“He’s worth fighting for, I presume?”
Yes.
“Then take a deep breath and square your shoulders.”
I follow the doctor’s instructions and actually feel better. “Good,” Kelly whispers. “Let’s go.”
Our approach to Tom’s bed is unimpeded now that the screen has been removed.
“Well, Craddock,” Kelly says. “How are you this afternoon?”
“How do you think?” Tom replies, a sullen note in his voice.
“Those stitches burning? Stinging yet?”
“Yes. Both.”
Kelly pulls over a couple of chairs. “Sorry, old boy. You’re at the most painful stage in the mending process.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
A nurse gives Tom another dose of morphine, at Kelly’s suggestion, and then the doctor turns to me, placing a hand on my arm. “I’ve brought you someone special. Can you guess who she is?”
I feel Tom study me. His gaze is like the sun on my skin, and I know my cheeks, forehead, and neck are flushing a vivid rainbow of pinks, reds, and purples.
Please let his memory return.
My love sighs. “Can’t you just say her name? I didn’t know the other one either, the man from this morning.”
“James Scarlett?”
“That’s him. Offered to pay the hospital bill, my being hurt in his club and all.” Another belabored sigh. “You must like putting me on the spot, Doc.”
“One of the many perks of being your physician. Now back to my question, Craddock. Who’s our lovely lady?”
I could kill the doctor for making this introduction so difficult. A rather convenient homicide since Sir Death is only half a room away and seems bored.
Tom grumbles about needing a drink, and the nurse brings a pitcher. Liquid spills into the glass, making a happy sloshing sound. He spends a full minute drinking the water, stalling for time. Then he speaks to me as though I am a stranger.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
Over the years, I’ve learned to school my features, showing the world an impassive face. I have not learned to school my heart. It is rent into a thousand, throbbing pieces.
“She’s your good friend,” Kelly says. “Hester Grayson.”
Tom leans forward. “The one who sent the candy? I thought she was younger—a little girl who follows me around.”
“Where did you hear that, Craddock? As you can see, Miss Grayson’s fully-grown.”
My spectacles attract some interest at this point and Tom inquires about them. Kelly points out that I am blind and mute—also that I sign, ride a horse named Jupiter, and throw knives.
“Knives, did you say?” Tom asks.
“You taught her how. Hester can hit the wing on a gnat at fifty paces. It’s amazing.”
“What else did I teach her?”
“Hmm.” Kelly deliberates for a moment. “You two kissed a lot.”
Tom sputters. “Excuse me?”
“You loved her.”
I make a fist with my left hand and spread the fingers of my right, bringing my palm down and touching the fist. Enough! I sign.
The doctor doesn’t agree. “It had to be said, Hester. Every word’s true.”
Tom curses as he turns my way again, his wound protesting the movement. “What’s she doing with her hands?”
“That’s sign. You didn’t like me teaching her the language, but you tolerated it. Barely. I’m afraid you’re the jealous type.”
“Where did we meet?”
“Let’s have her answer that, Tom. Ask her questions, and I’ll translate. And remember to look at Hester, not me. I’m her voice, but she’s the one doing the talking.”
I inhale, afraid yet excited.
“Where did we meet?” Tom asks again.
My face breaks into a smile at the memory and I fingerspell the word. H-O-L-L-I-S-T-E-R-S. I cannot sign fast enough as I share the story.
“In front of the dry goods store,” Kelly says. “Six years of age. Hester wanted a piece of your toffee and you offered her some. Friends ever since.”
“Why aren’t we married then?”
The smile disappears from my lips, and I worry for a moment that he won’t understand our situation. Kelly clears his throat, a gentle reminder that Tom is waiting for me to continue, and I fumble through my reply.
“You work hard on the ranch. Family needs you. Good son.”
Tom kicks something off his bed. Might have been a quilt from the sound of it. “After listening to my mother go on and on this afternoon, you’d think I was an indentured servant in my own home. Maybe I don’t want to remember any of this.”
