by BJ Hoff
“You became addicted.”
He nodded, and she could almost feel his misery.
“It begins so innocently,” he went on. “For many, it’s as simple as purchasing a few compounds from the chemist to ease some sort of physical distress. Or in far too many cases—like mine—a physician who means only to help initiates a deadly cycle. But it almost always ends up the same way: one becomes enslaved by the very thing that was meant to free him of the pain.”
“But obviously, you’re not still addicted. You’ve taken a cure—”
His head came up, and he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “An addict is never cured, Bethany. Not completely. You know that.” He wiped a hand over his mouth. “I will always be an addict. A former addict, God willing, but an addict, all the same.”
“I can’t…it’s almost impossible for me to imagine you…that way…”
“You wouldn’t have liked me very much, that’s certain. I despised myself during that time. Every day I promised myself I’d quit. But when I tried”—he shook his head—“I was scrambling for more of the stuff within hours.”
“How…did you overcome it?”
“Cold abstinence.”
His words came out like bullets, and the turbulence of emotion in his face made Bethany shudder.
He pressed on. “About the same time that I realized what was happening to me, that I had become dependent, my roommate also became aware. Somehow or other he managed to get permission for both of us to leave the college for several days. He took me to his parents’ home in Edinburgh, where he made preparations and then locked both of us inside an attic room.”
“I scarcely made it through the first stage. The second stage was pure torture—I’ll spare you the details.”
“No,” Bethany said quietly. “Tell me. I want to know everything you went through.”
His features contorted, but he nodded. “Every nerve, every muscle feels as though it’s been scraped raw and then left to burn in the sun. Nausea, abdominal cramps, fever, unbearable spasms that set your entire body to shaking—” He stopped, closing his eyes for a moment.
“It’s as if everything in you is twisted and crushed and pulled apart. You think you’re dying and pray you will. And the entire time this is going on, you know you’re not just battling for your health or your sanity—you’re battling for your very soul.”
“Oh, Andrew,” Bethany whispered. “How did you ever bear it?”
He made a lame attempt at a smile, but it quickly fell apart. “Well—let’s just say I’ll be forever grateful to Charles Gordon. My roommate. For his perception and his prayers and his strong back. He kept me from taking a leap from the attic window more than once. And he stormed heaven on my behalf for days. Not to mention all the abuse he put up with in the meantime.” He stopped. “I owe him a debt I could never repay. He literally saved my life.”
Bethany’s mind felt numb. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that, Andrew.”
He turned his face toward hers. “Not half as sorry as I am that I had to tell you about it. I saw your shock and revulsion the night we went to see Mary Lambert, and from that time on I lived in terror that I’d see the same thing on your face once you knew about me.
“I’m ashamed for you to know about that time in my life, Bethany. All I can do is promise you that it’s over. Completely over. But perhaps…that doesn’t matter. The very fact that it happened is no doubt enough to shake your faith in me.”
Slowly, Bethany took his face between her hands, holding him steady and making him look at her. “Don’t insult me, Andrew,” she said. “It would be a poor kind of love indeed that would allow the past to destroy the present and the future. I’m sorry for what you endured, and I hate it that you had to go through that, but it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”
Please, God, let it be the truth, she thought fiercely. Let me be strong enough to put this terrible thing behind us and never look back.
She could. Of course, she could. The man she had kissed only moments before wasn’t the same man as that young college student. Awful as the experience must have been for him, it took an incredible measure of courage and strength to go through what he did and survive it. The very fact that he had fought it and overcome it only confirmed her measure of the man. In time, she would be able to look at him and never think of the other.
She would…
“I have to ask you this,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Now that you know—how do you feel about me?”
Their faces were so close they shared a breath. “I believe I’ve already mentioned the word love, Andrew.”
Snow was falling again, and the wind blew a spray of it inside the arbor. Andrew freed one hand to brush away a stray snowflake from the corner of her mouth. “You’re quite sure?”
“Sure enough that I believe I just might marry you, Andrew Carmichael.”
A slow smile worked its way across his features. “Do you mean that?”
“Oh, I mean it all right. There’s just one thing—”
His smile wavered. “What would that be?”
“Are you ever going to get around to asking me?”
23
WHEN THE THUNDERBOLT STRIKES
Whiter she than the lily,
Than beauty more fair,
Sweeter voiced than the violin,
More lightsome than the sun;
Yet beyond all that
Her nobleness, her mind—
O God Who art in Heaven,
Relieve my pain!
ANONYMOUS, 19TH CENTURY, TRANSLATED BY PADRAIC PEARSE
For several mornings now Paul Santi had watched, hoping to catch a glimpse of Conn MacGovern’s daughter when she came outside.
Sometimes she appeared at the front of the house, sweeping the porch or picking up stray playthings. Other mornings she would walk out back to toss food to the chickens or to play with one of the cats living in the stables.
So far, Paul had resisted any attempt to engage her in conversation. This morning, however, as he stood on the brow of the upward slope that separated the main house from the caretaker’s cottage, she actually started up the hillside, in pursuit of a black-and-white kitten, now bounding toward Paul as fast as its tiny legs would carry it.
