by Leen Elle
"What?" Derek asked, shifting himself so he was sitting on the edge of his hay mattress.
"Take off your shirt," Jonathan ordered evenly, his expression blank, or possibly accusing.
Frustration building in him, Derek glared up at the man defiantly. Was there no end to the man's desire to see him suffer?
Jonathan stared back with a steely glint that stated all too clearly that defiance would not be tolerated.
Resolved to the inevitable, Derek stood quickly, a low growl of annoyance and pain escaping his throat. He pulled his shirt off over his head and held it loosely in his right hand. "Is that all?"
"Turn around," he ordered in the same tone.
Derek's fist clenched around the wet fabric of his shirt. His face colored with humiliation, he turned slowly. He stood facing the wall for several seconds, focusing all his attention on a knot in the board above his bed. He didn't think he could stand it if Jonathan said anything. The heavy silence that filled the room became unbearable.
"Happy?" he snapped.
"Who did it?" Jonathan's voice was odd.
"Devon."
Two heavy footsteps echoed in the thick air of the empty loft, then stopped abruptly, as if their executor suddenly changed his mind. A moment passed.
"Put your shirt on." Jonathan's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.
Derek turned around and pulled his shirt on. As he did so, he noticed thin lines of blood on the back of it. Catherine had seen that he was hurt and sent Jonathan to check on him…. His face burned with humiliation.
Jonathan's face was an unreadable mask and when he spoke next it was in his usual, cold tones. "Come with me."
Hesitant, Derek followed Jonathan down the ladder. He hoped he wasn't in more trouble.
With long, impatient strides, Jonathan led the way back to the main house and up the porch steps to the front door. Catherine was no longer sitting on the shaded bench. Pushing the door open, Jonathan stepped aside for Derek to go in first.
Stepping cautiously, Derek did as he was bidden. He was starting to have a very bad feeling about the entire situation. He can't be bringing me to Mrs. Worthington, he thought wildly.
"Go downstairs and see Beth," Jonathan ordered roughly. "Have her clean you up."
Startled, Derek could only stammer out, "Y-yes, sir." Feeling a little numb, he walked through the sitting room and into the hall. He turned down the kitchen stairs slowly.
"Atty, if you could Derek? What are you doing in here now?"
"Jonathan sent me down," he explained. "I got a whipping last night and my back started bleeding again when I was trimming the hedges."
"Take your shirt off and sit down," she said, pulling one of the wooden chairs close to him. She busied herself getting a bowl and a rag.
Derek winced as he pulled off his shirt. "You didn't get in trouble, did you?"
Shaking her head, Beth said, "No. Master Worthington was as good as his word about that. But then to turn around and punish you…."
"Wasn't him," Derek said, lowering himself onto the chair sideways so the chair back was on his right side. "Mrs. Worthington must have had a fit that I wasn't in trouble, then sent Devon to do it."
"Mr. Devon?"
Derek shrugged one shoulder. "Not like he had a choice. Could have been easier, though," he lamented with a scowl. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
When Beth finished gathering her things and mixing the powered ointment with a little water to make a thick paste, she pulled the other chair up behind Derek and sat down, setting the bowl and towel on the table. "My goodness, I should say he could have!" she remarked angrily.
"Fifteen, though," he said with an ironic smirk. "Most I ever got at one time."
"Don't sound so proud of yourself," she retorted.
"Promise I ain't." After a second, Derek snorted a little. "Serves him right, though. Now he has to do all the work alone today. And he's been getting right comfortable having me to boss around."
Beth just shook her head and went to work soaking cloth strips in the paste and smoothing them gently over each lash mark. Every now and then Derek would wince at the cold, but it felt good after a moment and his aching muscles relaxed under her familiar ministrations.
"There," Beth said when the last strip of cloth was in place. "Don't move 'til that dries."
While Derek sat there he felt the paste hardening, pulling his skin tight over his muscles. It made him itch and he fought to stay still. Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, he asked, "What's for lunch?"