I shake my head and keep signing, trying to convince him that his life wasn’t all bad, that our future was worth the work.
It’s funny to hear Kelly speak such words for me. “I would have married you. Lived in a shack and been happy. But you wanted more for your wife and children.”
Tom thinks a spell and then sighs. “The nurses said I saved my lady friend from a murderer and got shot. I must have loved you to do that.”
Kelly reads my response and then puts it into words. “Brave man. Strong. Would have done it for anyone.”
“I might think of my own skin next time. Safer that way.”
I’ve never heard Tom say a cynical word in his life. He bears his challenges with grace and humor, and his capacity to love, soothe, and protect are nearly inexhaustible. I sense a hardness, an anger, in this person before me—as though he is the negative reflection of the man I know and love.
I picture the world as New Tom must see it—poor family, sick father, work always looming on the horizon, and a handicapped sweetheart who depends upon him heavily. No wonder he’s reluctant to pick up where he left off. It’s easy to imagine those beautiful black eyes turning as cold as his voice.
A nurse requests Kelly’s help, and he leaves with her. I take a deep breath, hoping it will bring me inner peace. Should I reach out to Tom now? See if we’re still telepathically joined? I hear him remove his glass from the side table and drink again. Closing my eyes, I focus on the sound of my heart. I send him all the love and concern welling within me.
Tom? My dearest, are you there? How I’ve missed you!
The words catch him mid-gulp, and he sprays water all over the place—his blanket, my lap, the floor. The glass hits the tile and shatters. Sound waves bounce around my ears and into my head. Ouch.
Tom moves about on his mattress, obviously searching the room. “Who was that?”
Kelly returns from his errand a moment later, and takes the other chair. Dash it all! Why did he have to come back so soon? Impatient and a little desperate, I try to contact Tom again.
Please remember. I need you, like air and sunlight.
Tom flings himself out of the bed, stumbles against my chair, and falls across me. A moment later, he puts his hand on the back of the chair and pushes away. His stitches must hurt because he groans in pain. I hate that Tom hurts, but it feels so sweet to have him close. Kelly tells him to remain still and calls a nurse to sweep up the glass. Amid the chaos, I smell fear on Tom. All-consuming, smothering.
The doctor gets him back to bed and begins checking his stitches. I remove my right glove and reach out, finding Tom’s hand dangling over the side of the mattress. Our connection is open! Yet I see violent images surge through his head—a soft, beguiling voice attached to them. Stay away from the girl, it seems to say. She’s the root of your troubles. Her fault, all her fault. Then Tom slams the telepathic door closed.
No. Let me in. Let me help.
I try to reconnect and fail. Try many times but nothing works. What was that awful thing inside Tom’s mind? How can he stand it?
“You’re rubbing your temple, Craddock,” Kelly observes. “Does it hurt?”
I lift my head when the doctor’s comment finally sinks in. O di immortales. Please, not Tom. But truth t
ightens my bones, and I realize what has happened to the person I love most. That horrible, irresistible voice in his head is the heir of Archimendax.
My love mumbles incoherently for a moment before returning to audible speech. “Take her away. I don’t want company.”
The doctor puts his hand under my elbow and helps me to my feet. We leave Tom and walk out of the ward. “He’s just tired, Hester,” Kelly says. “Come back tomorrow, after lessons at my office. I’m sure Craddock will feel better then.”
He leads me to the stairs, toward Cordelia and Willard and my life at The Revels. I turn my head, hoping some miracle will grant me a glimpse of Tom’s face before we part.
All is darkness.
I feel numb throughout the next day, even when Kelly teaches me new words and proper signing techniques. My hands follow his instructions, but my mind is thinking of more important things. How can I find Mary Arden? She’ll help me save Tom, won’t she? Archimendax threatens us both, after all. But Cordelia makes it difficult to concentrate, conversing so cheerfully with the doctor that it’s impossible to ignore her chipper voice.
“Your heart isn’t in this, Hester,” Kelly finally says. “Why waste my time if you’d rather mope?”