The girl stopped halfway up the rise, her gaze going from the kitten to Paul as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind what to do. On impulse, Paul reached down and scooped up the small creature before it could dodge past him. After another second or two, the MacGovern girl again started toward him.
With every step of her approach, Paul could see that she was even more lovely than she’d appeared at a distance. Her hair was a cloud of auburn, though not quite so fiery as her mother’s. She was slender enough to appear fragile but carried herself with the purposeful, fluid grace of Mrs. MacGovern, a strikingly attractive woman in her own right.
Only a few feet away, she halted again. Paul smiled, hoping to reassure her that he was entirely harmless as he closed the distance between them.
“Yours?” he said, placing the kitten in her arms.
She shook her head without meeting his eyes, snuggling the kitten against her.
For one irrational moment, Paul found himself envying the small creature.
“Well, he thinks he’s yours,” he said. “Or at least he would like to be.”
Finally, she smiled, and Paul felt as if a vial of sunshine had been poured out over his head like a blessing.
“His mother is one of the stable cats,” she said shyly. “But I’ve rather…adopted him, you see.”
Her soft voice, tuned by the lilting Irish accent, was sheer melody to Paul’s ear. And those eyes! As shining and as brilliant as the most priceless of emeralds!
He knew he was staring like a great stupido, but when he tried to speak, he seemed to have lost his voice.
“You are Mr. Emmanuel’s cousin,” she said, reminding Paul that in addition to acting like a fool, he was also being rud
e.
“Sì,” he managed. “Mi scusi. Forgive me. I am Paul Santi. And you are Mr. MacGovern’s daughter.” He cringed at the realization that he sounded like a foolish schoolboy.
But she was still smiling at him, so perhaps she was not put off by his awkwardness after all.
“Your father—I speak with him each day. Michael says Mr. MacGovern has already proven himself to be invaluable.” He cleared his throat. “We—all of us—are very glad that you and your family are here.”
She looked down, and Paul had all he could do not to lay his hand on top of her head to find out if her hair felt as silken as it looked.
At that moment he glanced toward the cottage, only to see Conn MacGovern standing on the front porch, watching them. MacGovern was a big man who typically looked at Paul with an expression of mild contempt. No doubt the Irish trainer had taken note of the fact that Paul, unlike Michael and MacGovern himself, preferred to keep his distance from the horses.
Paul was finding it difficult to concentrate, his attention going from the girl standing only inches away from him to her father, who had stepped off the porch and now stood in the yard, arms crossed over his brawny chest, watching them intently.
“Ah…your father,” Paul said, inclining his head in MacGovern’s direction.
She turned to look, and at the same time MacGovern called to her.
Nell Grace. It suited her, Paul decided.
When she turned back to him, she shot him another quick smile. “I’d best be away now.”
“Yes…of course. I…may I say that I’m very pleased to have finally met you, Miss MacGovern,” Paul managed to say.
She turned and hurried back down the hill, the kitten watching Paul over her shoulder.
He saw her exchange words with her father, then go around toward the barn. MacGovern followed her, taking her by one arm—not a rough gesture but one of protective firmness all the same. MacGovern glanced back at him once, and although they were too far apart to gauge his expression, Paul felt almost certain that the big Irishman’s glare would have withered the grapes on a vine.
But he would think about MacGovern later. Nothing must be allowed to spoil this momentous morning, which quite possibly might turn out to be the most important day of his life.
The thunderbolt. He had been struck by the thunderbolt.
At long last, love had come.
Inside the cottage, Conn stood with his back to the sink, finishing his second cup of tea, scalding hot and strong enough to make his ears ring, the way he liked it. No one except Vangie could make tea to please him.
He watched her spoon some stirabout into Baby Emma’s mouth, at the same time attempting to quiet the twins, who were far more interested in pestering each other than in finishing their breakfast. Renny Magee was already off to the stables, and Nell Grace had headed for the back of the house the minute she returned from shutting the kitten inside the barn. No doubt to bury herself in her books or her writing pad.
He knew he had embarrassed the lass, but though he dreaded her tears almost as much as those of her mother, he was not about to tolerate her carrying on with that cheeky Italian fellow. He had just come back from saddling the stallion for his employer’s early morning ride when he’d spotted the two of them, Nell Grace and that Santi gorsoon, standing on the hillside blathering as though they’d known each other most of their days. The thought of that young sneak skulking about after Nell Grace had set his blood to boiling.
To his surprise and annoyance, Vangie had seemed altogether unperturbed when he told her. Determined that she should understand, and growing impatient with the twins’ antics, he now ordered them to get their coats and wait outside for the school wagon.
“I don’t see why we have to go to school anyway,” grumbled Sean, who only the week before had informed his parents that he was an American and now preferred to be called Johnny.
“You have to go to school so you’ll not be a cabbagehead the rest of your life,” said his twin brother, punching him in the ribs.
