by Robyn Carr
“I fear I may never get the chance to talk to you again. Talk to me now, won’t you?”
He stared at her with disbelieving eyes. He couldn’t be sure whether she was serious or delirious from her illness.
“What would you like to know?”
“What you do at the wharves. All those ships...would you love to be riding them again, rather than this? Would you?”
Chad didn’t really want to answer her. It seemed so ridiculous to be making idle conversation when she was this ill. But those glassy eyes were turned on him, begging for attention, and he was without choice. He sighed.
“I confess, I love sailing, but it was done out of necessity and mine is much the merchant’s job now. I first took that profession when I was in dire need of money. I intended never to live in England again, but that was not left to me, either. There is scarcely a place on this earth where I would not be responsible to the crown and it might as well be home. I am neither a traitor nor a coward.”
“And fighting?”
“For lack of a choice. For money and influence, that is all. I love it little.”
“For loyalty, I thought.”
“Yes, for that. But I was not allowed to choose my loyalties. I was born to them.”
Her eyes were surprised, but not very much emotion showed. She was too tired and sick for much emotion. “I thought you loved England first. Your king, your title, your lands.”
“No, Chelynne. No. But there are things in England I love, that I cannot turn away from. I am bound to it, therefore I find things in it to love and fight for.”
“Have you ever been in love, Chad?”
“Yes,” he said simply. Why did she ask this now?
“Did it feel wonderful?”
He looked at her pityingly, reaching out to touch her face. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever known, and sweet to be near. Had she really never tasted love, never flown after it, held it in her heart and felt the intensity of it? He had failed at that, too? In bringing it to her? And she clung to him for support and care. He was totally ashamed.
“No, Chelynne, it was most painful. I loved helplessly and didn’t know the way to deal with it. I was too young. I am not young now.”
“They say love is for the young.”
“That’s not entirely so, Chelynne,” he said tenderly. “I’m no longer a lad but I think I could love again quite easily. And do so more successfully.”
“I would think, having once found it painful you would wish to avoid it again.”
How reasonable, he thought. And that was exactly what he had done. He had feared his own capacity to feel. “It’s part of growing up, darling. Accepting those things when they come.”
“Can one live in this world without it, I wonder.”
He looked at the result of his ardent indifference. There she lay, drifting off into some unreachable world. His answer was heartfelt. “No, I think not, darling.”
“And what then keeps you alive?” she asked with a bitter voice. He didn’t answer her. “Merchanting? Loyalties you were born to? What?”
“Hate,” he answered. “And vengeance.”
“Who would you hate so much?” she sighed wearily.
“Now? Only myself, Chelynne.” He paused and considered the puzzlement that was his life. “And until now...I have been the object of my own revenge.” As he said it he at once realized the truth to it.
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Chelynne,” he beckoned softly. She did not respond. “Chelynne,” he said, grabbing her in sudden fear. She opened her eyes and stared at him. She looked so tired, so old. “Do you feel love?”
She stared at him blankly for a long moment. Finally she answered in a voice that didn’t sound like her own, a voice that was soured and bitter. “I feel nothing.”
Chad, the businessman who never felt confusion overpowering, the warrior who never feared his aggressor, who had not felt the shudder of terror since that first day of battle, was more afraid now than he had been in his life. He was afraid of what his own hand had done. He wanted to cut out his heart and give it to her, mend her and make it right.
She began a gentle sobbing, weak and pitiful. He lifted her a bit and held her firmly against his chest as if he would bleed his own strength into her. He offered his love now and she was too helpless to accept it. Too late, he thought painfully. Always too late.
When the physician arrived Chad was sent from the room.
He stood for a long while just outside the door, but the servants coming and going could tell him nothing. He gave a few commands to carry in. “Do not let him cut her,” he ordered. “She must not be purged,” he commanded. “She hasn’t eaten in days, she must not be bled.” Finally he left to go to his study out of complete frustration. He ordered that either he be called to the sickroom or the doctor sent to his study whenever there was news.
Chad poured a glass of sack, swirling the liquid in the glass. Before him he saw the sweet, seductive smile and bright eyes. There was a vision of her lifting her nose to Shayburn, besting him with wit and defiance of his own loathesome game. Then he saw her as he remembered her best and most beautifully, floating atop the mare’s back and riding joyfully, the freedom of her spirit a grand sight to behold.
He closed his eyes. Behind the lids there was a light in the darkness. It was a lace-garbed beauty bent to the task of carefully sewing a gaping wound on his upper arm, urging him to take more brandy for the pain. He couldn’t free himself of her memory. Always she was near, patiently waiting. He had been able to force her out of his thoughts at will, but no more.
“My God,” he thought stupidly. “I do love her!” Beyond her beauty, beyond her simple devotion, beyond the desire. He shook his head in confusion. He knew that he wanted her. He never pretended that she wasn’t every measure of a man’s desire, what he would have chosen himself in a wife. All the qualities she possessed were important in the very practical decision. But love? Love was the foolish fopping way he felt when he pursued Anne. Love was the ache he had for his Anne that was never properly sated, never subdued with passion spent. Love was the pain he felt when he lost her. Love was once. He couldn’t credit it. It was taking a stranger, different form from what he had previously known and acknowledged.
