by Carla Kelly
“Yes! That's it! What can I do!” She began to cry again, wringing her hands in her lap. “Just when I think I cannot cry anymore, I cry again!” she sobbed. “Jack, forgive me.”
He put his arm around her and held her tight until she blew her nose on her handkerchief and looked at him again.
“Dr. Marchmount gives him morphine. It is a new drug. Have you heard of it?”
He nodded.
“It deadens the pain a wondrous way, Jack, but now Adrian must have it all the time. Just two days ago Dr. Marchmount gave him too much, I think, and his breathing became so slow. That was when I wrote to you. He is better now, but who knows how long it will last? Oh, I do not know what to do anymore, Jack, and I am so tired.”
“Where do you sleep, Emmy?”
She gestured toward the room again. “I sleep in the dressing room off the bedroom. That way I can hear him easily.”
Jack rose to his feet. “Well, starting tomorrow, you will be moved down the hall.” When she started to protest, he put his finger to her lips. “No, Emmy. I'm home now. It's my turn to help. And we'll need more help. Now, go to bed like a good girl. I'll see you in the morning.”
She kissed him on the cheek and left without another word. Chalking was standing in the hallway again. He took Jack by the arm and helped him down the hall to his room, where he pulled off Jack's boots.
“Sir, when will you want breakfast?”
“Early,” Jack replied as he lay down on the bed. He was asleep before the butler left the room.
Jack woke to the sound of wrens fighting outside his window. He opened his eyes. During the night, Chalking must have returned to unbutton his shirt and breeches and cover him with a blanket. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out the window.
It was the same wren house he had built twenty years before, under Adrian's supervision. He had climbed out the window and, clinging to the ivy vines, hammered it onto the window frame, lost his grip on the vine, fell, and broke his leg.
He got out of bed and opened the window. The wrens fluttered away, remonstrating with him, calling him horrible bird names. He lifted the top off the birdhouse and counted two babies inside, mouths wide open, wanting more than he could give them.
“It's going to be that way around here, Major Beresford,” he told himself as he replaced the lid and crawled back in bed. “Everyone wanting more than you can give.”
He raised his arms and put them behind his head, grateful that his wounded arm was only a dull ache now. He stared at the ceiling, searching out the familiar whorls in the plaster that looked like beehives and winged animals.
He wondered what Onyx Hamilton was doing, if she was awake yet, if she ever stared at the ceiling and thought about him, or if she had dismissed him as the troublesome man who had ruffled the calm sea of her life, someone she might think about occasionally, but nothing more.
He was hard put to express even in his thoughts what it was that he found so irresistible about her. Her eyes were a glory, to be sure, but when he considered the matter in the bright light of morning, they were her only majesty. She was too full-bosomed to be stylish, and her hair was an unexceptionable shade of brown. Adrian would probably call her dull, dowdy even. Even in robust health, Onyx had not the exhausted Emily Beresford's beauty.
He looked out the window. Onyx Hamilton was more like a wren than a finch or an oriole. She was efficient and brisk, and light on her feet. He thought of her standing in the highway, pointing his pistol at the road agent. She was not afraid to defend herself. For all her small size and her shyness around people, she had oceans of courage.
“Besides, I like full-breasted women,” he said out loud to the wrens. The memory of lying on the highway with his head resting against Onyx Hamilton's beautiful bosom was not likely to fade soon. More than once while she was tending to him at Mrs. Millstead's, he had wanted to reach out and touch her bosom. The only thing that had restrained him in time was the sure knowledge that he was in no condition to survive the facer she would have planted him.
She was the kind of woman, he decided, who would grow more beautiful as the years passed. She would probably always be shy around strangers, but around those she loved, her eyes would shine and she would be animated, even as she was dignified. Those dear to her would know the full, blinding force of her love and devotion. Others would only wonder what her husband saw in her.
