In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

The cloth was loosening, a little at a time, but it still must be pulling painfully at his skin. He groaned but did not stir.

  It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to see the look upon your face when I threw your flask into the ditch. I knew quite a bit about you just from that, Dante. I knew you were not given to temper tantrums, although I am sure many would argue with me, for if you were to be given to them, you would have had one then.

  Her voice went on, soft and soothing, and if St. James could weave a spell with his eyes and his mouth on her wrist or her palm, Lizzie could weave a spell with her voice.

  You gave me your gloves, do you remember? I felt like boxing your ears for that. It frightened me that you could so easily shoulder the complete responsibility of another person's life, clear down to whether her fingers were cold. It frightened me because it showed me just how very, very serious you were.

  Then the wound of his chest was exposed and she did not like what she saw. The blood was not clotting properly, despite Tyler's rough cauterization of the vessels, and she sniffed in a most undignified manner at it, pausing for that instant in her talking, but then her voice began again after that small break.

  You promised to listen to my concerns once we reached the inn, and you did, although I am sure you would have rather told me to be quiet and do as you said without question. I've noticed that Tyler and the Tempton brothers do so. That frightened me also, that they should take your word as law, then I came to see they merely trusted you a great deal.

  Tobacco? Whyever should she smell tobacco? Oh, Heavens, do not tell her that Tyler packed his wound with tobacco! But even as she thought this, there was a revealing wisp of it that had fallen inside the bandage. No wonder he was not clotting properly, he had absorbed whatever it was that brought Tyler so much pleasure.

  I do not know what to do about this, Dante, except to disinfect it and stitch you up the best I know how and hope that as you make new blood you dilute whatever it is in the tobacco that is thinning it.

  You did listen to my concerns, and I respected you for that. Then you told me to be quiet so you could think, and I thought that would be nothing but a ploy before you flatly refused to change your intentions. But you were thinking, and if you did not change your intentions, you amended them to the degree that, although I was not happy, I had hope that you were not totally without heart.

  She took the Borax powder and dusted the gaping hollow of skin. It was a good three inches long and all the meat of him in the middle of it was quite gone as though a plow had furrowed through, and she could see the white bone of his rib beneath. The skin around it showed the brutality of Tyler's ministrations and she shuddered to think of the pain St. James had endured.

  But I could not fathom why you were so determined to do as you had said, to marry me when you did not know me, when I could see upon my first glimpse of you that there were surely many that would desire to be your wife. And we spoke of motive, and I did not like how easily you read how I thought my life would be. Had it been so obvious? But you did not ridicule my intentions, even though after you had spoken them, they seemed somehow very sad.

  If only there were something to keep this blood away from where she worked! She was sopping it up every minute it seemed and it was slowing her down. She took up her first needle and suturing thread.

  You did not want to tell me your story. You did not want me to know your motives, and I guess even then, I knew that if I heard it, something was going to change quite profoundly between us, for you do not have the look about you of one who oft tells his woes.

  Funny how the most unacceptable actions can be made understandable when one knows what prompts them. But I do not condone it, Dante, never will. You should have let it go a long time ago and tried to rise above it. Living life as you should and being happy, even if you die unexpectedly and young, is better than this battle you have been engaged in for the most of your life. You may die anyway and not have lived at all. But of course, I should know that you accepted that risk, perhaps with rancor but accepting it all the same, wanting what should have been yours by right and nothing less.

  Her stitches were uniform and even, each knotting and snipping was swift, a feat that always amazed her in retrospect and brought her a good deal of teasing from her father. “If you can sew up some foal as neat as that, whyever can't you sew a new dress, Lizzie, my love?” She could only think that it was the degree of concentration she fell into when something she loved was hurt. She did not care two pins about a new dress.

  But the price you pay, I fear it is too much. You will never get back these years of hate and searching. And I am very much afraid of what you will be left to live with if you should prevail. I worry for you, Dante. I worry a great deal. And I do not know how to stop you or turn you. You may as well be Leaf heading for that fence, for there is nothing for it but for me to hang on and await that crash, for you will not accept any pulling on the reins.

  The fact that you were scandalized at my wearing breeches, that I found so very amusing, considering what I had heard of you. But in looking back I have to wonder if it were not even then that I gained your attention. Oh, not in that way, for that would be silly, although you seem to find it amusing to try to convince me that—well never-mind! All I am saying is that your mind must have already been analyzing what sort of woman would wear breeches, and unfortunately for me, I surmise you judged one that was not easily shocked. And since your proposal was very shocking indeed, I must conclude that this were an asset in your eyes.

  And that is where I get so very upset with you, for you were only pondering if I would be adequate for your purposes. You never consider, Dante, what you are fully asking of others. Or no, maybe that is not true. Maybe you do consider it and in your arrogance you think that you shall be able to make it up to them in some manner when all this is over. But will you be able to atone for Tyler never taking a wife? Oh, you do not like to see it, but I very much suspect that if he had not felt impelled to aid your cause and keep you safe that he would have married long ago. Or I may be doing you an injustice. He was there to see your parents' bodies, after all, and he may have his own feelings of wanting to see vengeance done.