"Sandwiches. There was ham left from breakfast, and I want to use the last of the old bread before I bake any more or it'll go green."
Derek nodded a little, then glanced around as much as he could without moving more than his head. "I guess Miss Catherine is feeling better."
"What makes you say that?"
"She was outside today. On the porch."
Beth made a small sound of what seemed like agreement, then started slicing the bread. She didn't say anything else for several seconds and Derek took that to mean she didn't feel like talking.
Sighing, Derek looked at the rows of preserves and jams that were stacked on the little wooden shelves across the room. As Fall drew nearer, he knew the kitchen would become more and more full of stored food. He'd always liked being down there when the winter stores were full. There was something desolate and lonely about the kitchen when it was nearly empty at the end of winter. He looked back at Beth, who was wrapping four sandwiches in butcher's paper and tucking them into the wicker basket.
"Are they dry yet?" Beth asked.
Reaching over his right shoulder with his left hand, Derek poked at the closest cloth strip. "Pretty much."
"Put your shirt back on, then, and go lie down. Here. Take your lunch with you." She pushed the basket across the table at him.
His muscles held in place by the dried paste, Derek struggled awkwardly to pull his shirt on, then took the basket. "Thanks." As he walked to the stairs, he hoped he didn't run into anyone on his way out. He didn't think he'd get into trouble since Jonathan himself had ordered him into the house, but that didn't mean the initial confrontation might not be unpleasant.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Derek listened closely to make sure he was alone. He heard the tones of angry voices echoing down the hall from the parlor. That's Jonathan…and Mrs. Worthington. An intense curiosity gripped him and he glanced at the side door for only a moment before going in the other direction. Leaning against the doorframe, he strained to hear what they were saying, positive they must be arguing about him again.
"I told you no more," Jonathan's deep voice resonated.
"He's mine to do with as I please," Mrs. Worthington returned, her voice rising dangerously.
"He's not yours! He's "
"Don't you dare!"
Derek froze as the lethal tone filled the still house.
"I have had it with you speaking to me in such a tone! In my own home! And after all I've done for you. Taking you in. Rearranging my house to accommodate your wife." Her voice dropped and she hissed, "Your father would turn over in his grave to hear you speak to your own mother that way."
Derek waited for Jonathan to point out that it was actually his house and that she was the one being disrespectful, but cowed by familiar guilt, the man's answer came out much differently:
There was a moment of heavy silence, then Jonathan spoke, his tone even and subdued. "I didn't mean to seem ungrateful. I couldn't thank you enough for what you've done for Catherine. And me. But I have told you how I feel about the situation with Derek."
"You've told me how Catherine feels about the situation. Are you really going to be manipulated away from common sense by a woman with no knowledge of the issues she's expressing opinions about?"
His voice once again strong, Jonathan warned, "That was not called for. And they aren't only her opinions. I agree, and I do know the issues." His last statement sounded mor
e like a threat than a proclamation.
Changing her tone, Mrs. Worthington attacked from a different side, her words sharp and cruel: "What would your father think of your behavior?"
"If we're going to start on that line," he said without accusation, "what would Father think of your behavior?"
A pause.
"Such ingratitude! Such disrespect! I shall not stand for it!"
"Mother " Jonathan began consolingly.
"I only pray," Mrs. Worthington cut in calmly, "that someday the good Lord will forgive you for this behavior."
The tension heightened and Derek leaned closer, anxious to hear the reply.
After what seemed like hours, Jonathan, his voice shaking, said, "And I pray that someday He will forgive you."
CRACK! The harsh sound of flesh violently meeting flesh rang through the air. Derek flinched at the sound.
"Get…out…of…my…sight!" Mrs. Worthington bit out in broken syllables that shook with rage.
