Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series)

by Heisinger, Sonja

  He would sneak into the house through the servants’ kitchen, creeping behind walls and around corners until he perceived her nearness. Before long he knew where he could find her, for she continuously returned to the same place. In the parlor was a high-backed damask chair positioned near the window. No one but Evelyn ever sat there, for it was the furthest corner from the hearth and the cold glass stole any hope of warmth. Yet something made her gravitate to it, as though it was the only seat in the house. There she sat, her back rigid and straight, a book resting unopened upon her lap. She did not speak and she did not move except for the constant and absentminded picking of her fingernails. She had turned the chair to face the window, and not once in three days did she peel her eyes from it.

  She did not eat, she did not drink. She hardly breathed.

  Lucius wondered how long this behavior- or lack of it- would continue. He did not know if anything he could say would help, so he said nothing. Instead he fretted, he started, he stopped, he turned, and he left.

  Until that third evening, when he peered over at the chair and saw no one but the chair itself. Her book was lying there, undisturbed. Forgotten.

  A grandfather clock filled the quiet house with its rhythmic ticking. It seemed loud, thunderously loud.

  And then there was a sniffle. It was much quieter than the clock, but it was there, in the house, nonetheless. It came again from behind a bedroom door, and Lucius knew it came from her.

  He held his breath. He was afraid to move any closer, but he felt powerless not to. As painful as it was he had to listen. He moved quietly through the hall until he was near enough to press his ear against the door.

  She was weeping. It was soft but strong. Instinctively his hand stretched towards the doorknob, but he quickly pulled it away as through it had burst into flame. He should not go in there. He could not. It was not his place.

  The sound of her despair escalated quickly. There was a sharp intake of breath, then- dear God- a scream. Not a frightened scream, but an agonized scream. It pierced through the walls, cutting into Lucius’ chest and lifting the hair on his arms. It drove deep inside of him, stirring wells of pity. His cheeks grew wet and he realized that he too was crying.

  The strength left his legs and he slid onto the floor, propped up against the wall. Evelyn’s screams subsided into a series of hiccupping sobs, and after some time the sobs subsided into the breath of sleep.

  Lucius left that night and did not return for some time. When he did, it was not to spy on Evelyn, but to steal from his father’s store of whisky. Forgetfulness was a temporary balm, and the liquor was the quickest way to obtain it.

  In a strange and foreign way, her sadness moved him unlike anything else. It made him feel weak, powerless, and desperate, like when they were children and she would fall and scrape her knee. He would want to carry her, to hold her hand, to kiss her, to do anything that might assuage the hurt. But there was no balm for the ache she carried: not when she was small, not when she had just lost her father, and not now, this night, when the remembrance of him upset her in the presence of her friends.

  Again Lucius felt that desperation. He could not watch her cry. Instead he closed his eyes, readjusted his violin, and opened his mouth. He sang the words she had forgotten, because he did not know what else to do.

  As Evelyn listened, she realized that in all their childhood concerts, Lucius had never before been asked to sing. The singing had always fallen to her, with Lucius as the accompaniment. He had always been required to follow her lead, to remain in the shadows, and ever at his father’s command. She had never heard his voice, not like this. Tragically, that had always made her believe he did not have one.

  The Whitfields listened rapturously while Brock leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He was watching Lucius watching Evelyn, and he thought he could see a trace of fondness in the younger man’s gaze.

  It was unsettling, to say the least.

  When the song ended, Adele applauded enthusiastically and demanded another.

  “Yes, you compliment each other well, don’t you?” Brock agreed wryly. “It sounds as if you sing together often.”

  “We have not made music for some years,” Evelyn corrected him, her voice altered from emotion. “We were forced to play as children. I was made to sing at the piano while Lucius played his violin; but before this night, I had never heard him sing.”

  She peered at Lucius with an eyebrow raised in inquisition.

  “We grew up together, yes,” Lucius agreed. “But in the many years leading up to this voyage, my path and Evelyn’s have rarely crossed. Singing is one of my hidden talents, and I am afraid, Miss Brennan, there is still much more to me that you have yet to learn, if you would only stoop to do so.”

  She had no reply, as his words were tainted with hurt, like the sudden ache of a forgotten wound.

  “I have never heard of a duchess stooping for anyone,” Brock chided. “Rather, Lucius, would you stoop to play something a little more lively? That last tune was fearfully reminiscent of our current predicament, which is a bit depressing, so I was curious if you were acquainted with any dancing numbers?”

  Lucius frowned in offense.

  “Oh, a dance!” Adele declared, oblivious to the conflict of wills rising between the two men. “Mr. Whitfield, it shall be just like the parties in England!”

  “Yes,” her husband agreed. “Only we have one violinist in contrast to an orchestra, and a stateroom in place of a ballroom.”

  “Do play for us a jig, Mr. Flynn,” Adele pleaded. Bartholomew had nodded off during the last tune and his mother was settling him into his blankets. “The boy has fallen asleep. Let us take advantage of the moment!”