James was the darker of the two, his hair a deeper red, his skin not quite so pale. When it came to mischief, however, it seemed to Conn that they were perfectly matched.
“That’ll do!” he warned. He took a step toward them, and they went scrambling for their coats.
“If you learn nothing else at school,” Conn grumbled, “perhaps you’ll acquire the means to behave like civilized children instead of troublesome little heathens.”
The twins glanced at each other, eyes glinting, but Conn gave them a look that quickly cut short even the thought of a snicker.
“Your lunch, boys,” Vangie said before they made it to the door. Sean—Johnny, Conn reminded himself—came back to grab their pail off the table, aiming a kiss at his mother’s cheek that barely connected before he again dashed out the door. James watched, then he, too, darted across the room to kiss his mother good-bye.
The instant Vangie set Baby Emma to the floor, the child promptly trundled over to Conn. He picked her up and swung her about a couple of times, then off she went behind the stove to play with the wooden blocks her brothers had carved and polished for her.
“Those two,” Conn said with a sigh, sitting down beside Vangie at the table. “I don’t like to think of the trouble they’ll bring when they’re older.”
“They’re good boys. Give thanks they’re in good health and have plenty of life in them.”
“Oh, I’m thankful enough for that. It’s the mischief in them that worries me.”
“They’re but eight years old, don’t forget.” She paused. “What happened between you and Nell Grace?”
“She was up the way with that Italian fellow.”
“Mr. Emmanuel?”
“No, no, the skinny one. The one with the smart talk and the yellow streak.”
“Conn! You don’t even know the lad.”
“I know what I see. He’s all talk, that one is. He won’t even go near the horses.” Conn scowled. “I say, never trust a man who doesn’t take to the horses.”
Vangie looked at him, then shook her head. “Conn MacGovern, sometimes I could just box your ears.”
“What?” Conn couldn’t believe it. She was vexed with him! “You can’t mean you approve of the girl cavorting with his kind!”
“Cavorting? Oh, Conn, would you listen to yourself, you great oaf! I thought you said Nell Grace was merely talking with the lad. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with that!”
“She ought not to be anywhere near him. Or any other boyo, for that matter! The girl is only seventeen, after all.”
Vangie was eyeing him as if he’d grown an extra head. She didn’t understand; that was the thing. What did she know about untrustworthy men, after all?
“You can be such a dolt at times,” she said matter-of-factly. “Have you forgotten, then, that I was only seventeen when we were married?”
“That was different,” he said, and of course it was.
“Different, indeed,” she muttered. “And your point is, I expect, that the young man at the Big House is Italian instead of Irish.”
“Exactly.”
“He would also appear to be respectful and well-mannered. A gentleman, from what I’ve seen of him.”
Conn frowned. “I wouldn’t be knowing anything about that.”
“No, indeed you would not.”
Conn couldn’t make out her tone, but from the look in her eye it wasn’t in his favor.
“He’s well-educated as well. You can hear it in his speech.” She brushed some crumbs off the edge of the table into her hand.
Conn shrugged. What good was education if a man had no backbone?
“And he’s obviously from good people,” Vangie went on. “Mr. Emmanuel is a good man, a Christian man. You said so yourself. And the boy is his cousin, isn’t that so?”
“Be that as it may—”
She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t see the harm in Nell Grace making conversation with the lad. She needs fri
ends, especially missing her brother as she does.”
They locked gazes a moment more, then she looked away. There seemed to be no understanding Vangie these days. One minute she would dissolve into tears if he disagreed with her even on the least of matters, but then just as quickly she would turn all fire and smoke, taking him to task for a misspoken word.
Still, he’d rather have her vexed with him for his thickheadedness than hollow-eyed with sorrow. Aye, better her fussing than her weeping, and that was the truth.
He leaned forward to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. When she made no response, he got up from the chair and glanced at his pocket watch. “I’d best be getting back to the stables. Himself will be wanting his ride soon.”
He stood over her, hesitating, uncertain as to whether he ought to say what was still on his mind. But he was the man of the house, after all. “So, then—you’ll keep Nell Grace away from that Santi fellow?”
Her chin went up. “I’ll do no such thing. Our girl is not a child any longer, Conn, and it’s time you realized it. Nell Grace is at an age where she has the right to speak with anyone she chooses. And she’s not a foolish girl. We can trust her judgment, it seems to me.”
Confused now, for it was a rare thing entirely for Vangie to openly defy him, Conn went for his coat. He was reluctant to leave things as they were, but couldn’t think how to handle her when she was in such a state.
Once at the door, however, he turned back. “Even so,” he said, determined to make his point, “no good can come of letting a boyo like that slaver after her. And him a coward at that.”
She shook her head, not looking at him as she rose from the table.
“Well, then,” he finally said, “I’ll be in by noonday.”
Conn stepped outside, closing the door behind him. There was no explaining the strangeness in Vangie this morning. For a few moments he had glimpsed the fire he had always admired in her. Indeed, he almost welcomed her impatience with him. But nearly as quickly as the sparks had flared, the heaviness had returned, taking the light from her eyes and the color from her cheeks.