Derek hurried to the side door before either of them caught him in the hall. He stepped out into the humid day and, despite the oppressive heat and the throbbing pain in his back, ran across the wide lawn to the stables. By the time he climbed up to the loft and collapsed on his bed, he felt like his lungs would burst from the exertion and humidity. His mind raced and the sound of his rushing pulse pounded in his ears until he could hear nothing but the heavy, rapid drumming.
Chapter Eighteen
"Find me!"
"Help!" Derek yelled, starting from his dream, gulping the heavy afternoon air. He felt like he was going to drown.
It had been a while since he'd dreamed about the girl in the attic, and this time he didn't make it through the woods to the glowing field with the little pond before the night creatures caught up to him.
Still breathing heavily, Derek looked around the loft. Judging by the sunlight on the floor, it was well passed noon. He didn't remember falling asleep.
Taking one last, deep breath and wincing at the pain it brought to his back, Derek breathed out slowly and sat up. He felt the paste-soaked bandages, thick and sticky from mixing with his sweat, slide down his back a little. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it in the corner. Reaching around behind him, he peeled the mass of fabric off then searched for some place to set it. Spotting the burlap grain sacks, he stood up and took one. Stuffing the sticky fabric in it, he went to pick up his shirt. With the bag in one hand and his shirt balled up in the other, he climbed down the ladder. As he passed the waste barrel, he dropped the bag in it and stepped out into the sunlight, shielding his eyes.
When he didn't see Devon, Derek started across the lawn towards the back of the house. A swim still sounded good and he wanted to wash the rest of the melting paste off his back and shirt.
Ducking through the bushes, Derek started down the path to the river. As he went, the rushing of the water grew louder and his pace quickened. The ointment was starting to make him itch and he wanted to rinse it off before the temptation to scratch it became too demanding.
Reaching the edge of the river, Derek kicked off his shoes and set his shirt on the rock. Sitting, he pulled off his socks and put them in his shoes.
Find me.
Derek shivered as he recalled the wisps of dream that hadn't vanished with waking. He couldn't remember exactly how it had ended, but he did remember running through the woods. At one point he'd splashed through the river, hoping the night creatures would lose his scent in the water. It had been a vain hope. They still caught him….
Derek shook his head to clear the thoughts. It was silly to be frightened of nightmares. Besides, it was still day light out. Night creatures wouldn't be out for hours.
He shook his head again, then picked up his shirt and waded into the running water. He felt instantly cool. Squatting by a patch of algae-covered rocks, he dipped his shirt in the water and scrubbed the folds of fabric against each other. Flecks of paste came loose and floated away in the current. When the shirt was as clean as he could get it in the cool water, Derek stepped back into the rich mud of the bank and spread it over the rock to dry. Returning to the river, he started the walk towards the swimming hole.
The walk went quickly, the current pushing him along. When he reached the pool, Derek walked cautiously towards the deeper side. As the cold water rose up to his back he winced, then, taking a deep breath, plunged himself under the water. He stayed there for as long as his burning lungs would allow, then broke through the water's surface, gasping for air.
The water numbed his wounds.
Sighing, Derek leaned back, dipping his back into the slow current once more. Between the cool bath and the ointment, he guessed he should be back to near-perfect by the next morning.
When he'd spent as much time as he could stand in the cold water, he climbed onto one of the smaller rocks in the middle of the water and pulled his knees up to his chest. He sat like that with the sun on his back for what felt like hours, thinking.
Jonathan's strange. I can't tell what he's thinking any more. And Mrs. Worthington…. I don't get it.
A small, brown bird flew overhead, chirping loudly. It landed on a blackberry bush on the bank.
I can't wait until he leaves and things go back to normal. "If he leaves," he muttered to himself. He had better leave. I wonder if they'll go even if Catherine doesn't get better. Derek tipped his head back and watched the lazy clouds sailing on a breeze so far above him that he did not benefit from its effects. But if she doesn't get better, then she'll be
Forcing himself not to finish the thought, Derek stood suddenly and jumped back into the river, regretting it almost immediately. The sudden cold shocked his muscles and they tensed, flexing and flinching in ways that reopened his wounds.
