The Pleasure Garden: Sacred VowsPerfumed PleasuresRites of Passions

by Amanda McIntyre

  He released her, reaching up to rub one temple. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Perhaps it’s the heat, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit odd. Anyway, I hope you’ll excuse my intrusion, but Mathilde Collins, the previous owner of Or chard House, was my father’s cousin. Or rather, was married to my father’s cousin.”

  “Indeed?” Emmaline was taken aback. She supposed this man must be some sort of relation to her late husband, though Christopher had never mentioned any Wainscotts to her. “But what does this have to do with me?”

  “Yes,” he continued, looking suddenly pale, “I’m getting to that. Orchard House should have come to my father upon old Mr. Collins’s death. An entailment, you see. The Collinses had no sons, and my father was the closest living male relative. Make no mistake, my father isn’t a generous man by any means, but my mother convinced him to let Mrs. Collins live out her days here. But now that she’s gone, my father sent me here to check on the property—to claim it, I suppose. It was only when I arrived in Haverham that I learned that someone had taken up residence here.”

  Emmaline stepped backward, pressing herself against the front door. “But Mathilde Collins left the property to my husband. My late husband,” she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper. Was she going to lose Orchard House, so soon after acquiring it? Now that she’d settled in, now that it felt like home?

  He nodded, his hazel eyes meeting hers. They looked feverish, she decided. “I’m afraid the property wasn’t legally hers to give,” he said, swaying slightly on his feet.

  “Would you like to come inside and sit down?” she asked. “I’m a nurse, you see, or was a nurse. Army Corps,” she added, feeling foolish. She shook her head, hoping to clear it, allowing her nursing instincts, long since abandoned, to return. “Your skin is pale, your face flushed, and I don’t like the look in your eyes.” She reached for his forehead, wincing when the back of her hand made contact with his skin. “Good heavens, sir, you’re burning up!”

  Without waiting for his reply, she opened the door and bustled him into the front parlor, leading him toward the sofa. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  “Jack,” he mumbled. “Major Jack Wainscott, Fifth Army, Third Division.”

  Emmaline reached for his arm just as he slumped to the sofa, his eyes rolling up in his head. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, tapping his cheek several times, trying to rouse him.

  His eyes snapped open, entirely unfocused. “Major Jack Wainscott,” he repeated, his voice slurring. “Fifth Army, Third—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, soldier.” She reached beneath his arms, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed, while we still can.”

  Thankfully, there was a bedroom on the first floor, near the kitchen. It had likely been a servant’s room at some point, but it would do just fine. It had a bed, at least, and its proximity to the kitchen would prove useful. She’d cleaned it and made the bed with fresh linens just last week.

  A quarter hour later, she had him settled in bed, his jacket and necktie removed, along with his shoes. He was unconscious, feverish and flushed, his entire body trembling. She unbuttoned his shirt, looking for signs of a rash, or of any sort of wound that might be infected. She saw nothing that would explain his current state.

  Reaching for his wrist, she checked his pulse. It was far too rapid and thready. Influenza, perhaps? If so, it seemed a particularly virulent strain, considering how quickly he had deteriorated. After setting a cool cloth on the man’s forehead, she hurried back to the front hall to ring up Mrs. Talbot and ask her to send the doctor at once.

  Jack struggled to open his eyes, feeling as if weights were pressing against them. He managed to open them a fraction, and then tried to turn his head. In the dim lighting, he could barely make out the shape of a woman with dark hair standing near the door. Beside her stood a man with gray whiskers and a low, gravelly voice. Their heads were bent together, the two deep in conversation.

  No longer able to bear the weight of his eyelids, he allowed them to close, but tried to remain focused on the voices, trying to make out what they were saying. He caught only snippets, a few phrases here and there.

  “Influenza…nothing we can do but wait it out…dangerous strain, one we’ve not seen in these parts…highly contagious…suggest we have him moved.”