Jack sat up. Such peregrinations of the mind were only serving to arouse him. And yet, he did not regret for a moment the warm feeling of pleasure that thinking of Onyx Hamilton was bringing him. Events of the past four years had so deadened him to even the idea of love that he could only sit there and be thankful, even as he wished Onyx were there with him.
He forced his thoughts along less unruly channels, got out of bed, and sat himself in the window ledge by the birdhouse. “Here I am, having antic thoughts, and my brother is dying just down the hall,” he said. “I am amazed how life goes on.”
He sat still until the wrens decided that he was a large but harmless lump and went back to feeding their babies. He looked across the dale that sheltered Sherbourn and took a deep breath of the wind that was warm on his face. He heard the tinkle of belled sheep in a distant pasture. “Dear heaven, it is so beautiful,” he said in a loud voice, much to the distress of the wrens, who fluttered away.
Jack took off the riding clothes he had slept in and padded into his dressing room. He sorted through the racks of fashionable, tight-fitting jackets, pantaloons of extravagant color and more extravagant fit, the many-caped riding coats, the evening wear, marveling to himself that he had ever actually worn such frivolous things. He dug around in the back and pulled out what Adrian always referred to as “your country-squire effects,” grateful that he had hidden them away and that no one had been inclined to discard them.
When he changed shirts, he screwed up his courage and peeked under the bandage on his arm. The wound, while still red, was no longer inflamed. It had ceased weeping. He touched it and was pleased to discover that such action no longer sent little prickles down his back and legs. “I will survive,” he said to himself as he buttoned on a clean shirt. When Adrian's doctor came, he could ask the man to change the dressing and put on a smaller bandage.
Shaving took a little longer than usual, but by tipping his head way over he didn't have to raise his arm so high, and it was possible. He had no patience for a cravat, so he did not bother.
The wind picked up and tossed papers around on his desk, but he did not close the window. The first odor that had assailed his nostrils upon awaking was the smell of the sickroom, and he was glad to blow it away.
The odor struck him again in the hall. He went to the end of it and opened the window, making a mental note to tell Chalking to open all the windows except Adrian's.
He went to the door of Adrian's room and leaned his head against it, listening to Adrian's stertorous breathing. Jack took a deep breath and slowly opened the door.
The room was still dark. He saw that the windows had been draped in heavy black material to keep out all light, and he wondered about that. The fire in the hearth was blazing away. He watched the flames a moment, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then sat down beside his brother.
“Adrian?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
There was no answer, but as he watched, his brother slowly moved his hand off his stomach and over to the edge of the bed. Jack put his hand over his brother's, aghast all over again at the parchment texture of his skin.
He leaned close to his brother's ear. “Adrian, I am home. I won't leave again,” he said.
Again there was no reply, but the fingers moved slightly under his.
Jack remained there until he knew that one more minute would be too much for his stomach. “I'll be back later, Adrian,” he whispered, patted the paper-thin hand, and left the room.
He ran down the hall to the open window and stuck his head out, taking deep breaths of air until he was light-headed
. He rested his elbows on the sill, looking at nothing in particular, and thinking of baby birds with their mouths stretched open and waiting.
Emily was in the breakfast room, struggling to stay awake as she sat with her hands in her lap, nodding over the toast and tea before her. She opened her eyes as he entered the room and crossed to the sideboard, where he filled his plate with everything that looked warm and joined her at the table.
She blinked at him. “You can't possibly eat all that.”
“Watch me,” he said. “I'm going to eat it all, and maybe some more too.”
She smiled for the first time. “I'll watch.”
He ate silently, steadily. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. When he finished, he pushed his chair back, stretched his legs out in front of him, and regarded his sister-in-law.
“Well, Emmy, we need a council of war.”
She nodded.
“When do you expect the doctor?”
Her eyes grew troubled again. “He has already come and gone.”
“What!”
“Yes. He comes early, looks at Adrian, goes ‘hmm, hmm,’ gives him another draft of that medicine, tells me he will sleep, and leaves. He will probably not return for several days now. Jack, what are we to do?”