"You aren't going to get better doing stupid things like that," he admonished himself. Feeling sleepy and tired of being alone, Derek started making his way back upstream. He was only bleeding a little and he was sure it would stop before long.
I wonder what the issues are that Catherine doesn't know about, he mused, catching himself as he slipped on a rock. "It was probably just Mrs. Worthington trying to make Jonathan angry. That was a weird thing to say otherwise."
He refused to think about how close he might have been to learning some of the answers he'd wondered about for years. That would be too painful.
When he got back to the path, Derek climbed out of the water and picked up his shirt and shoes. Walking lazily, feeling no compulsion to be anywhere in particular, he wound his way up the path and through the bushes. He kept his leisurely pace as he climbed the little knoll and crossed to the stables. When he swung the door open, he saw Gabriel standing by Blueberry's stall, gloomily petting the horse's nose.
"What are you doing here?"
"My stables," Gabriel answered with half-hearted annoyance. "I can be here if I want."
Derek shrugged one shoulder and walked passed Gabriel to the ladder.
"Got you good, huh?"
"A bit," Derek said matter-of-factly as he climbed, not bothering to be embarrassed at the other boy seeing the evidence of his punishment. They'd shared too much in the past for any nonsense like that now. He was taking out his clean socks when he heard Gabriel's slow steps climbing the ladder behind him. Sighing, Derek went to hang his damp shirt over the pulley arm.
Gabriel looked around the loft for a second before stepping off the ladder. "This is nice."
Derek shrugged again and sat on his bed. "I don't mind it."
Out of nowhere, Gabriel said, "Mrs. Clayton won't let Aniline come to visit any more."
Derek pulled on his socks and reached for his shoes. "Are you mad at me for it?"
"I was," he confessed.
"Better off without her."
"She was sort of nice when other people weren't around."
Smirking, Derek said slyly, "I saw you two kissing the week she came for tea after church."
Gabriel turned red. "She's the one who kissed me," he muttered.
Derek laughed a little.
"I'll still see her at church."
Looking at Gabriel thoughtfully, he asked, "Do you really like her?"
"She's nice."
"What about Anthony?"
"Haven't really seen him outside church. We don't really talk anymore."
"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not," Derek replied flatly.
For a moment Gabriel didn't respond. He looked around, his eyes falling first on the drying shirt, then on Derek's bare, sunburned chest. "Don't you have anything else to put on?"
"Hm? Oh. No. My other shirt got ruined at the party."
"I have some you can have. Mother has to buy me new ones for school anyway."
Derek's brow creased. "School?"
"Yeah. She wants me to go to Richmond starting this winter. Same school Jonathan went to." He didn't sound very excited.
"I thought she wanted you to stay home forever."
Gabriel shrugged. "I think it was Jonathan's idea at first. He must have persuaded her somehow."
Derek studied him with a closed expression.
After a second, Gabriel stood up. "I'll go get those shirts."
"All right." Derek watched Gabriel disappear over the edge, then looked around his loft. His eyes fell on the small stack of books, pad, and pencils on top of his trunk. He glared at them, frustration burning in his chest. The idea that he could ever learn anything, or hope to leave that terrible place suddenly seemed laughable, and he wanted to pretend he'd never thought up such a stupid idea.
I'm gonna be here forever. He thought of Devon. I'm gonna be here 'til I'm so old and useless I can't do anything but gripe and boss other people around.
With a careless swipe of his arm, Derek sent his books tumbling off the chest and his pencils skittering across the hay-strewn floor, one of them rolling off the edge of the loft and plinking off of something metal far below.
Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth snorted and kicked to show her disapproval.
"Oh, you be quiet! Didn't even hit you," Derek said moodily.
Several minutes later, Gabriel called up, "Derek, you'll have to come down for them. I can't climb the ladder and carry them all."