  “I’ve already been exposed…experienced nurse…he must stay here.”

  “Quarantine…no visitors…at least a fortnight.”

  “Thank you…yes, on the chest of drawers…will call you if there’s any change. Tell Mrs. Talbot…”

  Jack swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He ached all over, and he hadn’t any idea how he’d gotten into this unfamiliar bed. Where was he? And who were these people? He was tired, so very tired. He just wanted to sleep. If only someone would bring him a glass of water…

  Her patient was not doing well. Emmaline sat by helplessly, watching him toss and turn, his face deathly pale. Every once in a while his glassy eyes would open, staring unseeing at the ceiling, and she would wipe his forehead with a cool cloth while she whispered soothing words to him.

  It didn’t matter what she said—he couldn’t hear her. He was entirely delirious, his fever raging out of control. More than once his breathing had grown so labored that she’d feared she was losing him.

  When that happened, she stripped him down to his drawers and bathed him with rubbing alcohol, cooling his head with ice packs while she said a little prayer.

  By the fourth day, he seemed to stabilize a bit, though he remained in a deep sleep. She sat by his side now, working on a needlepoint sampler while he slept on, his limbs occasionally jerking as if he were dreaming.

  “Water,” he croaked, startling her from her work. She tossed down the sampler and hurried to fill a glass, pressing it to his lips. He tried to drink, but most of the water dribbled down his chin, soaking his thin cotton undershirt.

  For the briefest of moments, his eyes fluttered open, fully focused this time. “Emmaline?” he murmured.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she answered, surprised that he remembered her name. He’d heard it only once, just before he’d collapsed. She bent over him, examining his pupils. They were almost fully dilated, the hazel ring barely visible now despite the lamp beside his bed.

  She reached for his hand and clutched it tightly in her own, willing him to fight the fever. If only there was something she could do! She hated to watch this strong, handsome man waste away like this. It didn’t seem fair. He’d beaten death once; he didn’t deserve to go like this. No one did.

  “Fight, Mr. Wainscott,” she urged as his eyes fluttered shut again. “You must fight this! I can’t do it for you. You mustn’t give in. I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere, who needs you. Who loves you. Fight for her, whoever she is.”

  His legs twitched, and Emmaline dropped her chin to her chest in despair. His breathing was shallow now, rasping and dangerously fast. She laid a hand on his burning cheek, caressing it, willing him once more to fight.

  Almost immediately, his breathing improved. “That’s it, Mr. Wainscott,” she murmured. He seemed to enjoy her touch—it appeared to calm him, somehow. She moved closer, perching on the side of his bed.

  “You just need to know that someone is here, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. Smiling down at his prone form, she ran her fingers through his damp hair, marveling at its softness as she combed it back from his forehead.

  “See? Just sleep,” she whispered, as his breathing quieted, becoming more regular now. “Tomorrow it will be better.”

  She only hoped she was right.

  She was there beside him, his angel of mercy. He could hear her even breathing, somewhere near his left elbow. He hadn’t any idea who she was, but she’d been there beside him all night. He’d woken several times from a dreamless sleep, and each and every time she’d wiped his brow with a cool, damp cloth, and then held a glass of water to his lips, murmuring encou
ragement as he drank. He’d wanted to ask her name, but he hadn’t been able to muster the strength to do so. Instead, he’d simply fallen back against the pillows each time, listening as she bustled about the room. Eventually, she’d return to her spot beside the bed—a cot, perhaps? He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if she never left his side.

  Just how long had she been tending him? He had no idea; he’d entirely lost his sense of time. He tried to sit, doing his best to remain silent so that he did not wake her. Eventually he managed to pull himself up to a seated position, where he could finally take stock of his surroundings.

  It was nearly morning, he realized; the room bathed in the dim, hazy light of dawn. The space was small and sparsely furnished, with only the narrow iron bed he currently occupied, a single chest of drawers, a nightstand, and a small cot pushed against the wall. There wasn’t room for much else.

