Blair tapped his right leg with the tip of his crutch. “Damn good thing I have this, or I would probably be in their jail again.”
“Indeed.” Grant took another sip of whiskey.
Everyone in town knew what had happened, from the accident to his arrest and all that followed. Hell, truth be told, they probably knew what went on within the walls of Fairhaven. News from abroad told of things changing in the Victorian world. Once it became known that Queen Victoria had obtained pornographic art in order to stimulate her husband into performing sexually, all hell had broken loose. Young people rebelled against the strict way of life they’d been taught and were having fun of all sorts.
Grant moved on. The noise level of the party continued to rise, and Blair searched out other places to escape the cacophony. It was making his head rattle. His Zuoave companion in the corner appeared relaxed, not caring he had blood all over his uniform. Blair ignored him as best he could. Once the evening meal was served, surely things would quiet down. And they did.
Precisely as the tall clock in the hall pealed eight chimes, supper was announced, and everyone drifted into the enormous dining room, wandering along behind the chairs until they found their name card, each exquisitely printed by Rowena. She had mixed the couples, young and not-so-young, at each table and, at Blair’s suggestion, split a pair of middle-aged widows to keep from crowding a table with two extras. None of the emigrants in Victoria were past forty, with the exception of Grant.
She found Blair sitting on the staircase and took his hand. “Come on, time to eat.”
“Do they have to make so much noise?” He tucked the single crutch under his right arm and let her pull him up.
She studied him closely, and he squirmed. Too bad she had to worry about what he might do, but he didn’t much blame her. He worried himself. In the shadowy corner, the soldier in red jacket and white breeches, blood soaking the front of both, raised a hand to him. He swallowed, blinked him away.
“I am just fine.” With a forced smile, he tucked her hand around his elbow, and they went to sit at the head of the first table, him on the end, her to his right.
Candles flickered on the huge Christmas tree near the tall windows. Wall sconces held lamps that shimmered, the light glistening on the gold and blue and green and black ball gowns of the stylishly dressed women. No one shone as brightly as did his Rowena, her long loose curls tumbling down her back. She was the only woman in the room with her hair down, and she was creating quite a stir. Most of the men wore their wigs, which made the gathering appear even more English. Blair had not worn one since enlisting in les Zuoaves, and kept his hair trimmed.
The tables were heavily laden with mincemeat pies, pastries stuffed with vegetables brought in by train from California, and dishes of every variety of food imaginable. When everyone was seated, the parade of servers came in carrying meat platters of roasted goose, beef and ham, followed by attractive young western ladies serving drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic. Annie and Lizza had outdone themselves with desserts, placed in crystal serving plates on the sideboard along one wall. There were puddings, pies, the brandy-soaked fruit cakes, and a variety of tiny decorated cakes and cookies.
At last everyone began to eat and, to Blair’s relief, the conversations ebbed. There was only the rattle of silverware and clink of glasses accompanied by an occasional chuckle as everyone visited quietly between courses. The next hour and a half was spent eating until all the serving dishes were empty, or nearly so. The dessert bar was soon cleared, and guests began to chat among themselves again. They drifted in twos and fours out of the room, some of the men stepping outside under a glorious full moon to light up fat cigars.
Rowena accompanied Blair down the hall toward his study. “I know you’re aching to find some solitude, so why don’t you go ahead and retire. I’ll explain that you are still recovering from the accident and need extra rest.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “A fine idea indeed.”
“You okay, darling? You look a bit weary.”
“Stop worrying. I am fine. It was a wonderful party, and you did an excellent job. You and all the rest. I’ll make sure to thank all of them in the morning. Please ask the help to remain here until morning, and then after a good breakfast Grady can take them home, won’t you?”
“I will. I will join you later, if you’d like.”
“If I’d like, indeed. See you then.”
