by G. A. Hauser
* * * *
Lady Wallace looked up from her novel. She rose to her feet and rushed to him. “You shouldn't be out of bed. Sit!” She led him to the settee and helped him to relax on it.
“I am fine. Do not feel you have to baby me. I am too much trouble as it is. I wear on your good nature.” Though he felt shaky and weak, it felt good to be out of bed.
“Nonsense. You are to make yourself at home. It is no bother at all. Our children are all grown and left us. It is nice to have a young man about the house again.”
With those kind words, Mark gave her a pleasant smile, suddenly noticing the whiteness outside the window. He twisted to stare at it. “How beautiful everything looks. When I was younger I would delight in the snow.”
“Yes, it does give a sense of serenity to it all. Are you hungry? Can I get my maid to make you a tea?”
As she said those words, the servant seemed to appear at the doorway.
“I am not hungry after your generous breakfast, Your Ladyship. But I would like some hot tea, if it's no trouble.” Mark smiled shyly.
“Elizabeth, do be a dear and fetch us a pot of tea.” Lady Wallace smiled kindly at her.
Elizabeth? That is my mother's name.
She bowed gracefully and went to heat the water.
After Mark's eyes lingered on the hall for a moment, he caught a strange look coming from Lady Wallace. Mark wondered with his fine Venetian clothing, clean and once again adorning on his tall frame, if it was upsetting her. What was she thinking? Possibly about the circumstances that brought him to the point where she found him in Dover?
And seeing that was precisely what she had in mind he smiled when she asked, “Were you just on your way back from a trip abroad when we found you?”
He answered her very softly, “I do not wish to speak of those things. Please forgive me. I don't intend to be rude.”
“Oh! No, of course not. I'm just surprised. Everyone I know loves to boast about their time in foreign places. It's a part of their status symbols, being able to afford to take leisure time away from home. You know.”
A stomping and rustling was heard from the front entrance way. Lord Wallace came in shaking off the white snowflakes and his slushy boots. With his butler standing by for his things, he handed off all his wet clothing. Coming into the parlor with a clamor, he appeared delighted to see Mark was up and about. “Good show! Glad to see you could join us.”
Mark tried to stand to bow respectfully, but feeling weak, he only managed to get halfway up before he sank back onto the settee.
“Sit, sit. Don't be so formal.” Lord Wallace waved to Mark as he relaxed on a chair near Mark, his glasses spattered from the wet snow. “A bit pale, perhaps, but coming along. What a handsome lad you are.” He removed his spectacles and wiped them dry.
The blush stained Mark's cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”
Elizabeth had come in with a tray of tea. She set it down and began pouring, handing off the cups as she did.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Mark said, trying to meet her eye.
She wouldn't meet his, only bowed and then cleared out of the room as quickly as she had come.
“I checked on the situation for traveling about,” Lord Wallace began, cup in hand. “It isn't quite as bad on the main road. It seems our lane, being less traveled, looks the worse for it.”
“Oh, Harold, you don't mean to say you'll travel all the way in to London in the snow.” Lady Wallace's pinky was lifted high as the gilded cup met her ruby painted lips.
“Why yes. I mean to. I've a job to do and this boy needs to be home.”
“I'm well enough to travel, sir.” Mark tried to make this sound convincing. He sat up and ran his fingers back through his hair.
“You see!” Lady Wallace chided her husband, “Now you force the boy to push himself to travel when he is still so obviously ill.”
When they started a row, Mark was mortified. He set his cup down and stood between them. “No! I did not mean to—Please. Do not argue on my account.” He began to sway precariously reaching for something to lean on without much luck.
Lord Wallace got to his feet to steady him before he fell back to the hard floor and cracked his skull. “Back to bed, boy. You are in no shape to be up and about, let alone to travel.”
“I told you.” Lady Wallace pointed an accusing finger once more. “You never listen to me, Harold. This boy needs more time to get well.”