  On the cot, the woman lay sleeping on her side, facing him, a quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked peaceful, with one hand tucked beneath her chin, her rosy lips parted slightly. He watched as her chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm. Her dark hair was fanned out on the pillow, a single stray lock falling across one cheek. His fingers itched to brush back that errant strand, but of course he could not.

  Who was she? He vaguely remembered driving over to Orchard House, intent on speaking to the woman who had taken possession of the estate, but beyond that he had no firm memories. Right now, the only thing he could recall was her gentle touch, her soothing voice as she tended him.

  Growing tired, he collapsed back against the pillow. He would shut his eyes for a few moments, perhaps allow himself to doze as he waited for her to awaken.

  And then he’d find out who she was, and thank her.

  “You’re awake,” Emmaline said, watching with surprise as Mr. Wainscott’s eyes fluttered open. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to his side and reached up to feel his forehead. It was cool and slightly clammy, and she let out a sigh of relief. “And your fever has broken. How do you feel?” She reached for his wrist, lifting it off the bed and placing her fingers across his pulse. It was strong and steady, a marked improvement.

  “Thirsty,” he croaked. “Hungry, too.”

  Emmaline nodded, smiling down at the man. “That’s a good sign. You have no idea what a fright you gave me.”

  “How long have I been here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “It’s been five days since you took ill. You were lucky you were here when you collapsed. If you’d been out somewhere, alone…” She shook her head. “Anyway, drink this.” She held a glass of water to his lips.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, taking the glass in one shaky hand.

  Her brow knitted. “Are you sure? I vow, you’re still as weak as a kitten.”

  He looked determined—male pride, she supposed. With a nod, Emmaline released the glass and watched as he brought it to his mouth and drank deeply.

  “Better?” she asked as she took the empty tumbler and set it down beside the pitcher on the nightstand.

  “Much,” he said with a nod, then reached for her wrist, startling her. “Thank you.”

  “It’s only water.” She glanced down at his fingers, still wrapped around her wrist. They were long and elegant, like an artist’s.

  “Not for the water,” he said, shaking his head. He finally released her. “Though, yes, I suppose I should thank you for that, too. But I meant for everything. I can only imagine the inconvenience I’ve caused you, the trouble you’ve gone to. I do hope you’ve had some help.”

  She shook her head. “The doctor wanted you quarantined. Since I was already exposed, I did not see the need to have you moved.”

  “You mean to say that you’ve been here alone with me, all this time? Five days?” he asked, his voice rising.

  “Five days is not so very long, Mr. Wainscott. Besides, I’m a nurse, remember? Or at least I was, before I came here. I’m perfectly equipped to handle situations like this one. I promise you were never in any danger—”

  “You misunderstand,” he interrupted. “I’m certain I had the best care possible, thanks to you, Miss…” He trailed off. “You’ll have to pardon me, but I cannot recall your name.”

  “Mrs. Gage,” she supplied. “Emmaline.” She had no idea what had prompted her to provide her given name. She’d certainly never allowed such familiarity with any of her previous patients.

  “Emmaline,” he repeated. “Of course. And you must call me Jack.”

  “Very well, Jack.” She reached down to straighten the bedcovers—a habit, she supposed.

  He looked toward the window. “What time is it?”

  Emmaline turned toward the window. “Nearly noon. It looks like rain, doesn’t it? Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go prepare you some broth. If that goes well, perhaps you can have some toast later.”

  “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” he said with a sigh.

  A quarter hour later, Emmaline returned with a steaming bowl of broth and set it down beside the bed. “I suppose you’re going to insist on doing this yourself, too?”

  “You know me too well,” he joked.

  She set a tray across his lap. “I know your type,” she corrected. “After all, bravado was a common wartime trait.”

  He straightened his spine, readjusting the tray. “Did you serve on the front?”