Rowena watched him maneuver his way through the door and close it, then turned to go back to their guests. It pained her heart that he suffered so much from that dreadful war. Why men had to go off and fight with each other over every little thing they could think of escaped all her understanding. And look what it did to them. She could not even imagine what it must be like to look someone in the eye and kill them, knowing at any moment they could do the same to you. And to do it over and over until the land was soaked in blood… She hugged herself and shivered. To imagine a gentle man like Blair thrown into such brutal slaughter challenged her sanity.
Guests began to wander toward the front door, and she signaled to a couple of the girls in the kitchen to fetch coats and hand out the gifts placed in several baskets along the entry wall. She stood at the door, bidding each guest good evening, accepting their thanks for a grand party, and wishing she could take off her corset and enjoy a good deep breath, when something exploded outside. A white flash lit the windows, followed by another explosion, then another.
“What in the world?” someone cried.
“Oh, it’s those young men. A few of them brought fireworks so they could celebrate the holidays like we did in England,” another said.
She didn’t stay to hear more but headed for the study on a dead run. Just as she shoved open the door, Simmons hard on her heels, glass broke inside and flames leaped into the air. On the far side of the flames, Blair crouched in the corner, shouting something she couldn’t understand.
The scent of kerosene filled the room, and smoke choked her. She screamed his name and struggled to get around the flames. Someone grabbed her arms and yanked her back. The hem of her dress sent tendrils of smoke upward.
“Stay back, child.” The stern voice of Marguerite, who grasped her by the arms.
She fought her, tried to escape her grip. Demanded that she let her go, but she held fast.
“Water, bring water,” Simmons called.
Marguerite pushed her down onto the stairs and joined in the line passing buckets of water into the study from the pump in the kitchen. The flames began to die down. Black smoke hung heavy throughout the study and the entryway. Over and over she tried to fight her way through the crowd, only to be held back by Marguerite or one of the other guests.
“It’s dangerous in there,” one told her until she fought loose and plunged forward once more.
“I hear he’s quite mad,” someone near her said.
“Poor chap,” a man murmured. “War does that to some. He’s a hero. We should be charitable.”
“Yeah,” a young, snide voice said. “Next thing he’ll burn down one of our houses, then we’ll see who’s a hero.”
“If stone could burn this place would be in a shambles this night.”
Rowena buried her face in her hands, sure that Blair lay dead just out of her reach. By the time the fire was out, those who had remained to help or simply out of curiosity, were choking, their faces smudged in black.
At last she managed to shove her way through the crowd clustered around the door, trying to see what had happened. Inside, what she’d feared. Simmons knelt beside a still form crumpled on the floor.
A savage scream echoed into the vestibule. It had come from her. Her throat ached, her chest hurt, her breath came in short gasps that burned into her lungs. Stumbling across the floor, glass breaking under the soles of her slippers, she slid to her knees next to Simmons, who by then had propped Blair in a sitting position against the wall, Filled with relief she threw her arms around him.
&
nbsp; “Is he all right? Are you hurt? Blair, Blair.”
He grabbed at her, coiled his arms tightly around her waist, then put his head against her chest. “Get me out of here. Please, just get me out of here.”
“Yes, darling. Yes, we will.”
Light spilled into the study where a few stragglers peered in. To Simmons she said, “Move those people away from the door. We need to take him to another room. This one is filled with a terrible stench, and he needs some air.”
“There’s the parlor. I’ll get someone to build a fire, and we’ll take him in there.” He rose. “You’ll be all right? With him?”
“Yes, of course. Go, please.”
With a somber nod, he left her holding Blair and went to the door. “Please, it would be best if you could all gather your coats. I’ll have your buggies brought round. I’m sorry for the trouble and thank you for your help. Don’t forget to take a gift from one of the baskets.”
“Those young men are the ones who ought to be sorry,” one woman said. “Why, they scared the living daylights out of me. Imagine what all that noise would do to someone in his condition.”