“She’s been sad all morning,” Cordie replies. “Anxious about her friend, I think.”
Kelly walks to the coat rack briskly. He smells of dried ink and tea leaves. I can’t even enjoy these wonderful scents, worried as I am.
“There’s no reason for sadness, minx. Give Craddock a chance to recover. He’s only human.” Kelly slips on his jacket, coins jingling in the pocket. “I haven’t said anything to either of you about this, but I’m leaving for Boston tonight. To collect my daughter Alice from boarding school.”
Is she coming to visit? I sign.
“No. To live with me. We’ve been separated for too long.”
Wonderful! Congratulations!
“Thank you, Hester.” He opens the office door and twists the knob a few times. “Shall we take a walk? A little fresh air might do you good.”
Snow swirls against my face as I walk with Cordelia and Kelly. The air smells nondescript, just of clean, sharp winter, and I hunch my shoulders against the cold. As we amble down the sidewalk, I imagine this is simply a brief constitutional to clear the cobwebs from my mind before returning to Kelly’s office for more signing practice. But the doctor has a softer heart than he lets on and leads us exactly where I’ve wanted to go all day. Kelly’s a good friend, and I’m glad Alice will be a greater part of his life now. He deserves some happiness of his own. The wind picks up and my feet are sopping wet by the time we reach the hospital. I stomp them against the boot bristles in the lobby and follow Kelly to the men’s ward.
As always, Sir Death is waiting in the shadows. Cordelia stands a foot away, practically touching His elbow. Out of fondness for her, I indicate that she should go first through the doorway, giving her a chance to put distance between herself and the Reaper. But Cordie halts a few feet over the threshold.
“The screen is up around your friend’s bed again, miss. Shall we sit and wait?”
Yes, I sign. Thank you.
This is when I hear Tom whispering to Kelly. “I don’t care if she’s out there or not,” he says. “I don’t want to see her.”
“Why, Craddock? Is your schedule full? To the best of my knowledge, it has nothing on it but a dose of cod liver oil and a sponge bath.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tom grumbles. “It feels wrong. I feel wrong when she’s around.”
“That’s ridiculous. You adore the girl.”
“I can’t explain, Doc, but I don’t trust myself. I want to lash out, to hurt her.”
“That’s a strange reaction, I must say.” The doctor scribbles on something, maybe a pad of paper or a chart, and drops it on the table. “All right, I’ll talk to Hester. She’s my friend, too. I’m sure she’ll understand if you aren’t able to see her now.”
“Not now, not ever. A fresh start’s just what I need.”
Kelly yanks the screen out of his way. “You shouldn’t burn your bridges, Craddock. I’ll send Hester home today, and then you and I will talk again when I get back from Boston. You’ll have time to cool off and clear your head.”
“I won’t change my mind,” Tom replies.
My heart begins to pound, and I wish for the lucky stones in my pocket. Tom’s right. He won’t change his mind. Olfaction reveals genuine hostility, to the point of violence. It’s physically painful to feel this emotion directed at me, coming from the person who has been my beloved protector. I rise from my chair and put a hand over my aching heart, needing to leave the ward before I faint. Kelly calls my name and hastens to join Cordelia and me. The doctor lies to spare my feelings, making excuses for Tom that I know to be untrue.
Don’t worry, I sign. Understand everything.
“Give him a couple of weeks, Hester. I’ll get you in for a visit when I return from my trip. Afterward, I’d like you to come to dinner at my home. To meet Alice.”
Thank you. Honored.
Cordie takes the lead as we make our departure, and I accidentally brush up against the Reaper at the door. The contact chills like ice water and lingers unpleasantly. His voice is a cool whisper in my mind. Careful, Visionary.
Pardon, Sir. I’m having a bad day.
His dry laughter scrapes against my bones. Oh, believe me, it could get worse.
Cordelia tugs my hand and I follow her to the stairs, stumbling on the first one. I do believe Sir Death, and it frightens me to the core.
Life can always get worse.
19
Bellum domesticum.
War among family.
