by Jaima Fixsen
Thirty-Eight
Neil woke with a start to the sound of someone clattering down the stairs. Something had happened. He rushed to the hall, startling Mary, who stopped mid-stride on the landing, dishes sliding across her tray.
“Neil!” she gasped.
“What’s happened? Is he—” Her shocked face made him fear the worst.
“Everything’s all right.” She recovered herself, righting a cup. “You startled me is all. Papa said you’d gone.”
He breathed again. “I came back at eleven. Went to sleep on the library chair. I told your father I’d relieve you in the morning.”
She started coming down again so he stepped aside to let her pass.
“How is he?”
A smile broke over her. “Better. Much better.”
That was good news. Neil couldn’t explain why it made him uneasy. He followed her down the hall. “I wish you’d woken me. I could have spelled you off earlier.”
She stopped and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “It’s not yet six. You slept all night in the chair?”
He spent a lot of nights there or on the sofa.
“Did you at least find the better cushions?” She went into the library wearing a frown.
There was something different about her. What had happened? Of course she’d be pleased if Samuel was showing signs of recovery, but this seemed too much. He’d swear he could feel her heart beating.
Mary set down the tray and knit her brows at the chair where he’d slept and the blanket he’d half-tripped over on his way to the stairs. “Was there a fire at least?”
“I was warm enough.”
Her skeptical look lasted half a second. “If you say so.” Smiling again, she went to open the curtains, gathering the morning sun about her. She looked like a Botticelli Madonna. Any man would want to fall and worship, but she wouldn’t want that from him. Her smile was even bigger by the time she turned around.
“I have something to tell you.”
Invisible fingers curled round his throat. “What is it?”
“It’s happened.”
Neil’s eyes sharpened. “What?”
“He woke. He knew me. He asked if Wellington was Prime Minister and I didn’t even know! He’s better. Truly better.”
“Thank God.” Neil settled back into his chair, too relieved to say any more.
“That’s not all.”
Neil raised his eyebrows, prompting her for more, but she hesitated, staring at her fingers. “He says he loves me.”
“Samuel?” Neil shook his head. That couldn’t be right. “He’s not himself. He wouldn’t—” Too late, he saw her face and recognized his mistake. “I mean, of course he loves you. What man wouldn’t?”
He’d accepted the disastrous truth of her devotion for Samuel, but thought himself safe from this.
“He loves me. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe it. He’s perfectly lucid.” Her eyes stayed on his. If she’d faltered, he might have convinced himself he had a chance. But there was nothing hidden in her face, nothing there but triumphant happiness. She’d been uncomfortable before only because she was kind, wary of causing him pain.
Pity was unendurable. Neil crammed his fists in his pockets, wanting to die, but now she was chattering.
“He wants me to marry him. To exchange Buchanan for Brown. That’s how he put it. I told him he must convince Papa he’s well enough, but he’s all right. Come, you must see.”
The smile came on command though his face felt ready to crack. “You’ve proved me wrong. All your dreams have come true.”
She looked at him, and it was impossible not to remember that kiss in Bath. For the space of a heartbeat she looked as she had then: lost, a little pleading, until the serene look resettled around her eyes. “They have. Who’d have guessed?” The smile, her own, convinced him.
“I’m happy for you, Mary. Samuel’s a lucky man.” He must not let this overcome him. Kindness was the best he could give her, since she wanted nothing else. He shook her hand, savouring the ache that went through him. “Good luck. And every good thing for you both.”
She laughed, a little shakily. “You aren’t going to forbid the banns?”
“I’m wiser now. Is he still awake?”
“He was.”
“I should congratulate him.”
He made it as far as the stairs before covering his eyes in his hands. It gave him back his faltering control, but deep breaths and cool palms on his eyes didn’t change anything. Hurt lashed him, spurring him up the stairs. She must not be hurt, but Samuel—
Neil gusted through the door and stopped. His friend, his brother by law and affection, was deep in the pillows. A jug of lily of the valley rested on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there the evening before. Mary’s work, undoubtedly.