Inside the room, listening to the talk, Rowena held Blair close. His ragged breath branded her bare chest. His hair, redolent of smoke and kerosene, feathered against her cheek. Cold air rushed in with the constant opening of the front door, and he shivered. Outside the clomp of horses’ hooves echoed off into the dark, icy night. Her world turned brittle and frightening when his upturned face caught the light coming in from the hall. In his eyes was all the horror of bloody death, of men sprawled dying, lifting their arms in final pleas for help. She clung to him as he clung to her, as if they could make that world disappear.
“Don’t leave me here, please don’t.” The words carried a tinge of panic, as if he were about to fly apart.
She barely understood him. “I won’t. You are going to be okay. You are safe. We are safe.”
And he held on, crushing her against him, smothering any words she might speak. She feared he had gone off to some other place, a place she feared he would one day remain. Tears tracked down her face, oily from the smoke.
Simmons rushed into the room with Mr. Chesshire. “Come on, son,” he murmured to Blair. “We’re taking you out of here, but you’ll have to let go of Lady Rowena.”
He only clung tighter in a grim silence that terrified her.
“Mum, let’s get him off the floor.”
Yes, yes, her mind said, but don’t let him go. Don’t leave him.
Arms and hands, accompanied by gentle voices, raised the two as one and carried them from the room locked together.
“I’ve been hit,” he said several times.
Down the hallway, empty of all but the help, pausing in their work to watch, the men managed to drag them both into the parlor and stretch him out on the fainting couch. It wasn’t easy, because he wouldn’t release Rowena, nor she him. Finally she knelt on the floor beside the couch so they could keep their arms around each other.
“I’m going to give him some morphine,” Simmons whispered. “He’s in pain. Oh, dear, I do hope he didn’t re-break that leg. Once he relaxes, you can get free, mum, and go to your room. I’ll send Annie with you. You’re in a dreadful state.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I won’t. I don’t care what you do to me. I won’t leave him. I’ll never leave him. Go ahead and hit me I don’t care.”
Vaguely she was aware she had lost all good sense, had raised her voice to yell nonsensical words, but she couldn’t stop. Nor could she stop the visions of the weeks spent in that awful dank cell at St. Ann’s while Sister Vincent tried to beat her into submission to their will. And poor Blair, lying in that cell in Hays City, broken and dying. That would not happen again, to either of them.
Marguerite stood near her. “Come now, Rowena. No one is beating you. He hasn’t beaten her, has he?” She stared at Blair but addressed Simmons.
“Oh, no, mum. Never. He would not do that. She must be speaking of something else, a nightmare, perhaps. This has been very difficult for her, and she has remained at his side to exhaustion. But beat her? Lord Prescott would never hurt her. He loves her more than his own life.”
“Well, she must feel the same, for she clearly is not going to leave his side unless we knock her out, too.”
“No, no, don’t do that. I’m staying with him. I am. You can’t make me leave him.”
“She’s hysterical,” Simmons said, then addressed Marguerite. “Mum, while I take care of Mister Blair, why don’t you take Annie to Miss Rowena’s room and fetch her night clothes? Take someone with you who can bring down the feather mattress. You can get her out of those ruined things, and we’ll make her a bed in here so she can stay with him.”
When Marguerite stared at him in shocked amazement, he said, “I think that’s best for her and him, don’t you? They are man and wife, after all.”
Rowena lay her head on Blair’s shoulder, unable to speak or even cry, mind and soul gone silent as stone. He only clung tighter, and Marguerite relented with a frown, leaving the room to fetch Annie’s help.
Rowena remembered nothing else, and awoke lying on a thick featherbed near the fireplace, snugged in blankets and wearing her nightgown. Blair was asleep on the couch nearby. Simmons had given him morphine, she recalled that. No one else was in the room, but the fire was stacked with burning logs. She rose, dragged the thick bedding across the room, and arranged it next to where he slept. Kneeling beside him, she put a hand on his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically, then felt his forehead before lying down.
