The flames in the gaslights set into the wall flickered again as Dario passed by, still pacing. Damn it, how long had it been now? How long had he been cooling his heels in this godforsaken hallway, waiting for the doctor to finish caring for Ophelia’s injuries? It had to be an hour, at least! What could possibly be taking the man so long?
Perhaps, after all, he had discovered her secret? Dario paused, his steps faltering as the thought struck him anew. But what of it? Surely a man who’d dedicated his life to healing others would treat her no differently than any other patient.
She was no different, Dario knew that now. If need be, he’d make damn certain the entire world knew it as well. In all the ways that mattered, she was as human as anyone else. He stared at the door. Perhaps he should go in? Perhaps he should make certain the doctor was made aware of his responsibilities? As if his thoughts had summoned him, however, the door opened and the doctor emerged. Dario practically jumped the man.
“Well? How is she? Will she live?”
“She’s very lucky,” the doctor replied, his tone weary. “All things considered. Given time, and assuming her luck holds, she should be able to make almost a full recovery. I couldn’t find a single broken bone, which surprised me, frankly—I don’t know how to explain it. And she does not appear to be concussed either—both very good things. She’s in a great deal of pain, of course, but that was to be expected, and I gave her something to help with that. But, other than the damage to her hand, most of what she’s suffering from right now is the burns and abrasions. My biggest concern is the possibility of a secondary infection developing due to all the dirt that was embedded in the wounds.”
“Praise the Lord.” Dario sighed with relief, having heard very little beyond “full recovery.” He was shocked to find himself trembling with reaction and felt a desperate need for strong spirits to calm his nerves. She’d been unconscious when he’d gotten to her, lying so still upon the ground that he’d been certain she was dead. He’d used his coat to put out the flames, but when he’d turned her over…he’d been so sure his family’s “curse” had struck again, so sure he’d lost her…
He shuddered at the memory and roughly pushed the thought from his mind. That she lived at all, was cause for thanksgiving. That she might someday recover from her injuries was nothing short of a miracle. “Can I see her now?”
“Only for a minute,” the doctor cautioned. “As I said, I’ve given her a sedative and she’s probably already falling asleep—which is exactly what her body needs most right now.”
“Yes, yes,” Dario promised, already pushing past him. “I’ll be quick.”
Ophelia’s eyes were closed when he entered the room. She looked lost in the big bed. Her golden hair, ravaged by the fire, had been cut short. It glowed like a halo around her head. Beneath the cuts, burns and bruises her skin seemed unnaturally pale. It was only the steady rise and fall of her chest that convinced him she really was still alive.
Mrs. Harrison was stoking the fire. She glanced sympathetically at Dario as he sank to his knees beside the bed, but said nothing. Ophelia’s hands were wrapped in thick bandages. Dario longed to touch her, but was afraid of hurting her. “Oh, Lia,” he whispered softly. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
Ophelia’s eyes flickered open and in their depths Dario read fear and mistrust. “Arthur,” she croaked in harsh, frightened tones. “Where’s Arthur? Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“He’s fine. He’s already in bed. He took no hurt at all.”
She struggled to sit up. “I won’t…I won’t let you take him. You can’t take him from me, Dario. Do you hear me? You can’t.”
“Hush,” Dario begged. “Please, hush. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Missus, no.” Mrs Harrison hurried round to the side of the bed. “Don’t start in again with that nonsense. I’ve told you not to worry yourself like this. No one would dream of taking your little boy away.” She glanced apologetically at Dario. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s delirium, the doctor says. She’s got hold of this idea, somehow, and can’t seem to let it go.”
“It’s all right,” Dario answered, shamefaced and all but overcome with guilt. Delirium it certainly was not. “I promise. No one will ever take him from you.”
“You promise?” Ophelia gasped and began to cough violently. Or so it seemed. To Dario’s ears the noise seemed more like bitter laughter. “Oh, dear God. You promise. Bah.”