  Lucius looked at Evelyn, whose eyes were fastened on Brock. The large man had already slipped a hand around her waist, and Lucius recoiled at the sight. It came as a shock, and at once, an alarming wave of jealousy swept over him.

  “Miss Brennan,” he said, more forceful than he intended, “as you are indeed our very own duchess, pray tell me which tune I should play?”

  Bothered by the interruption, Evelyn turned to him with an annoyed expression.

  “You know more tunes than I, Mr. Flynn. Choose one.”

  Lucius was wounded by her disinterest, so he turned a fierce look upon his instrument and struck up an old Celtic melody. He played as he had not played in years, with wild fervor and abandonment. His breathing picked up along with the pace, until everything about the room seemed taken in fever.

  Adele’s laughter could be heard throughout, as she and her husband capered about the room in a European trot. Brock led Evelyn in something more heated, a step he had no doubt picked up in Cuba. Evelyn did not know the dance and spent much of it feeling silly in clumsy attempts to follow her partner. Lucius stole a glance at the pair and smiled to himself, because for all his size and brawn, Brock was a terrible dancer.

  Late in the night, Evelyn turned fitfully onto her side and squinted into the darkness of the stateroom. She wondered if anyone else was having as much trouble sleeping, so she listened for the slightest hint of wakefulness among the others.

  She had grown accustomed to the common sounds of their cabin: the creaking ship, Stephen Whitfield’s deep, peaceful breathing, the baby’s occasional grunt and sigh, and Adele’s gentle snoring. Lucius was generally a sound sleeper, though he muttered occasionally. If Evelyn could not sleep, she attempted to decipher his words, though they were often slurred and unintelligible.

  Evelyn was beginning to believe she was the only one awake, when she heard a new sound altogether. At first, it was so close she thought it came from someone within the cabin.

  It was a painful sound, one that began deep in the stomach and made its way up through the throat and out the mouth.

  Someone was retching, and it sounded an awful lot like Lucius.

  She gasped his name, her voice little more than a breath. She sat up in the moonlight and searched th
e room for his form.

  He was lying still on the floor, and next to him was a conscious Brock Donnigan.

  “It isn’t him,” he assured her. “It’s some poor bloke in the hall.”

  “My God, it sounds so close.”

  “That’s because it is,” Brock whispered. “It would seem the cholera has escaped from steerage.”

  Evelyn’s eyes widened in fear.

  “How are you feeling?” Brock asked.

  “I believe I’m all right. And you?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.”

  Evelyn swallowed. The man in the hall retched again, a groan of agony following the splash of vomit upon the floor.

  “I shall not be able to sleep through this,” Evelyn murmured. “It is like waiting for some fearful creature to come and claim me in the night. Suddenly it seems so very real, as if it is approaching this very moment.”

  Brock sat up and shifted his position until he was face-to-face with Evelyn.

  “Don’t be frightened, Duchess.”

  But she was trembling.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “I will not allow any sort of fearful creature near you.”

  “I do not think your strength will be of any contest against it.”

  “Then tell me what I can offer as consolation.”

  In the darkness, his gaze was so direct it caused Evelyn’s to falter.

  “I do not know,” she told him.

  He chuckled softly.

  “I will never forget this night,” he said.

  “Nor will I, should I live through it.”

  “It is not the fear of death I shall remember.”

  “Whatever else should you recall?”

  “This is the first night we have spent together.”

  Evelyn’s stomach tightened.

  “You imply there shall be more,” she stammered.

  “Can a duchess love a vagabond?”

  “If you believe I am a duchess, you must presume I married a duke.”

  “You did not hear me call you ‘princess’.”

  He knew. She knew that he knew. But how? And when did he begin to suspect it?

  “Then you accuse me of secrecy,” she said, trying to pretend that she had not been caught in her pretense.

  Brock glanced at Lucius.

  “I saw the way he looked at you tonight. And you, Duchess, are a terrible liar.”

  “Am I?”

  “Evelyn Brennan would never bow to the position of governess. Wife, perhaps; if the title was unavoidable. Or forced upon you by someone else.”

  “What are you implying, Mr. Donnigan?”

  “I knew you for a married woman the moment you walked into the saloon wearing that scarlet gown. Do not take me for a fool, Duchess. You hold Lucius in contempt because he is yours by rite and not by will.”

  Evelyn thrust her chin in the air.

  “You accuse me of being a wife, yet you do nothing to hide the favor in your eyes. You look upon me with conspicuous desire and do not attempt to disguise it. Do you fear nothing? Not my husband’s jealousy nor the wrath of God?”

  “If I believed Lucius was capable of anything more than jealousy, I might have something to fear. As things stand, he is little more than petulant. You, Duchess, do not veil your desire for me any more than I, yet Mr. Flynn does nothing. As for God, if he is vengeful, then I shall not live through this current epidemic; but at least all of my cards are out on the table.”

  “Yes, you are most candid.”

  “I console myself that I shall not bear God’s vengeance alone.”

  “Are you so confident of my unfaithful heart?”

  “I doubt not your allegiance. I simply call into question to whom it belongs.”

  “You presume I am in love with you.”

  “I presume you hold me in higher esteem than the husband whom you despise.”