“No ... I am fine ... please. I really must get home.” A cold sweat broke out on his face and the ringing returned to Mark's ears as he leaned all his weight on Lord Wallace. The little man struggled with Mark's size.
“Nonsense! Elizabeth! Charles!” he called out to his maid and his butler for assistance. When they appeared Lord Wallace said, “Help me get him back into bed. He's about to collapse.”
With one servant on either side of Mark, they managed to get him up the stairs to the bedroom. They set him down on the mattress and Elizabeth went to work removing his jacket, his slippers, his blouse, and finally, his breeches as the men disappeared to allow her to finish her task. With the nightshirt once again tugged over his head, she pulled the covers up to his chin as his teeth chattered. “Oh, you poor man,” she sighed and stroked his hair back from the dampness of his brow.
“I am sorry for this...” he whispered, his eyes feeling glassy and wet.
“Shh ... rest.” She pinched out the candle and closed the drapes.
Mark remembered being this sick once before. He was a very small boy on the farm. Aunt Katie had been sure he would die. In his delirium he recalled her discussing where he would be buried. She had been sobbing like a baby over him. It had taken him weeks to recover. It was the same feeling again. The aching in his head, the swelling in his throat, and that hotness coupled with cold chills. Maybe he would die this time. He would have preferred getting his throat slit to a painful death from the plague, or whatever it was that had its grip on him. At least he and Francesco would be together again.
He knew he was going to get ill. Weeks in a cold carriage with nothing more than bread and wine for sustenance. That malaise that had seeped into his bones. It was so predictable. But what he couldn't have predicted was that he would be here. In a stranger's home. Away from his family to die alone. Unloved. The fitting end to the unwanted bastard.
All Mark could make out was a shining candle and some silhouettes as Elizabeth showed the doctor into his room.
“Let's have a look at you, dear boy.” The doctor peeled back the quilt as Mark's teeth chattered. He examined Mark thoroughly and then covered him back up. Opening his kit, he handed Elizabeth some powders. “I want you to make a tea with this one, three times a day. With this one,” he handed her another packet, “in water, just in the morning.”
“Yes, doctor. Will he be all right?”
“I do think so. It is something that seems to come with the season change. You just make sure he stays in bed and has no exertion. And plenty of tea and liquids.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you, doctor.” Elizabeth took a last look at Mark, then showed the doctor out.
* * * *
The falling snow had ceased and the temperature rose to a whole two degrees above freezing. The lovely whiteness had turned to filthy brown slush on the cobbles and the confectioner's glaze had vanished and melted on the grass and trees. Richard raised his head from his palm, where it had been leaning as he gazed out of the window, to a carriage approaching and halting. He stood to go to the front entrance to meet it.
With the door held open and the bitter air stinging him, Richard waited as a strange old man climbed stiffly out. “May I help you, sir?”
The man tipped his hat and nodded. “I was informed that this was Thomas Holloway's residence.”
“Yes, that is my father. Do come in.” Richard backed up and allowed the gentleman to pass. “I'll get Father. Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. There is a frightful chill in
the wind.” The man nodded and rubbed his hands together.
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Lord Wallace from Maidstone.”
Richard left hurriedly to attend both tasks.
* * * *
Thomas entered the room to see a small, old man seated on the settee, his cheeks rosy from the cold.
He extended his hand to him. “I am Thomas Holloway. Can I be of service, Lord Wallace?”
“Thomas! Good show!” He stood up and shook his hand vigorously. “I know I have seen you pass in the halls of Parliament. Nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
“Please, sit down.” Thomas gestured. The tea was brought in on a tray and they both waited until it was poured before they resumed their conversation.
“Yes, right. Down to business. I have come on behalf of your cousin.” Lord Wallace raised his cup in both hands to warm them.
“My cousin?” Thomas tilted his head in confusion. “Which cousin are you referring to?”
“Mark Antonious deMontford.”
Thomas felt his face go pale. “Do not bring news of his death, I beg of you.”