Fool! It echoed in his ears. He couldn’t believe his own stupidity. Anne was gone! Gone, regardless of his pride, his insistence that her memory not be scarred or defiled. She was his wife, mother to his son and now dead. Never to be brought back. Had he learned nothing from his failure to secure love? He had abused Chelynne for a principle that was hardly worth her life. In his attempt to bring a part of his dead wife to life, his new wife was bent to suffering. He had kept himself from her resolutely and cruelly. His best friend, the only man he could trust completely, had warned him that Chelynne’s pain was real and intense, but he would not hear it. What time would it have cost his labors to deliver some kindness? To show some tenderness? Small wonder she hated him now.
He began to pray in earnest to a God he had long ago decided was useless to him. He begged, like any doomed man, for another chance, pleaded for her life, promised to right the wrong. No matter what, he swore. No matter how it all would end.
Chad knew remorse so strong, a sense of failure through his own mismanagement that was so complete, that it exhausted his spirit and he laid his head in his arms, weak with fear.
The physician tending the countess was from the palace, one of the best in London. He was learned and skilled, but when he came to Chad he was shaking his head in bemusement. He attempted a report but finding the words did not come easy, and facing the impatient earl made the topic more difficult to broach. Chad offered a glass of sack and urged the man on.
“I can’t understand it, my lord. The tiring woman knows of no recent illness save a bout of ague, yet I fear Her Ladyship is dying.”
“What the devil! How can she be dying if she’s not ill?”
“I’ve given her a complete exam
ination, my lord. It almost seems as if she’s lost her will to live. There’s nothing I can do for her now.”
Chad stared at the small man coldly. “There must be something, sir. No matter the cost. Something!”
“If there’s a cure for this, my lord, we’ll all be rich.”
“For what? Come, man, what?”
“She simply wishes to die. That’s the best way I can figure it, my lord. She fought my attentions and is now unconscious. We cannot rouse her.”
“You’ve considered everything? She does not bleed? There’s no infection you missed?” The earl’s expression was earnest, pleading. “What of pregnancy? Is she perhaps miscarrying?”
“Pregnancy?”
“Yes, that! The simplest—”
“My lord, Her Ladyship was examined for that. Futilely. She is intact. Surely you would be aware—” The doctor stopped suddenly, not knowing if he had gone too far or was faced with a strange situation in this household. He had served the nobility for many years, had seen everything there was to see. He would be neither surprised nor offended. It was the strange light in the earl’s eyes that held him silent.
“Then you suspect she is wishing this illness? To death?”
“It seems a violent state of grief, my lord. The countess has allowed herself to deteriorate, as best I can explain it. I believe her to be badly neglected and careless with her health. I propose you have her purged, burn incense, and give her ample salt water. Keep her in bed and force small amounts frequently. There are no ulcers or fever and as I can tell she’s contracted no disease, but in her weakened condition the onset of any could quickly kill her. As it is...” The doctor paused and judged the size of the earl as he slowly rose before him. “As it is, she may not last out the week. You might call in an astronomer.”
“The devil,” Chad muttered, on his way out the study door and leaving the small, balding man to trail along behind.
“Shall I call tomorrow, my lord?” the physician asked.
“Yes, yes. Come tomorrow,” Chad replied without turning around.
“I’ll say nothing of Her Ladyship’s condition,” the doctor offered.
Chad stopped abruptly and whirled around, the physician almost colliding with him. Those piercing silver eyes darted over the little man quickly, coldly. “I don’t give a damn what you say.” Chad turned away and took the stairs two at a time, cursing under his breath as he mounted them. Damn nobility. Damn court. Damn London.
Stella was bending over Chelynne, patiently trying to coax an egg coddle into her mouth. There was a posset stirred and sitting on the table, the smell of herbs smoldering in a dish, and the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. The room was stifling and close. Chelynne did not stir from her deep slumber but there was a troubled frown on her brow. Chad took the bowl from Stella’s hands and urged her away, placing himself in the position of nursemaid to his wife.
Chad kept that vigil through the night, gently spooning tiny bits of nourishment past her unyielding lips. Memories plagued him as he worked, of a different sort now. Now with painful clarity he remembered every day since his wedding to Chelynne. The weather had cooled when he put his father to his final resting. His young bride had attempted to ease the deep ache that accompanied death. She had offered herself for the comfort he would take but he had accepted none. Instead he had gone directly to London and bade her follow, alone.
He had taken her to court because it was expected, but he had gone about his gallivanting and left her to survive as she might. When he had occasionally looked in her direction he had found that she had chosen an out-of-the-way corner to sit and wait, smiling demurely at compliments and blushing lightly at the courtly gestures that embarrassed her.