  “I do not know how to respond to such an accusation.”

  “You might confirm it with your lips.”

  “They fail with words.”

  “Then allow them to succeed with a kiss.”

  Evelyn recoiled at Brock’s audacity when the sound of retching recommenced. It seemed closer somehow, as if the poor soul in the hallway had stepped into their room.

  “What is that sound?” someone asked. Adele had stirred from sleep.

  It was then that Brock felt the warmth of vomit seeping into his clothes. He turned and saw that Lucius had purged all over himself.

  “Blast!” Brock cursed, jumping to his feet. “The bugger’s infected!”

  Evelyn gasped in astonishment.

  The cholera was here, and it had found Lucius.

  Lucius.

  “Has Josephine returned?” Adele asked. “Surely she can help.”

  All eyes searched the room, but the girl was not in her bed.

  “We’ve got to get him out of here,” Brock insisted. “Stephen, your assistance please.”

  Mr. Whitfield rose to help the Australian lift Lucius from the floor.

  “What are you doing with him?” Evelyn asked, her voice shrill with panic.

  Lucius was sick. Lucius had cholera. Lucius could die.

  “He must be removed to the hall with the others,” Brock replied, “and we must do what we can to cleanse the room. Adele, have you any soap?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You best fetch it.”

  Adele maneuvered around the men while Evelyn stared at Lucius. His skin was pallid in the light of the moon, his eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Are we to just leave him alone?” she asked. “Who is to care for him?”

  The men did not reply, but continued to haul Lucius away.

  “Who is to care for him?” Evelyn repeated, raising her voice.

  She watched as her husband was carried off, not knowing what to do, what to think, or what to feel.

  Nobody said who was to care for him, because nobody intended to care for him. Lucius was contaminated. Lucius was as good as dead.

  Dead.

  Like a hundred thousand starving Irishmen. Like Cassandra Flynn. Like Emmett Brennan.

  And nothing was to be done about it.

  Brock and Stephen opened the door and the pungent, acrid odor of human excrement filled the room. There were many others in the hall, their presence apparent in the cacophony of groans, cries, and retching.

  Brock balked at the wall of stench that greeted them as he and Stephen stepped from the stateroom.

  “Set him down, quickly,” he told Stephen, his gait wavering. “We cannot linger here.”

  They released Lucius and fled to their quarters, where the women had kerchiefs pressed against their mouths and noses.

  “You will not take him to the infirmary?” Evelyn asked.

  “By now the infirmary will be full,” Brock replied. “There’s no point.”

  “So you simply dropped him in the hallway like refuse?”

  Brock did not respond, because that is exactly what had happened.

  Angrily, Evelyn shook her head. This was not right. This was inhuman. Lucius was not dead, not yet; and as long as something could be done, she would do it. She must.

  She rose and moved frantically about the room, gathering cloths, oils, and a basin for water.

  “What are you doing, Duchess?” Brock asked.

  “He should not be unattended.”

  “He is not your responsibility!”

  “I cannot leave him like this.”

  Brock grabbed her arm.

  “Would he do the same for you?”

  Evelyn was quiet, for she did not know the answer to that question.

  Seeing her falter, Brock rushed to dissuade her from leaving.

  “There’s no hope for him, Evelyn,” he told her. “You knew that the moment he-”

  She did not want to listen. She could not listen.

  “He will die if I do nothing!” she cried.

  She did not expect him to unde
rstand. Indeed, she barely understood herself. But she would not be helpless, not this time. Not as she was helpless the night her father died.

  “My dear Evelyn,” Adele said softly, “you must do what you feel is best.”

  Finally, an advocate!

  “No!” Brock argued. “It is not worth your life, Evelyn.”

  “Nor is it worth his!” she cried in return. “I will not stand by while he dies! I must do something.”

  Before she could be persuaded otherwise, Evelyn launched herself through the door and into the hall.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her kerchief did little to prevent her senses from being assaulted by what she saw and smelled.

  The hall was lit by a faint lamp, which hung several doors down. The light cast a strange glow upon the scene, causing the scattered bodies to appear as creeping, ghoulish shadows. They lay still until their nerves seized in pain, their arms and legs going rigid with convulsions.

  Puddles of their fetid drainage had formed upon the floorboards, the sight of which nearly caused Evelyn to topple backwards into the stateroom.

  A nightmare. She had walked into a nightmare.

  She might have retreated had she not caught sight of Lucius, who lay still, vomit caked in his hair and nightshirt. He was shivering, his face shining with sweat.

  She steeled herself against her own instinct to turn away, and instead crept towards him, arguing with herself that helping Lucius meant more to her than leaving him to die. She had to convince herself of this, lest she should choose her own life over his.

  Besides, she was exposed to the sickness now. There was no going back.

  As Evelyn had never cared for a sick person in her life, she had to draw from memories of her own illnesses, when the best doctors and nurses had been hired to restore her health.

  She crouched beside Lucius and uncapped one of her oils, which she passed beneath his nose.

  “Lucius, can you hear me? Breathe it in, Lucius. Come on, there’s a good lad.”