  Emmaline nodded, placing the bowl and spoon on the tray before him. “First at a clearing station at Passchendaele, then Allonville.”

  His eyes seemed to darken. “When were you at Allonville?”

  She swallowed hard before replying. “The last year of the war. Why?”

  “I came through that clearing station,” he said, his voice suddenly dull. “In 1918. Just after the attack on the twenty-first of March.”

  “You were at Saint Quentin? In March of 1918? Good God, you were Fifth Army, weren’t you?”

  His eyes met hers, his gaze unflinching. “Fifth Army, Third Division.”

  She nodded, sinking to the cot beside his bed. “You said as much the night you arrived here.”

  How on earth had he survived it? She’d heard that the Fifth Army had been all but decimated. They’d been at the very front, and had taken the brunt of the German attack. Trench mortars, mustard gas, chlorine gas, smoke canisters—the casualties had been horrific. There had been very little for them to do at the clearing station afterward; most of the wounded had perished right there in the trenches before regimental medical officers had even been able to get to them.

  She watched as he spooned the broth into his mouth, his hand trembling as he did so. One bite. Two. Torturously slow. And then he let the spoon clatter back to the tray. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward her. “My entire unit was destroyed that day,” he said, his voice flat. “Fathers, brothers, sons—gone, nearly all of them. I’ve never quite understood why I managed to survive. Me, with no wife, no children. No one back at home who cared whether I lived or died, save my mother and sister.”

  Emmaline’s throat felt tight, her windpipe constricted. She swallowed hard, willing the tears to remain at bay. “I’m sorry” was all she managed in reply.

  “So am I,” Jack said, sounding utterly defeated.

  “I should leave you,” Emmaline said, rising from the cot. “Let you finish your broth in peace.”

  “Please stay.” Jack’s voice broke ever so slightly.

  Emmaline nodded, reaching for the spoon on his tray. “But only if you’ll let me help you.”

  4

  EMMALINE PEERED AT JACK OVER THE TOP EDGE of the book she held in her hands. He looked tired, though he’d never admit it, stubborn man. “Shall I stop there for the night?”

  “No, keep going,” he answered, opening his eyes. “I’m finding this all…quite illuminating.”

  She was reading aloud from Forster’s A Room with a View. She’d found it in the library, and Jack had asked her to read it to him. It was clear that the novel wasn’t to his t
aste, and yet he was indulging her, pretending to enjoy the romance between Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson.

  “In fact,” he continued, “can you reread that last bit? You know, the part where she was gazing at him longingly?”

  “Oh, do shut up!” Emmaline cried, smacking his arm with the book.

  “Well, you must admit it’s a bit overwrought,” he said with a shrug.

  She shook her head. “I won’t admit to any such thing. It’s beautiful and romantic, the writing so very vivid. Why, I can almost see the streets of Florence, just as Mr. Forster has described them.”

  “I suppose.” He sounded unconvinced. “What does Lucy possibly see in George, anyway? He’s a rather sullen chap, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not at all. His manners are just not as refined, that’s all. Anyway, it’s all about escaping society’s constraints, and George represents that escape, along with an escape from sexual repression. Lucy is a truly brave heroine.”

  He shook his head. “You got all that from the text? Why, it’s just a love story. And a rather dull one, if I might say so.”

  “Oh, never mind. Perhaps I should find a more titillating passage—would that make you happy?” she teased.

  “I should have my sister send over some of her earlier works, and have you read those aloud,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Is that so?” Emmaline had learned that his sister, Aisling, was a novelist, married to a botanist and living in Cambridge. Jack spoke fondly of her and her husband, even though their marriage had caused a terrible scandal back home, as the groom’s father was unknown, and his mother a washer-woman. Jack loved to talk about Aisling—it was clear that they shared a very close bond.

  “Did I ever mention that her first publication credits were short stories in the Boudoir? Published under a pen name, of course.”