staring at the great hall filled with floral bowers and baskets of jellies and biscuit tins and fruit liquors, and silver trays heaped with messages of friendly sympathy. There were even a few callers, despite the contagious nature of typhoid fever, and Zachary took savage pleasure in turning them away. There was only one that he allowed inside the house, one that he had been expecting: Vardon Lord Ravenhill.

  It somehow made Zachary like Ravenhill more for not bringing another useless basket or an unwanted bouquet. Ravenhill called unannounced one morning, dressed soberly, his blond hair gleaming even in the subdued light of the entrance hall. Zachary would never be friends with the man—he could not bring himself to forgive someone who had been a rival for Holly's hand. However, he had f
elt a grudging gratitude ever since Holly had told him that Ravenhill had advised her to follow her heart rather than adhere to George Taylor's wishes. The fact that Ravenhill could have made Holly's decision difficult, but had chosen not to, made Zachary feel a bit more kindly disposed toward him.

  Ravenhill approached him, shook hands, then stared at him intently. The light gray eyes missed nothing as they swept over Zachary's bloodshot eyes and huge, gaunt frame. Suddenly Ravenhill averted his gaze and ran a hand over his jaw with several slow repetitions, as if considering a weighty problem. “Oh, Christ,” he finally whispered. Zachary could read his thoughts easily: that Zachary's appearance would not be so ravaged were Holly not in grave, perhaps fatal, danger.

  “Go up to her if you want,” Zachary said gruffly.

  A bitter, self-mocking smile curved Ravenhill's aristocratic mouth. “I don't know,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible. “I don't know if I can go through this a second time.”

  “Do as you like, then.” Zachary left him abruptly, unable to stand the twitching pain in the other man's face, the flash of fear in his eyes. He did not want to share feelings or memories or platitudes. He had coldly told his mother, Maude, the housekeeper and any servant within earshot that if they resorted to fits of weeping or other displays of emotion, they would be banished on the spot. The atmosphere in the household was calm, quiet and oddly serene.

  Not caring where Ravenhill went or what he did or how he might locate Holly's room without assistance, Zachary wandered aimlessly until he came to the ballroom. It was dark, the windows covered in heavy draperies. He shoved one of the velvet panels aside and secured it, until long shafts of sunlight scored across the shining parqueted floor and illuminated a green silk-covered wall. Staring into a huge gold-framed mirror, he remembered the long-ago dance lessons, the way Holly had stood in his arms and earnestly murmured instructions to him, while at the time all he had been able to think of was how he desired her, loved her.

  Her warm brown eyes had danced as she had teased him: I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you…

  Slowly Zachary lowered himself to the floor and sat, his back against the window ledge, remembering—his eyes half-closed and his head drooped in weariness. He was so tired, and yet he couldn't seem to sleep at night, his entire being locked in suspenseful agony. The only peace came when it was his turn to watch over Holly and he could reassue himself every minute that she was still breathing, her pulse still beating, her lips moving ceaselessly as she floated through fragments of dreams.

  After what could have been five minutes or fifty, Zachary heard a voice echo in the dark, gleaming cavern of a room. “Bronson.”

  He lifted his head and saw Ravenhill standing in the doorway. The earl looked pale and grim, almost unnaturally self-controlled. “I don't know if she'll die,” Ravenhill said curtly. “She doesn't look nearly as sunken and emaciated as George did at this point. But I do know she's heading into the crisis, and you'd do well to send for the doctor.”

  Zachary was on his feet before he had finished the last sentence.

  Holly seemed to awaken in some blessedly cool dream, the pain and heat lifting, leaving her relaxed and more alert than she had felt in weeks. I am better now, she thought in surprise, and looked about eagerly, wanting to share the wonderful news with Zachary. She wanted to see him, and Rose, and to make them understand that the torment of the past days was finally over. But she was perplexed to find herself alone, standing in a cool, faintly salty fog that reminded her of the seaside. She hesitated, not certain of where to go or why she was here, but she was lured by faint sweet sounds ahead…it almost sounded like water splashing, birds chirping, trees rustling. She wandered forward, her limbs invigorated, her senses refreshed by the soft atmosphere. Gradually the veil of mist faded, and she found herself in a place of sparkling blue water and gentle green hills, with lush exotic flowers everywhere. Curiously she bent to touch one of the velvety peach-colored blossoms, and its fragrance seemed to surround and intoxicate her. Despite her puzzlement, she wanted to laugh in pleasure. Oh, she had forgotten how it had felt to be so purely happy, in the way that innocent children were. “What a beautiful dream,” she said.

  A smiling voice answered her. “Well, it's not precisely a dream.”

  She turned with a bewildered frown, hunting for the source of the tantalizingly familiar voice, and saw a man walking toward her. He stopped and stared at her with the blue eyes she had never forgotten.

  “George,” she said.