“I was wrong, Lia. I see that now. Can you ever forgive me?”
Ophelia turned her face away and closed her eyes once more. “Tired of forgiving you.”
Dario nodded sadly. “I know.”
“The doctor gave her something to help her sleep,” Mrs. Harrison said. “Or so he said. But, whatever it was, I think it’s affected her brain, poor lamb. Why don’t you let me watch her for a while?”
Dario nodded and climbed wearily to his feet. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Harrison.”
“Leaving,” Ophelia muttered in a sleepy voice. “Leaving here. Leaving you. Taking him with me. Never coming back.”
Dario turned back to stare at her. “Lia…”
“You get some rest now, sir,” Mrs. Harrison said, her voice, though soft with sympathy, was stern withal. “And don’t you worry. I’m sure the missus will feel more like herself again in the morning.”
“Yes,” Dario agreed, as he went off to find Arthur and give him the news. Frankly, however, he could not share his housekeeper’s optimistic opinion. He doubted the next few hours would see any difference in Ophelia’s opinion of him. Her brain had not seemed the slightest bit addled to him and, as he knew to his sorrow, both her anger and her fears were well justified.
His search for Arthur, who was nowhere in the house, quickly banished Dario’s exhaustion and set his heart to racing once again. He found the boy in the stables, eventually, curled up in one of the empty stalls, eyes red from crying. “Why don’t you come out of there now,” Dario suggested, struggling to make his voice as casual and non-threatening as he could manage, even though relief had him wanting to shout at the child. “I don’t think you’ve had any supper yet, have you? You must be hungry.”
Arthur sat up and stared at Dario beseechingly. “Is Mama…dead?”
Dario shook his head. “On the contrary, she’s very much alive. In fact, the doctor says it’s likely she’ll recover completely. And if you’d been tucked into your own bed like you were supposed to be, I’d have been able to give you that news over half an hour ago and likely spared you a few tears in the bargain.”
Arthur hung his head. “It’s my fault she’s hurt, isn’t it?”
“No. It isn’t.” Dario crossed to where the boy sat and crouched down beside him. “You’re not to think that. Do you hear me? If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. And you’re to forget anything you may have overheard me say earlier this evening as well, because I was wrong. Your mother loves you very much, Arthur. You can’t ask for more proof of that than what you saw this night. And if you want to help her get well—which I should think you would—you’ll come back to the house with me now, eat some supper and go to bed like I’ve already told her you’d done.”
“You’re not going to send me away?”
Dario shook his head. “Of course not. Never. This is your home. You belong here—both you and your mother. I think I might know a way to show her how I feel, how very much I want her to stay, but it will take some work. Will you help me?”
Arthur’s face lit up. “Can we do it now?”
Dario smiled. “No, not now.” Touched though he was by the boy’s enthusiasm, it really was late. “You should already be asleep. Besides, what I have in mind will take some time to accomplish—days, in fact, although weeks would be better. If you get a good night’s rest tonight, we can start first thing tomorrow morning.”
Arthur sighed. “All right,” he said, looking so very glum Dario knew he had no choice but to relent, just a little.
Smi
ling, he held out his hand. “But, if you’re truly not feeling altogether famished yet, perhaps you’d like to come with me now and I’ll show you what I have in mind?”
The old barn doors had not been opened in nearly a decade. Dario put his shoulder into the task and still just barely managed to open enough of a space for the two of them to squeeze through. “Tomorrow I’ll see to it that the tracks are oiled and repaired,” he promised his son.
“What is this place?” Arthur lifted the lantern he carried over his head and peered around curiously.
“My old workshop.” Dario took the lantern from his son and used it to fire up the faintly blue-toned Blau gas lamps with which the old building had been fitted. “Your grandpapa designed it for me.”
“Your father, sir?” Arthur trailed along after Dario as he searched through the rolls of blueprints stored along one wall.