“No, good heavens!” Lord Wallace set his tea down, staring with all seriousness into Thomas’ face. “But the boy is ill. Not deathly ill, I do hope. Perhaps, merely under the weather. But it's not good to take chances and that is why I am here. He is holed up at my residence in Maidstone now. In bed. And not up to travel.”
There were so many questions on Thomas’ mind. He was struggling to stay calm and not leap into the air. “Yes. I'll come right away. Let me inform my wife and I'll take leave immediately.”
“Good. Very good.” Lord Wallace chewed a biscuit he had just dunked and nodded he would wait.
As soon as Thomas was out of the man's view, he stopped his stately walk and ran as fast as he could to find his wife. She was reading in the sitting room in front of a roaring fire. “Gabriel!”
Grabbing her chest at the fright of his voice, she asked him, “What's wrong?”
“Mark! Mark Antonious! He's been found! His Lordship, Lord Wallace, just now informs me that Mark is at their residence in Maidstone.”
“Mark? Alive? Oh, that is wonderful news! What on earth is he doing there? Yes, go to him and bring him back to us, Thomas.” She stood, gripping him in both hands at the elbows of his coat.
“I want to go as well.” Richard was standing in the hall. “Please, Father.”
“Yes, all right, Richard. Go get your woolies and boots. I want to see him as soon as possible.” Thomas could not believe how much this news excited him.
Richard jumped into the air in joy and scampered off.
Gabriel held her husband's hand in a warm loving grip. “You see. Our prayers have been answered, my love. He has come back to us.” She brushed at a tear that had slipped down her cheek.
“Yes, but what has he been up to? So much time has passed. I do wonder, Gabby, what has he done in that time?”
“Let's not think of this now. Can we just be glad he is coming back to us?”
“Right ... yes, of course, dear girl.” He smiled and kissed her cheek.
The sweat that came out of him drenched the sheet under him. It felt like his fever was cresting. When he pushed the heavy quilt off, he suffered with chills and brought it up again. Tossing and turning, trying to get some sleep, he could not find a comfortable position. Everything ached in him.
Strange dreams began to plague him. Dreams one only had during a high fever.
He was certain his eyes were open and he was awake when the big Italian man came into his room. The roughness of his jaw, like the grittiest sandpaper, the black curls on his head so soft in contrast. His lover was standing in the room watching over him.
“Catamito...” he purred seductively.
Mark rocked his head side to side to clear away that vision. No, this cannot be real. Now I hallucinate.
When Francesco was still there and big as life, Mark reached out to it to see if maybe, just maybe, it could be true. “Francesco ... my lover ... come here so I may touch you and see that you exist.”
The image came closer until it was within his grasping hand. Mark did indeed feel his solidness. “Oh, dear lord, I am touching you! Oh, my lover! My life! I am sorry ... please, forgive me,” Mark cried. “It is all my fault. I didn't mean to let you fight alone. Those men. They dragged me away. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Again you blame yourself?” His rumbling laughter was felt through the contact he made with Mark. “Shush, amante mio ... you needn't worry,” he whispered.
“But, I need you with me ... Tell me I did not see your mother in black, please. Tell me it was a bad dream and this is reality. That now you have come to me and will stay with me forever. I am lost without you. Come back to me. Please, my lovely man, say you will.” The tears ran down Mark's face and dried quickly on his hot skin.
“I cannot, my treasure. I only come to see you are well.”
“Come closer to me so I may really feel you.” Mark reached out as far as he could. When his hands felt that muscular arm and the dark hair on the back of that hand Mark clenched it with so much strength he would never release it. “Stay, please stay, I love you, I love you so dearly. Don't leave me again!”
“Oh, my treasure, tesoro mio.”
“No ... do not leave me! No!!” Mark shouted out in terror as his image started to fade. “No! No! Come back! Francesco! Come back! I will never love another!” Mark heard once more his rumbling deep laughter. “Catamito ... do not worry.”