Christmas. It had been a wild and wonderful celebration in London, with decorations and parties and dinners and singing. Chad had accompanied Chelynne to all the festivities, but had not stayed by her side. He had left a gift in her room and later accepted her thanks for the small piece of jewelry. She had sought him out to personally place a gift in his hands. He had thanked her and taken it with him to his study to work. Three weeks later he had opened it to find a pin for his cravat embedded with rich stones, three monogrammed handkerchiefs, and a lock of hair encased in glass for a keepsake. He had never mentioned the gifts again and had not used them. He wondered now what she had done on Christmas day alone. He had gone to spend that time with Kevin. But he had not been reproached and had not heard her cry.
Lord Mondeloy had sent word to her several times that he would come to London as soon as he could. When that noble gentleman had arrived he was in no condition to help his niece. How long ago was that? Chad couldn’t even remember when his wife lost her kin.
He crooned to her as the mother of a sick child might. If she stirred restlessly, he lifted her and carried her to the pot. If he wasn’t forewarned of her need he changed the bedding himself, not wishing to have any servants near her now.
Thus he bore it through another night. By morning’s light he had loosened his shirt and the periwig rested on her bureau. His beard was itching and irritating and he wouldn’t take the time to shave it. He stubbornly blinked away the need for rest and kept at Chelynne to nibble and take small draughts.
Stella’s offer to relieve him was refused. He ate of meals brought quickly and went on with his duties. He dozed through parts of the afternoon close by her side. Another night and still she was helpless, weak and barely conscious.
He threw open the windows to admit the morning light and air that was none too pure. He was restless and impatient for some kind of improvement. Bestel brought him a message bearing the royal seal and he read it quickly. A summons would have ordinarily sent him hurrying off to his sovereign. Today he answered it without due concern. If the matter was not urgent he begged to be excused because his wife was in a state of illness that was most severe. He was well aware that he could be brought away by royal guards and gave little regard to the possibility. There was nothing of much importance to him now, save his wife’s well-being. The same words floated from his tongue wearily, habit to him now. “Come, darling, just one swallow more.”
Afternoon brought an answer from King Charles. Chad was to report to Whitehall at his earliest availability, excused from this appointment. Charles was most concerned about the condition of the countess and inquired personally after her. He had also, Bestel explained, interrogated the physician attending them to be sure there was no foul play. Chad reasoned the information. Without Charles’s interest in his wife he would likely have been severely reprimanded for not charging to the palace at the first call. A man was not excused lightly for problems with his women.
He carried on, hot and tired and frustrated. He was near the end of his endurance. She was not going to live. “By damn!” he swore at his young wife. “Are you so weak that you cannot rise above some slight misfortune?” He pressed his face close to hers and whispered low. “Will you slip away and never try to better your circumstance? For the love of Christ, Chelynne! Won’t you save yourself?”
Her eyes blinked open sleepily with no sign that she heard and understood him. They drifted closed again. “Is there no reason left to live, Chelynne?” he whispered in agony. His head fell to her breast and he uttered, “No reason at all?”
She stirred slightly and her eyes opened again. There was something there, some communication. No further words were spoken. He urged the spoon close to her mouth and she ate obediently. She drank from the cup he held. The amounts were slight and she was not eager, but there was some response. Reason enough to hope.
The next day she took more and her waking periods were longer. The day after she was better still, and she asked him to help her to sit up. One more day dawned and she awoke alert, aware of her surroundings and him.
“I hurt all over,” she murmured, grimacing as she moved in the bed. “Every bone in my body.”
Chad beamed. She would mend. She could find the strength to complain of her discom
forts and that was a sure sign that recovery was on its way. He was flooded with relief. His arms went around her and his lips touched her brow.
He left her that night for the first time to sleep in his own bed. The rest was sorely needed but was not nearly what was required. He, too, had suffered through this illness. His weight had dropped and his face bore the signs of worry. A bath and grooming helped the insult to his good looks and then he went to her quickly.
In the healing process the recovery is swift when there is desire. He found her sitting up with a tray of food before her. It would be a long while before she would regain that vitality and healthy appearance she had had before, but there was tremendous improvement already. He had a great many phrases on his tongue, a grand number of regrets and hopes to speak of, but he simply took her hand in both of his and spoke softly.
“You’ve been so foolish to let this happen to you. You have so much to live for.”
“You’re right, of course,” she replied softly. “But sometimes that is hard to see. I think God looks unkindly on those who wish to die.”
“That’s behind you now. You’ll get better now.”
“I’m a burden to you,” she sighed.
“You have been that,” he laughed. “You’ve a most determined nature, madam.”
“There’s nothing there you know,” she whispered.
“Where, love?”
“Death. I thought it would be gardens, perhaps. Beautiful countryside with cool streams. It’s only blackness. Nervous and dark. There is no rest there.”
“Is that what you sought? Rest?”
“My lord,” she said in that strange voice that didn’t seem to belong to her. “It would bear considerable preference to what I have had. But no matter, I know now why there was nothing there.”
“Why?”
“That is for the soul that has nothing left to believe in. Eternal life is only for the soul that in strength can endure living.”
“Chelynne, don’t ponder this so deeply. Think only about recovery now. Rest and eat.”
“I’m not much good at being a countess. In truth, I don’t much want to be.”