Take the high road. Don’t be jealous.
But he was. “Are you awake?”
Samuel stirred and smiled. “It’s good to see you. I suppose thanks are in order. A great deal of them.”
“I hear you’ve had a talk with Mary.”
“Did she tell you?” Samuel looked pleased. “Caught her off guard when I asked, but I’m glad she’s happy to share the news.”
“I wouldn’t take it as a certainty. You’ve not cleared it with the old man yet.”
Samuel’s look was remarkably condescending for a man in a sickbed. Neil’s thoughts were unrepeatable.
“Are you doing her a kindness?” Neil’s voice was sharper than he intended.
“I hope so. And adding greatly to my happiness.”
“You shouldn’t use Mary like this.”
Samuel frowned. “I’m not using her. She’s capable. Intelligent. Damned pretty and committed to reform as I am. She’ll make an admirable wife.”
The pressure in Neil’s veins surged. “For God’s sake, Samuel. She’s not an umbrella!”
For a long moment, Samuel could only stare. “Are you—”
Neil stopped him with an upflung hand.
“It’s what she wants.” Samuel drew a long breath through his nose. “I’m the one she wants.”
There was nothing to say. It was the one attack he couldn’t counter. “Someone should tell the doctor.” He’d want to know that Samuel was awake and talking, even if he didn’t care for the rest.
Mary sat in the library after Neil left, dreaming. Or trying to, at least; the habit seemed to have left her. The Mr. and Mrs. Brown conjured by her imagination were flat and stiff as paper dolls. She could envision them working together, heads bent close, but picturing them passing time with their children felt too implausible. She couldn’t think what their babies would look like, and when she tried to imagine losing herself in Samuel’s kiss, she found herself in Neil’s arms instead. Mary came to herself with a jolt, blushing and uneasily aware the fantasy was too vivid to be hypothetical. It was a relief when she was distracted by sounds from upstairs: Neil’s voice, raised but unintelligible, and the door, also a trifle loud. Mary ran upstairs and was breathless by the time she caught him stalking down the upstairs hall.
“I’m going for your father,” he said.
“I expect you’ve woke him already,” Mary said. Papa proved her right, sticking his head outside his bedroom door, still in his nightcap and slippers.
“What’s the to-do?” He was half-concealed by the door, but Mary was suddenly sure he was clutching the coal shovel.
“It’s not the revolution,” she assured him. “Samuel’s awake.”
He disappeared for a moment and came out in his dressing gown, rubbing his hands. “Mr. Brown’s doing better, is he? Not before time. Let me take a look.”
Mary followed him, ignoring the thunderheads gathered around Neil Murray. Papa must not have sensed them, but to her they were impossible to ignore, so charged she could feel the hairs on her neck prickling. He looked…tense? Worried? He couldn’t be angry, not unless… Mary gulped, suffused with a sudden, impossible, wicked longing.
You can’t. Before the feeling coalesced into words, Mary shook it away.
“When did he wake?” Papa asked.
“Sometime in the night.” Good. She sounded calm.
“He’s lucid?”
“Perfectly.” She cast a sideways glance at Neil. Don’t be a fool. He doesn’t love you.
Papa grunted. “Don’t be too sure. Sometimes they look it but are a trifle off.”
Discouraging words, but if it were so, then perhaps when they were alone she could convince Samuel they should consider the question of marriage a little longer. It was such an irrevocable thing. They had settled on it alarmingly quickly—and she was suffering from romantic delusions about Neil. Mary cursed herself for being a wicked girl with a changeable heart, while praying Neil’s scowl was a sign he wouldn’t let her announce her engagement to Samuel Brown.
She needed more time for something this momentous. Maybe everything was all right, and accepting Samuel’s proposal had simply unsettled her. She couldn’t really want Neil to stop her. And yet the idea of explaining her engagement to Papa…
She followed them both into the room. Samuel was sitting up in bed, his hands resting loosely on the covers. “Dr. Buchanan. I was hoping to see you.”
“If you’re as well as I hear, you ought to try some real food this morning,” her father said.