The major sat up straight again. “I've already instructed Chalking to tell the maids to open all the windows and air this house. You are going to supervise a move down the hall to another bedroom. And don't you object, Emmy. I'm bigger than you are.”
“Yes, Jack,” she said. Her voice was solemn, but he noticed that the dimples appeared in her cheeks again.
“I'm going to sit here while you finish your breakfast.”
“I'm not hungry, Jack.”
“Eat, Emmy.”
She did as he said, protesting when he went to the sideboard again and brought her a baked egg and slice of ham, but eating it obediently as he sat down, crossed his legs, and stayed between her and the door until she was done.
“Now, what will you do?”
“I will look in on Adrian,” she said. “The maids and I share this duty. And … and then I will move down the hall, Jack.”
“Good. I'll be in the bookroom. I have to write a letter.”
“Oh, Jack, there's something I have to tell you.” Her voice sounded hesitant again, strained. “You won't like it by half. The bookroom … it's a … trifle untidy.”
“What's that to anything?” he asked. “And when I'm done with that letter, I'm going to summon the bailiff for a reckoning on the estates.”
“Jack, you don't precisely understand,” she said slowly, carefully, as if treading on a February pond. “There's no bailiff.”
“Mercy,” was all he could say for a moment, considering that he was talking to Emily and not his profane troops. “Then who's … who's been running the estate?”
She would not look at him. Her voice was very small. “That's why the bookroom is such a mess.” She raised her fine eyes to his, imploring him. “Jack, I'm dreadful with figures and columns! I am only thankful that the bailiff left after the planting and lambing. It … hasn't been precisely easy.”
“Emily Beresford, you crazy little chit.” His lips began to twitch. He tried to cover his laugh but he failed. She glared at him, showing the first real spark of life since his return. He threw back his head and laughed. “Emily! Even I know that you're a mathematical widgeon! Adrian … Adrian told me once that if you ever ran out of fingers and toes to count on that … Oh, mercy! Excuse me, dear.”
Emily stared at him and then began to laugh too, until she was wiping her eyes. “Perhaps I should have paid more attention to my governess,” she ventured, when she could speak. “Oh, no,” she said, and laughed some more.
Finally Jack was silent. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Gallant, gallant, Lady Sherbourn,” he said and kissed her hand.
“Welcome home, Jack,” she said as she patted his shoulder and left the room.
He cleared a spot among the jumble of bills and accounts on the desk in the bookroom and spread out a sheet of paper. Do I begin “Dear Onyx” or “My dear Miss Hamilton”? he thought as he sharpened a pen and dipped it in the inkwell.
He wrote quickly, crossing his lines, wondering at first if he was saying the right things, and then not worrying about whether it was polished or correct. She would understand his need. He sat back with a sigh finally and sealed the letter, putting his brother's frank on it. Letter in hand, he strode down the hall in search of Chalking, whom he found leaving Adrian's room.
“Chalking, this must go the fastest way you can think of to Chalcott.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And when you have seen the letter safely on its way, have the stablemen prepare the chaise and four. And I want postilions. They're going to follow that letter to Chalcott.”
“Indeed, sir.” Chalking was much too well-bred to even raise his eyebrows as he took the letter and went downstairs.
“And, Chalking …”
“Yes, sir?”
“Prepare another bedroom, my mother's room, in fact. We'll soon have a guest.”
“Very well, sir. And might I inquire … will this guest stay long?”
“Years and years, I hope, but for right now, just through the summer.”
He would go in and sit with Adrian now. When Chalking or the footman or Emily relieved him, he would saddle up and look over the estate. He picked up the lavender bottle on the table and sniffed it, smiling to himself.
“Onyx Hamilton, you're about to be bullied out of your vicarage,” he said out loud before he took another deep breath and entered Adrian's room.