Dario shook his head. “No. I’m speaking now of your mother’s father. I worked with him at one time—I don’t know if you knew that or not. He was the most fascinating man I’ve ever known.”
“I miss him,” Arthur said quietly.
Dario sighed. “As do I.” Finally finding what he wanted, he took down one of the rolls and carried it toward the main worktable. “Now, come and see this,” he said as he spread the paper out upon the table’s scarred surface. “These are the plans for a garden I once had built for your mama. I’m thinking of putting it back in working order for her. What do you think of that?”
Arthur nodded. “It’s a good idea. She likes gardens, I think.”
“Yes.” Dario smiled wistfully as the old blueprints conjured up memories of happier times. “Yes, she does.” He stared into the distance, recalling how strong his own enthusiasm for the project had been and his pride when it was finally accomplished. Recalling the pleasure Ophelia always seemed to find in it; the kisses he’d had from her there, on oh, so many moonlit nights, the heady, intoxicating scent of honeysuckle perfuming the air…
That scent had been the main reason he’d allowed the garden to die. Too many nights he’d lain alone in his bed after Ophelia was gone smelling the sweet fragrance, missing his wife, cursing his fate.
“Do you really think she’ll get better?” Arthur’s soft voice trembled. Dario glanced down at him, startled to notice the tears gleaming once again in his eyes.
“Yes, Arthur, I really do.” He had no choice but to believe it. He couldn’t bear to contemplate anything else. “She’s a very strong woman. An exceptional woman. One of a kind. And, you mark my words, she’ll be up and around again before you know it.”
Chapter Ten
Ophelia’s recovery, however, did not go quite as smoothly as anyone had hoped. Within a very few days it was clear she would not be “up and around again” anytime soon. The doctor’s fears of infection were quickly justified and she developed a raging fever that seemed to sap all her remaining strength. Shortly thereafter, her temperature spiked higher and after that there could be no question in anyone’s mind but that she was genuinely and violently delirious.
Her hands had to be bound to the bed-frame to keep her from tearing at her skin. A nurse was sent for and she and Mrs. Harrison took turns sitting up with the patient, who could not be left alone. Dario insisted upon taking a shift as well. But, after only a few days, he was barred from entering the sickroom entirely.
Though he resisted at first, in the end even he could not deny the wisdom of staying away—not when it was clear that his very presence in the room was all it took to make his wife’s agitation ten times worse.
In one of her more lucid moments, Ophelia had asked to see Arthur. Dario, fearing it might be for the last time, had given his consent. He hoped that seeing her son would ease Ophelia’s mind and give her a reason to recover. And he knew from painful experience that Arthur’s right to say a last goodbye should not be taken from him merely due to his age. But the boy came away from his visit so worried and withdrawn, Dario came close to regretting his decision.
“You’re very quiet today,” Dario observed, attempting to draw Arthur into conversation in hopes he would confide in him. They were in the workshop, toiling on the project Dario had conceived to demonstrate his love for Ophelia.
Unable to find any other use for their time, this work had become an obsession for both of them. “Is there something troubling you? Anything you would like to talk about?”
Arthur shook his head and continued carefully ladling water over a tray of seedlings he’d been nurturing. “I can’t tell you.”
Dario turned off the blowtorch he’d been wielding and set it aside. “Of course you can tell me. I promise I will always listen to whatever you have to say. You can always talk to me, Arthur. About anything. Say whatever’s on your mind.”
Arthur’s mouth tightened. “She said I was not to tell anyone.”
Dario pondered this for a moment. She. He had to be referring to Ophelia. “I would never suggest you betray someone’s confidence, but sometimes when people are ill, or frightened or upset, they may say or do things they would not otherwise. Things they may not really mean and may later regret. If someone has said anything of this sort to you lately, and it’s making you uncomfortable, it may make you feel better to share it. I can’t help unless I know what it is.”
“It’s Mama,” Arthur replied, sniffling slightly as he did. “She said as soon as she’s better we’re going to leave here and go far, far away.”