“I’ll get it.” Mary turned to flee.
Papa stopped her. “Not yet. Give me time to take a look and be sure.”
If only choosing a husband were as simple, something you could decide from an examination of the pupils and the pulse. Her heart raced, but for which man? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Samuel straightened his back against the pillows. “I know you’ve come to see me, but I wished to speak to you about your daughter.” Nothing she could do now. Mary braced herself, keeping her eyes resolutely away from Neil.
“You do, do you?” Papa set down his bag and unfastened the buckles. “It will have to wait a bit.” He peered in Samuel’s eyes, listened at his chest, made him count and clap and move his arms, tell him the best roads from London to Bristol, and the name of his childhood Latin master. Samuel’s responses came with gladdening ease, yet her anxiety increased a notch with each one. Papa gave a satisfied grunt. “I won’t declare you sound, but it seems very promising. You’ll need to rest for a good while yet,” he concluded.
“That’s excellent news,” Samuel said. “Thank you. Now, about your daughter—”
“I could fetch some breakfast,” Mary said. “Cook says there’s milk again, and ham—”
“Let him speak.” Papa’s eyes never left Samuel’s.
“I know you dislike me, but I have great affection and regard for your daughter.”
Papa grunted. In Mary’s mind, though efficient, it was a frustratingly imprecise way of speaking.
Samuel was freer with words. “It would make both of us very happy if you would grant me permission to marry her.”
“Is that so?” Papa swivelled, his eyes hard. “Mary?”
She nodded feebly, a strange cold settling on her.
“It’s true I don’t care for you,” Papa said, turning back to Samuel. “But it’s equally clear to me that she does. No, Mary—” He silenced her attempt to speak with a raised hand. “Clearly I have no power to keep you from your chosen course, and you are not, as I’d assumed, a giddy girl in love with a handsome face.”
She winced, but Papa went on. “You’ve brain enough to follow his ludicrous ideas and sufficient youth to believe in them. In nursing him you’ve shown what I can only say is rare fortitude and devotion. I’ve no wish to stand in your way, and I must say that Mr. Brown has addressed the issue with pleasing promptness. It seems fitting under the circumstances.”
Mary couldn’t even twitch an eyelid. She waited for Neil to move or speak from just outside the field of her eye. There was nothing.
“Sit down, Mary, and breathe. I’m not quite the monster you think me,” Papa said dryly.
“All right,” Mary said weakly. She was wrong. Neil didn’t object. He had no interest in claiming her from his friend. Why would he want you? You know he doesn’t love you.
“Not a monster at all,” Samuel said. “Thank you, sir.” He reached out a hand to Mary and without thinking she stood, walked to him, and laid her hand in his own. It was what she was supposed to do. No reason to dislike Samuel patting the back of her hand, even if it seemed the kind of thing one did with a well-behaved child or a pet.
“I may disagree with your politics,” Samuel was saying, “but cannot fault you for wishing only the best for your daughter. Let me assure you that time will prove you wrong. I will cherish her always and you will have no reason for regret.”
Mary bit her lip, unwilling to diagnose why the words made her wince when they were everything she’d always wanted to hear.
“I do already,” Papa growled. “Enough sentiment. Look after yourself. Get something to eat.”
Before Mary could speak, Neil moved. “I’ll get the tray.” Then he was gone.
Mary sat down on the bed. She’d suffered a moment’s foolishness, but now it was done. She must sit with Samuel and enjoy the warm light in his eyes. This was only skittishness and would soon pass.
It didn’t. Two days later, Samuel, sensing she was worried, did his best to reassure her. “We needn’t rush. Take all the time you wish. I must be fit enough to carry you over the threshold before we can even think of it.”
He said it lightly, but he was mending so quickly it couldn’t take long. She was so relieved by his recovery, yet every thought of marriage left her becalmed, still and unmoving with little to say.
“I must send next door to Mrs. Wilkins for more of your clothes,” Mary said.
“Shirts? Trousers, even?” Samuel smiled.