LTHOUGH MAJOR BERESFORD HAD NO way of knowing it, his letter arrived at the Chalcott vicarage at a most opportune time. Onyx was still smarting from the rare trimming that Andrew Littletree had given her after he had preached his sermon on “Compassion, from the Gospel According to Saint Matthew,” taken his mutton with Lady Bagshott, and had his brain filled with the news of Onyx's profligacy with regard to a certain pianoforte in the vicarage.
In order to avoid the nuncheon with Lady Bagshott that followed church, Onyx had pleaded a headache and retired to the vicarage. Her head did ache. The sermon was long, and try as she might, her head had dropped and then bobbed up at several times during the service as her attention wandered and sleep began to sit on her eyelids.
She tried to stay awake. She and Lady Bagshott were seated most unfortunately right under the Reverend Littletree's gaze. To her utter dismay, she noted after she roused herself and looked back up at the pulpit that the bald spot on the top of the Reverend Littletree's head was more pronouncedly red, and that soon it would meet with the flush that was rising above his clerical collar. “Clerical choler” would be more like it, she thought as she put her hand to her mouth, but not quite in time to stifle a giggle. By the time the service was over, Onyx Hamilton's head did surely and truly ache.
She was not sleeping well at nights. Each change in the wind seemed to bring her sitting upright in bed. She fancied she heard Major Beresford leading his troops in a nightly charge through his nightmare. At other times she fancied his arms around her, only to wake and find that she was tangled in her blankets. She had always been a sound sleeper. Her body was betraying her now, and she longed for the simplicity of her shadowy life with Lady Daggett and Sir Matthew.
Her headache was beginning to fade when she came downstairs after a short nap to find the Reverend Littletree waiting to pounce on her in the little parlor.
He turned on her as soon as she entered the room. “Miss Hamilton, I had no idea when I affianced myself to you—no idea indeed—how inclined you were to the luxuries of the world!”
“It is but a pianoforte, Andrew,” she said calmly, sitting down and wishing she could tune him out as she used to. Her head began to throb again.
To the Reverend Littletree it was more than a pianoforte; it was the great god Mammon himself, visiting a curse of greed and i
ndolence on one who would, in a matter of weeks now, be his wife. He was having regrets of the most serious kind, he warned her. Perhaps he was a fool even to consider marriage to one whose parents were unknown and who obviously cared not a scrap for the feelings of his noble patroness, Lady Bagshott, who was already overburdened with the heavy costs of repairs to the vicarage. He looked at her as if he wished he could blame her for the leaking roof and the rotten floors, but he could not. He ceased speaking, rearranged himself along less obdurate lines, but did not unbend enough to sit down next to Onyx.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he asked, glowering at her.
“No, not a thing,” she replied. “You've certainly covered the subject at sufficient length.”
“Lady Bagshott awaits your apology,” he snapped, angry, apparently, that she would not fight.
“Then she will wait a long time, sir,” Onyx replied. “I have no intention of apologizing to her. The pianoforte has never been a source of expense to her.”
“No, indeed it has not! And while we are on that subject, how dare you allow Major Beresford to be stuck with its repairs?”
Jack's name pulled her to her feet as though there were strings attached to her shoulders. “It was an act of kindness, sir. I knew nothing of it until he had already left for Yorkshire!”
“I would hate to think that your wiles—those wiles that Saint Paul so vigorously warns us of in scripture—had reduced a distinguished war hero and military representative of our insane king to pudding!” he snapped back, angered into illogic.
“It would be impossible to do anything of the sort to Major Beresford. He is quite his own man,” she replied quietly. “Nor would I have tried, sir. I am not a flirt.”
“Who knows what you are, really?” he countered, sighing heavily, as if the burden of life with her was going to be something that only a truly sanctified man of the cloth could attempt.
His words stung and hurt and twisted around inside her, but still she refused to fight back. The silence grew heavy in the room, so heavy that she wanted to fling open the window and let some of it out. She remained where she was.