Dario’s blood ran cold. “I see.” She’d said as much to him as well, of course—on more than one occasion. Still, he’d hoped she’d change her mind. It was a hope that seemed to grow fainter with every passing day.
“She said she was sorry we ever came and that we’re going away and never coming back again.” Arthur gazed at him sadly. “But, I don’t want to leave here. I want to stay and be a family like you said we could.”
“I want that too.” Dario’s hands were shaking as he turned his focus back to his welding, and though he tried desperately, for the boy’s sake, to conceal his dismay, he didn’t imagine he was particularly successful. “I want that more than you know, Arthur. And, I promise, I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.” But, in the end, he knew it had to be Ophelia’s choice. He could not overrule her wishes. Not ever again. “Now, come on. There’s no sense in borrowing trouble from tomorrow, is there? We’ve work to do, let’s get back to it. Let’s make this so grand we’ll give your mother a reason to really want to stay here.”
At the very least, perhaps the two of them could use the time to build memories together. Memories were a poor substitute for family, as Dario knew only too well, but it seemed likely that’s all he’d ever have. And, this time, he really did have no one but himself to blame.
For Ophelia, the days passed in an endless haze. She felt imprisoned in a body that refused to respond to the commands she gave it, trapped behind a wall of unrelenting pain. With no other hope of escape, she often longed for death. Sometimes she woke up and couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell if she was really awake at all, or still dreaming.
Too much of the time, Dario was there.
In fact, he was there so often it seemed for awhile as though there must be two Darios. Logic told her it was likely that only one of them was real—but which one?
There was the Dario who laid cool towels against her forehead, who spoon-fed her soup and spoke gentle words of endearment. Then there was the other Dario, the cruel Dario, the one who laughed at her suffering and mocked her pain, who seemed to know every secret fear she’d ever harbored, and threatened to visit them upon her. He threatened to lock her up, to denounce her, to send her away once again. He taunted her with ridicule, with exposure, even with death…
“No,” Ophelia moaned, struggling to free herself, to get away from the ever-present pain and the all-too-frequent fear. “Let me go. Let me go!”
“Stay with me, Lia.” The sound of Dario’s voice, his gentle hand str
oking through her hair, pulled her from her dreams. “We need you here. I need you here. Don’t leave us, my darling girl, please don’t go.”
Ophelia’s eyes shuttered open. She stared at him suspiciously. So…it was the angelic Dario who’d chosen to visit her today? This was the Dario her heart insisted was the real one, the true Dario, the man she’d been so in love with for years. She couldn’t bear to believe in him now, to put her faith in him once more. If she were proved wrong again…it would destroy her.
“No.” She closed her eyes again. “Go away, Dario. You aren’t real. You never were.”
Dario’s hand faltered. “Maybe you’re right,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Maybe none of us have ever been real. And I will go away, if that’s what you need from me. If that’s what will give you peace or make you happy. I’ll leave everything here for you and Arthur and I’ll go away, start over somewhere else. Only, please, please, wake up now. Come back to us.”
“No,” Ophelia repeated fretfully, tears sliding from beneath her closed eyelids. She didn’t want to wake up. What she wanted was for the dream to be real, for the Dario she’d loved and believed in to be real. “Go away. Just please, please go away.”
“Mr. Leonides.” A new voice was speaking; impatient, almost angry. Mrs. Harrison. “Mr. Leonides, she needs her rest, sir. You really do need to leave. Now.”
“All right.” Dario’s voice was laced with resignation, tinged with despair. “All right, I know. I’m going.”
Ophelia’s heart sped up as he leaned in close and pressed a kiss against her forehead. As his warm breath brushed her skin, as his soft voice caressed her heart.
“Goodbye, my darling.”
Dario? She shook her head, longing to reach out to him. To touch him. To prove to herself that it was really him, that he was really there, that it wasn’t a dream. But she couldn’t make her hands move and there was too much pain between them.
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