  But your grandmother hurts. I am sure she could get over her own long-standing grief if she could see you happy. But you will not desist, nor will you even pretend that you have to her, for you will not lie, will you, Dante, even to comfort an old woman that you love?

  She tied off the last of the thick, black thread from the first needle, cut the needle free, laid it aside and picked up the second needle.

  And Andrew. Oh dear! Andrew. He wants to further your cause, and if you fail then he will surely fail also for although I think a great deal of him he is not as you are. But we have talked about him once, and you were very angry with me, and I am afraid it only made you all the more determined rather than discouraging you.

  You take on too much, Dante. You are only one man. You are not to blame for living when your parents died. How often do you think that you were meant to be in that coach? How often do you tell yourself that the only reason you were divinely spared was to seek vengeance?

  His muscles tensed, alerting her, just, before he moved. Then his right hand was clawing at his side where she worked and she was hard pressed to keep him from undoing her work. “Milord!” His eyes opened, but there was such a feverish gleam in them she did not even think he knew where he was. She rose from where she had been on her knees and leaned over him, catching a glancing blow to her side as she did so. She caught his flailing right hand and at the same time she spoke with soothing sternness. “St. James. St. James! Lie still, you are safe.”

  But he was swearing and fighting her holding his hand as though in the midst of some battle, and his injured left arm contracted in effort to aid him in gaining release from her.

  “Dante!”

  His eyes cleared, settled on her in fretful fever, and he stilled.

  “You're in your own bedchamber,” she w
ent on, her voice now quiet. “Quite safe. But you must lie still for you have lost a great deal of blood and I am endeavoring to stitch up your wound.”

  For answer he groaned, and his hand jerked in hers, not flailing now, but making a determined effort to go to his chest and his injury. She hung onto it in desperation. “No, no, milord. You cannot be pawing about at it. I know it must hurt—”

  “Damn. . . right!” he forced out and bit his teeth down hard together in closed eyed effort to control his groans. She watched him, worried. Oh, if only he had stayed out for just a little longer! Then his eyes snapped open and blazed at her. “What. . . are you. . . doing here? No. . . place for you. . . to be!”

  “Do you want a doctor?”

  “No!”

  “Then I am the best you are going to get. At least I am not packing you full of tobacco and burning you with an iron.”

  He gave such a grimace that she nearly smiled. “Do not remind. . . me of that. Damn. . . Tyler!”

  “He did what he thought was best, milord, and managed to keep you from bleeding to death before I got here, but I really must finish for I am only half done, you know, and I can not delay any longer.”

  “Whiskey. . . first.”

  “No, St. James. Only water for now,” and she loosed his hand from hers, which he had been holding with enough pressure to make her wince. “Which I will fetch if you promise to not be tearing at yourself.”

  “Wretched. . . lass! Probably. . . thrown. . . all out the window.” Then he cursed again, a broken stream of profanity that had her ears burning, but she understood that it was either that or a less masculine expression of pain, which he would not show. Silly fool. All the same, it was probably better, for screaming would bring somebody, and she understood that St. James did not want anyone to know of his injury. How he was to maintain that secret, she had no idea.

  She poured the water from the pitcher that Effington kept fresh in his room and returned to the bed with the glass. She placed her hand beneath his head, lifted him enough to put the glass to his mouth and was at least relieved at the momentary lapse in his cursing as he sipped. “More,” she told him, and he was in so much pain that he obeyed without argument, which made her smile slightly.

  When he finished, she set the glass aside. “I have to finish, mi-lord. And I fear it is going to be painful.”

  “I shall. . . endeavor. . . to manage. Just. . . get on. . . with it.”

  She settled herself back on her knees, began where she had left off and she had to admit that he did not even twitch when the needle pushed through the brutalized flaps of his skin.

  “Talk. . . Lizzie,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You. . . were talking. . . before, weren't you?”

  She blushed, but kept her eyes on her work. “Yes, milord. What do you wish me to talk about?”

  “Tell me what. . . happened at Almacks. Did Andrew. . . manage?”

  Her hand steadied. “Yes. Quite admirably, I should say, as I was quite stupid at that point. It was a most unforgivable display, milord.”

  A faint smile slanted his compressed lips.

  Her hands began to find their rhythm again. “But then you planned it that way, did you not? You had every intention of ruining me so that I would agree to walk shamefacedly to the alter with you. Shame on you, milord.”

  “As we are under. . . the most intimate of. . . circumstances presently,” he fought to get out with a hint of his usual teasing, “you must. . . call me. . . Dante.”