“No! Come back! Francesco Cavella, you come back to me! I beg you! Don't go! Please! Please!!” he wailed in agony.
* * * *
Lord Wallace showed Thomas and Richard into his home. The moment they came through the front door they could hear Mark's wailing cries.
“Oh, good God! What on earth could be happening?” Lord Wallace exclaimed.
The three of them hurried up the stairs and burst into the bedroom.
When Richard set eyes on Mark again his entire being exploded into flame. That hair! Longer than he had ever seen it! And that skin of his, shining with his sweat and like pure satin in the shimmering candlelight. Mark's arms were wrapped around the maid as he cried and Richard had to hold back every bone in his body not to shove her aside and take her place. Under his breath he whispered to himself, “Oh, Mark Antonious, you mischievous, gorgeous creature. I have missed you.”
* * * *
Near panic, Thomas went to him and knelt by him.
A voice got through to him. “Mark! Mark, it's your Cousin Thomas ... can you hear me, lad?”
Someone sat on the bed next to Mark and clasped his hand in his. “Mark ... Mark, can you hear me?”
Moving stiffly, Mark opened his eyes. Squinting as though a searing pain were in his head, Mark met Thomas’ gaze. “I am sorry. I have caused too much trouble.”
Thomas cuddled him to his chest lovingly. “No, lad, no bother at all. You need to get well so we can take you back with us, and get you home to Newbury.”
“Uncle David...” Mark whispered. “Tell him I am sorry. I have caused everyone so much pain.”
Richard reached over from the other side of the bed. “Mark. Mark, it is Richard. I am here with Father.”
Slowly Mark turned to face him. When he focused in on Richard's smile Mark softened considerably. “What an adventure, Richard. I would love to share it with you.” Mark reached out his hand. “Stay with me, please.”
“I'm not going anywhere.” He removed his jacket and leaned as far across the bed as he could, gripping Mark's hand tightly.
A moment later, the maid came in with tea. The room was now so crowded with bodies she grew irritated. “He needs his medicine. Could you clear out so I can give it to him?”
Lady and Lord Wallace backed away to allow her through. Thomas twisted over his shoulder to see her impatient glare.
“I'll stay with him, Father.” Richard spoke it like a reassura
nce.
The three others nodded to him and left, rather reluctantly.
Mark leaned over to Richard to whisper in a playful tone, “Elizabeth brings me horse urine and honey.”
Richard's eyes widened expressively.
“No! It's not really urine. He just thinks it tastes like it, though how he would know the taste of horse's urine, I would never dream of asking.” Elizabeth laughed in a short syllable and sat on the chair by his bed. Setting the tea down, she fluffed the pillows behind Mark's back to aid him in sitting upright.
Richard released his hand and crawled closer on the bed to be in contact with his legs under the quilt. “Drink up, cuz.” He grinned impishly.
Mark curled his lip at him and pressed back into the cushions as the brew was shoved under his nose. “Agh! Didn't I just have some of this poison?”
“Thrice daily. Come on now,” Elizabeth insisted.
“Yes, Mother,” Mark teased and tried to hold the cup and his nose at the same time.
Richard stifled a laugh as he watched Mark get the fluid down before he could taste it.
When he did manage to swallow it all he handed the cup back to Elizabeth and shivered in disgust. “There! Get it away from me now.”
“You'll be thankful when you get well from it.” She took the cup from him.
He turned to Richard and said, “Her name is Elizabeth.” Then he twisted to address her once more. “You know, my mother's name was Elizabeth ... Elizabeth Jones.”
“Really?” Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise. “That's me own mum's name.”
Richard knew what Mark was going to think next. “Mark, it's a very common name.”
Mark ignored him. “Was she an opera singer?”
“Me mum?” Elizabeth asked. “I wouldn't know. I wouldn't think so. She gave me up when I was quite small. No one tells me a bit about it.”
Mark's felt his face pale.