  Holly's fair, fresh skin had a plum-colored cast, and her breathing was alarmingly fast and shallow. The fever burned unbelievably hot, and her eyes were half-open in a strange, fixed stare. Dressed in her white gown, with only a light sheet to cover her legs, she looked as small as a child as she lay alone in her bed. She was dying, Zachary thought numbly, and he could not seem to think of what would happen afterward. For him there would be no hopes, no expectations, no future pleasure or happiness, as if his own life would end when hers did. He waited in the corner of the room silently while Dr. Linley examined Holly. Paula and Maude had also entered the bedroom, both of them obviously struggling to mask their grief.

  The doctor came to Zachary and spoke very softly. “Mr. Bronson, there are several techniques I've been trained in, most of which I believe would finish your wife off quickly rather than save her. The only thing I can do is give her something that will make her passing easier.”

  Zachary did not require an explanation. He knew exactly what Linley was offering: to drug Holly so that she would sleep peacefully during the last painful stage of the typhoid. He heard himself breathing in a too-rapid, too-light fashion that was not unlike Holly's. Then he heard the sound change, and he glanced toward the bed as Holly's breaths came in difficult, fitful sighs.

  “The death rattle,” he heard Maude say fearfully.

  Zachary felt his sanity snap, and he flinched under Linley's steady regard. “Get out,” he said hoarsely, almost giving in to the temptation to bare his teeth at them all and grow like an enraged animal. “Leave me alone with her. Leave, now!”

  It almost surprised Zachary that they complied without argument, his mother weeping into a handkerchief as she closed the door. He locked the door behind them, secluding himself in the room with his wife, and went to the bed. Without hesitation he sat on the mattress and gathered Holly in his arms, disregarding her weak, protesting moan. “I'll follow you to the next life if I have to,” he whispered harshly in her ear. “You'll never be free of me. I'll chase you through heaven and hell and beyond.” He continued to whisper without stopping—threatening, coaxing, cursing—while his hands gripped her body close to his as if he could physically prevent the life from flowing out of her. “You stay with me, Holly,” he muttered savagely, his mouth sliding over her hot, wet face and neck. “Don't do this to me. You stay, damn you.” And finally when no more words would come from his aching throat, he sank down to the mattress with her, burying his face against her still breasts.

  It was indeed George, but his appearance was altered in some way from how it had been in life. He looked so very young, his skin and eyes and hair radiant, every aspect of him glowing with strength and health. “Holly, darling,” he said with a quiet laugh, seeming to enjoy her surprise. “You didn't realize I would come to meet you?”

  In spite of her pleasure at seeing him, Holly held back, staring, fearing for some reason to touch him. “George, how can it be that we're together? I…” She considered the situation, her happiness ebbing as she realized that she might have lost the life she had always known until now. “Oh,” she said, her eyes stinging and aching suddenly. No tears came, but she was filled with desolation.

  George tilted his head and regarded her with loving sympathy. “You're not ready for this, are you?”

  “No,” she said in growing desperation. “George, have I no choice? I want
to return at once.”

  “To that prison of a body, and all the pain and struggle? Why not come with me instead? There are places even more beautiful than this.” He extended his hand invitingly. “Let me show them to you.”

  She shook her head violently. “Oh, George, you could offer me a thousand paradises, but I could never…There is someone, a man, who needs me, and I need him—”

  “Yes, I know about that.”

  “You do?” She was amazed by the lack of accusation or recrimination in his face. “George, I must go back to him and Rose! Please don't blame me, you must understand that I didn't forget you, or stop caring for you, but, oh…how I've come to love him!”

  “Yes, I understand.” He smiled, and to her relief, his hand fell back to his side. “I would never blame you for that, Holly.”

  Although she had made no effort to step backward, it seemed that her anxiety had pulled her several yards away from him.

  “You've found your soul mate,” he commented.

  “Yes, I…” A wash of clear, bright knowledge swept over her, and she was relieved that he seemed to understand. “Yes, I have.”

  “That's good,” he murmured. “It's good that you realize how fortunate you are. I had only one regret when I came here. I had done so little in life for other people. So much of what we concerned ourselves with was immaterial. There's only love, Holly…fill your life with it while you can.”

  Her emotions tumbled over and over as she watched him walk away. “George,” she cried unsteadily, longing to ask him so many things.

  He paused and looked back with a loving smile. “Tell Rose I'm watching over her.”

  And then he was gone.

  She closed her eyes and felt herself sinking, falling much too fast, back into the heat and darkness, where the air reverberated with savage, snarling words that caught around her like chains. The vehemence frightened her at first, until she understood its cause. She moved, her arms feeling wretchedly heavy, as if they had been encased in iron. After the wonderful floating lightness of her heavenly vision, it was difficult to accustom herself to this pain and illness once more. But she accepted it gladly, knowing that she had gained more time with the one she loved most, in this world or the next. She reached out and stilled the words on her husband's lips, and felt his mouth tremble against her fingers. “Hush,” she whispered, glad that his violent litany had quieted. It was so difficult to speak, but she concentrated fiercely on making herself understood. “Hush…'s all right now.”