  “Hush! You are no sight to see at the moment, so do not try to make more of this than it is. And as I was saying, Dante, what you did was quite cruel.” She glanced up at him, his profile but a foot away from her own concentrating face, but his eyes were closed and his brow was knotted in an effort to remain in control, and, she suspected, to not slip again into unconsciousness. “I see you do not deny it,” she said. “But I did not think you would. Nor do I expect you will apologize, for you are quite without shame, but that does not surprise me either. But as I said, your cousin came leaping to the rescue, and Ryan Temp— (and her voice took on that whimsical teasing quality again as she fell quite completely into her work)

  —ton also. And as Ryan said that I must make a great show of thinking nothing of it myself, I managed to laugh and appear to have a very good time and then there were many young men asking for my hand in dancing, and I did have a good time. And it was all very strange for although you had the damnedest of intentions, it ended having just the opposite effect as you expected, or at least what I think you expected, for I did have to wonder if even this result was as you wanted it. But the degree of convolution your mind must work at to anticipate that reaction and already know of how you could use it to your advantage is so intimidating to me that I refuse to even delve into it. So we shall settle that you, for once, misjudged. I confess, it gives me more pleasure at any rate to believe that you are not infallible in your reasoning. In conclusion, I fear, mi-lord—Dante, that you accomplished nothing, except to blacken your own reputation as usual.

  Your grandmother was furious at your behavior, and I would wager very much regrets the money she paid to Lady Frobisher to entice your voucher out of her. Lady Frobisher, I noticed, was explaining quite earnestly to some other ladies present that I can only think were the other members of the board. I hope her daughter's wedding gift was worth it. It all entertained me very much, I confess.

  But your grandmother did not dare say anything on the ride home, only sat immovable in the carriage, for your aunt Lydia of course was spouting off in a way that made me want to reach across and shake her and tell her to be quiet for your grandmother's sake if not for yours. Or mine either, for it was not at all comfortable to listen to it. Oddly enough, she managed to make me out to be some sort of heroine who had withstood the very fires of hell and come out unscathed. She really does not see anything good in you at all, you know, milord—Dante. Which upsets me, I admit, for she was there at the time of your tragedy and you would think she could understand at least some of what you do.

  But she is a great feather-brain, so I should not be surprised that it all completely escapes her. Nothing is to interrupt the sacredness of the conventions. I do not know how she was before your uncle died, but I believe that she unhealthily dotes on Andrew, remarkable that he has not been adversely effected! and I am sure she is always so angry with you because she is afraid that Society will punish Andrew to some degree over it. Not that Andrew would care if they did. But she cares very much.

  She paused as she tied off the last of the thread from her second needle, cut the needle from it and chanced a glance up before reaching for the third. She was sure he had slipped back into unconsciousness, but his eyes flickered open at her brief silence, and she took the third needle and began stitching again and fell back into speaking her thoughts with little arrangement or design, just offering that soothing quality of her voice.

  So everyone was a great deal out of sorts by the time we reached your grandmother's house, for your aunt had stirred it all back up most lamentably. I retired, and even though I thought I would be unable to sleep, I did almost immediately until I heard Steven tapping on—

  “Steven!”

  Miss Murdock's fingers faltered and she had to think what she had just been saying for she had been only partially aware of it, the greater part of her mind on sewing his lordship back together. “Yes. Steven.” Then her voice rose, for he was struggling to sit up. “What are you doing!” But he neither heeded nor answered her. “You must lie still, milord, for I am not done yet!” She rose from her knees once again and bent over him.

  He fell back from his half-rise, panting. She was nearly in tears at the thought of her stitches tearing. “Oh, can't you lie still! I assure you Steven is as well as can be expected.”

  His eyes closed again, and his face was so pale that she feared he had really done it and would be unconscious again in short order, which at this moment, she would not necessarily look upon as so
mething bad. “Where?” he ground out, and the word turned into a groan, which he bit off between his teeth.

  “In my bedchamber at your grandmother's,” and as his eyes snapped open again at this pronouncement, she hurried to soothe him as best she could. “He is sleeping, milord, and no one knows of his presence, and even now Tyler and Andrew are about getting him out and bringing him here.” She did not add that they were also about removing Steven's father's body from the mew, for she did not know if St. James were aware of that loss of life and she would not upset him further.

  His panting subsided and he half raised his head again. “Damn it!

  I am. . . too bloody weak!”

  “Yes, milord,” she told him. “And you will only get weaker instead of stronger if you do not let me finish!”

  “You should. . . not be here.”

  “Yes, yes, milord. And I will go as soon as I am done,” she soothed, although she had no intention of leaving. “So please lie still and I will finish in short order, I promise you.”

  “Tell me what. . . Steven said.”

  “While I work. I will tell you all I know while I work.”

  He did lie still, but his eyes did not shut as before but were dark and brooding. Lizzie knelt and picked up the needle once again, settled herself to resume her work. Her hands were shaking, and so there was a moment when she did nothing but try to calm herself. She expected him to be impatient, but a glance at him showed he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that she was loathe to interrupt him when she did begin to speak. “He came to my window, as he had the night before. And he had—had blood on him and was very upset.”

  His face was immobile and even his pain seemed to be set aside to the immediacy of his contemplation. She was not even sure he were listening to her, but at her hesitation, for she was trying to think ahead and, yes, edit her tale for she did not wish to upset him any further than he already was, he prompted her.

  “Go on.”

  “So I—I brought him in the window and asked him what had happened and he. . . he said you were injured and here.”