“I don’t think Papa will let you sit so long out of bed to require them yet,” Mary said. “But if you have another dressing gown…”
They had a visit from Mr. Barnes, who came with an armful of newspapers and excitement on his face. With everyone in the country—almost, there was always Aunt Yates and Papa—shouting they wouldn’t have Wellington as Prime Minister, the king had to consider reinstating Lord Grey.
“His Majesty threatened the Lords. Says he’ll make more peers. Enough to pass the bill,” Mr. Barnes said gleefully. He glanced about to make sure her father wasn’t about, then passed Samuel his flask. Samuel took a quick swallow with a glance of apology at her, and Mary rolled her eyes. Papa wouldn’t approve, but it was good to see Samuel asserting himself.
He and Mr. Barnes debated for an hour, and though Samuel tired by the end, he was articulate as ever.
“When can I expect your next drawing?” Barnes asked her.
“When you get Samuel’s next article,” Mary told him.
“Is that how it is?” Barnes chuckled, pleased.
When he left they sat in silence.
“We haven’t seen Neil,” Mary said.
“Perhaps he’s gone away. These are uncertain times,” Samuel suggested.
“He wouldn’t leave. Not while you’re still ill.” It seemed heartless.
“I’m out of danger. Can’t have him nursemaiding me forever, Mary. What of my pride?”
“I didn’t think you had any,” Mary teased, forgetting for the moment her grievance with Neil. “The way you were talking up Mr. Barnes—shameless!”
Mary carried out the empty luncheon tray. Neil wouldn’t leave without telling them. Surely not.
In the kitchen, she found Annie sitting with Cook, drinking a cup of tea. Annie wore her going-out dress and a smart bonnet Mary hadn’t seen before.
“Congratulations, miss. I hear you’re to marry Mr. Brown!”
Mary coloured at once, catching up Annie’s hands and laughing. “Yes, but what’s this nonsense about you not taking my money? I’ve no need of it, Annie, and you and Ben must be happy too.” The smile slipped off her face; Annie must know she was serious.
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“I’ll step into the hallway,” Cook said. “Keep watch for the doctor.”
The door closed behind her, and Mary drew Annie to a chair at the table. “I was so worried for you,” Mary said, not letting go of her hands. “I spoke to Mrs. Chin, but it was no good, so I went out to the bank, but the streets were—”
“I know. Mr. Murray told me. It’s so kind of you, miss, but when I think of you caught in that—you shouldn’t have gone. Got to be more careful.”
“I know. The truth is, I was hardly thinking at all. I just knew I had to help you and Ben. Is he—is everything all right?”
Annie grinned, and Mary felt herself pale next to her. Annie was in full bloom, her smile ready, eyes sparkling. Even before Annie could say it, Mary knew things had come right. It was plain in the confidence of Annie’s gaze, in the tilt of her chin.
“But how?” Mary asked.
“Oh, if things hadn’t gone this way, we’d have taken your money and blessed you forever. But the money’s yours, miss. You’ll want it if—” uncertainty made her stumble, but she dismissed it and carried on. “If things don’t work out with Mr. Brown.”
“I’m very happy with Mr. Brown,” Mary said sharply.
“Of course you are. I—I just—you know I’m not good with words, miss. No more worries about his recovery?”
“None. He’s progressing wonderfully.”
“That’s good. And you’re to be married soon?”
“As soon as we can.” It was the first time Mary had said so. But we will, she thought, almost vengefully.
“I just thought…in all your letters from Bath that perhaps Mr. Murray—”
Mary’s laugh tinkled like shards of breaking glass. “Don’t be daft, Annie. That was all just a ploy so he could get letters from me to Samuel.”
“Ah. I see.” Annie nodded.
“But you still haven’t told me about you and Benjamin,” Mary prompted her.
Confusion cleared from Annie’s brow. In an instant, she glowed again. “I feel like I’ve got the whole world,” Annie whispered.
“Go on,” Mary said. “Did Mrs. Chin see reason? Offer you a job? And keep on Ben?” She poured herself a cup of tea.