When she awoke again, his face was turned, his dark eyes aimed intently at her, and he wore a frown. “What did I do?” A husky fearful whisper.
She sat up quickly and touched her lips to his forehead. He was cool. “Don’t worry about it now.”
“I have to know. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. What do you remember?” she asked him softly, holding his hand to her lips.
“Coming under fire. Hiding. Being hit. Flames. But that didn’t really happen. What did?” His voice was scratchy from inhaling the black smoke, and he shook his head, with an expression of remorse that broke her heart.
“Some young men brought fireworks. To celebrate. I’d like to knock their heads together. What were they thinking?” She hadn’t meant to speak the thoughts aloud.
“They could not have known some half-crazed madman lives here. It was like guns firing. I thought… It does not matter what I thought.” He gazed at her with red-rimmed eyes, and she cupped his face in both palms.
“Sshh, my love.”
But he wouldn’t be quiet. “I remember swiping the lamp off the table so they couldn’t see me. Then everything was on fire.” He carefully removed her hands, swung his arms to push her away.
“I could have killed you. I could have killed all those people. Proctor was right. I need to be put away from you, from anyone I might harm. You need to go away from me. Go far and go fast, before I do something to you.”
She grabbed his wrists, held them tightly. “That is not going to happen. I won’t let it.”
“What makes you think you can stop it? Why should you care so much? Why should you want to be around someone who is as crazy as a bedbug? Who might kill you, thinking you’re some damned ghost come to put a bayonet through his heart?”
“Because I love you. You would not do that, because you love me.” She came to her knees, the hysteria of the night before threatening to return. Dreadful memories of the beatings, the nights spent on her knees, the whip across her back. Flagellation, the nuns called it. And what hell had poor Blair gone through this night?
Furious beyond measure, she stripped off the gown and turned around. “These scars on my back? You once asked me to tell you how they came to be there. Well, that’s what I’m going to do now.”
He had already seen the scars, but she insisted that he look again, and so he did, saying nothing, moving his
hands slowly, carefully over her back in a tender caress, his eyes going bright. “Why now?”
She twisted around to face him. “You’ll see. I met Jimmy in the garden at St. Ann’s, in the very place I first saw you, years later. I was seventeen, and so was he. The gardener’s son, a beautiful, gentle, sweet boy. And we were so in love.” She turned so their eyes met.
“What possible purpose can this story have?” Anger came to the surface, he visibly tamped it down.
“Let me tell it, you’ll see. One night I snuck out to be with him. We had done nothing but hold each other and touch each other, like youngsters will do. Curious about how it made us feel, but that night we undressed, and I pleasured him and he did the same for me. What I did not know was that Sister Vincent had followed me. She caught us, and she dragged me back, locked me in my cell, and banished Jimmy and his poor father. She was bitter and evil, and every night she came to me. Not with food or Christian love—I received very little of either for weeks. At first she urged me to flagellate myself, but when I refused, she began to lay the whip to my back till it was bloody, all the while screaming at me to confess my sins and deny that I loved Jimmy.”
Blair watched her with a horror-stricken expression. “My God. I’m so sorry, but—”
“You let me finish. I’m trying to tell you something important. I never did confess or deny my love for Jimmy. Love is too important to throw away because of some pain. Too important to give up when things are difficult. That’s when we need love the most, when things go bad on us. As long as I did not deny his love or admit it was a sin, our love remained pure. Memories of him kept me going. Strengthened me through all that cruelty.”
She captured his hand in both hers and ground out the words. “So what makes you think I will let you deny our love because you are hurting? Because you are in a dark place right now? I won’t make a mockery of our love for each other, and I won’t let you do so, either.”
He watched her intently. “I would hope you are right, but sometimes love isn’t enough.”
“It is. It must be, otherwise why are we here? Surely not to destroy and hate.”
Rowena's Hellion Page 28