Willard draws the horses to a halt at the porte cochere of my home. The animals whinny and stomp as they wait for a good brushing and a bucket of oats. It’s supper time for their humans as well, although I lack Cordelia’s appetite at the moment. Eager to get inside, she climbs out of the carriage first and then helps me down. Wintery air surrounds us as we walk toward the house. It pushes under our cloaks, swirls our petticoats.
Cordelia opens the heavy door and cries out in shock. It seems that Cook is sitting at the entrance to the servants wing. I know it’s she from the sound of her fitful weeping. Hoping that her tears are a result of an argument with the scullery girl or a fallen soufflé, I walk toward the front of the house where masculine voices are conversing in somber tones.
Something terrible has happened. I shut down my ears, afraid of what I might hear. Where shall I go? The library is located on my left, so I walk inside and close the door. It smells of antique leather and dusty books, of comforting, familiar surroundings. The fireplace is cold, but I sit at its marble base and pull my knees to my chest. Cocooned in this room, I prepare for the worst and let myself listen.
My mother’s obstetric doctor is here, talking with my father in his study. They discuss phrases like “massive maternal hemorrhagic stroke” and “fetal mortality”. Poor Cherub is no more, and Mama is unconscious in her bed upstairs, never to awaken.
A train whistles at Stonehenge station, echoing through the woods outside, through the forested space between High Street and The Revels. I’ve heard this same, lonely noise every night of my life. It signals the last departure—for the train Kelly’s taking back east. I imagine him settling into his seat, anticipating the reunion with Alice.
Chest burning, I lean against the hard marble, longing to weep. But I can’t produce a tear. Cordelia opens the library door and comes to my side.
“It’s your mother, miss. She’s in a bad way.”
My mind goes blank during the trip upstairs, until I cross Mama’s sitting room, and bump my foot against something hard and heavy. I reach down and touch a smooth, enamel-covered figure with bulging eyes and flaring nostrils. It’s Mr. Ming, the Chinese dragon doorstop. He’s sat here, keeping watch over Mama’s boudoir, for as long as I remember. Bigger than a housecat, made of iron, Mr. Ming was once a playma
te of mine. When isolation was overwhelming, I pretended the dragon was a baby and swaddled him in blankets or dressed him up in a hat and one of Mama’s fur stoles for impromptu tea parties.
I haven’t thought of my dragon friend in years, despite his constant presence. Funny, what one remembers of childhood… Yet tonight’s not the time to reminisce about my life, rather it is Mama’s moment of summation.
No one is keeping her company or speaking words of comfort when I enter her inner chamber. Surely everyone deserves that, at least? Rose water perfumes the air and the room feels steamy, as though my mother’s body was recently washed. I find a footstool, pull it up next to the canopied bed, and sit down. Her small hand fits easily into mine, and I clasp it tight. So finely-boned and elegant, even now. Strange that I never thought of Mama as petite with her commanding, larger-than-life presence.
After taking a deep breath, I sit up straight. I may be dumb and blind, but I can do this well. I can be here when Sir Death comes.
My thoughts travel back, revisiting the happy moments Mama and I shared. It is far too short a trip, with little to remember until recently. She was a formidable, complex woman who focused on causes rather than her own child—a socialite, a philanthropist, a suffragette. And without ever truly knowing her heart, I have loved and hated her all my life.
Leaning forward, I rest my head on the edge of Mama’s pillow, our hands still entwined. Cordelia enters a few moments later, placing a shawl across my shoulders. “In case you get cold, miss.”
She sits on the sofa near the fireplace and begins to knit. Click-clack-click.
Still nestled close, I almost hear my mother whisper, Bury me with my baubles, Hester. You know the ones I mean.
Bury me with my baubles. From girlhood, I’ve heard her say this. In Mama’s mind, a lady doesn’t go anywhere without her favorite trinkets, even if she’s meeting her Maker. It would be disrespectful both to her and the Almighty.
“I’m taking them with me,” Mama would declare, in that sure way of hers.
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