In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  Miss Murdock slammed the door behind Jeannie as she entered the room. “No. You may not help me bathe or to dress, for I am perfectly capable and can do it much faster without you. But you may pack a valise for me, as I have been given to understand that the Dowager saw fit to bring a good many of my clothing with her from London.”

  “You are leaving then, Miss?” Jeannie dared to ask, for the easygoing and easily guided Miss that she had become accustomed to in London was not in the least evident.

  “Indeed, I am. For I could scarce call this home any longer even if circumstances were different. It is a wonder my father has not choked me for bringing all this down upon his head. Although it was his folly that brought it on, so perhaps I should be grateful to see him made so uncomfortable. No. No stays, Jeannie, for I shall be damned if I am going to be laced to the point where I can barely breathe.”

  In the room next door, the Duchess was bidding Soren that she be made ready to leave also, and that her luggage be light as the rest could follow later. And if Soren bethought this very strange of her employer to be traveling without her multitude of baggage she was wise enough to not question it.

  Miss Murdock bathed and washed her hair, which Jeannie rinsed for her and Miss Murdock did not upbraid her, as that, at least, was quicker when having someone helping. Then she dressed in a powder blue traveling dress, allowed Jeannie to put her hair up in something called a French twist, that Jeannie assured her was just beginning to become all the rage, and which in its severity, suited her.

  She forwent her bonnet, as Jeannie did not have it at hand and would be forced to search through the still largely unpacked luggage, and she hurried from the room and down the stairs.

  If Lizzie's eyes were still somewhat bloodshot, and her face still paler than was normal for her, Mrs. Herriot upon coming across her at the bottom of the stairs was still brought up short at this somewhat remarkable transformation of milord's fiancé. “Why, Miss, you are not so very bad after all!” she exclaimed with happy pleasure.

  But Miss Murdock only waved an irritated hand at her. “Oh, bother. As if I care a whit one way or the other. Has Lord Larrimer's coach been brought around yet?” and she opened the entrance door to see for herself. “And I shall need a cloak, Mrs. Herriot, if you do not mind running above stairs and getting one from Jeannie.” For Jeannie was still digging frantically in search of a matching cloak, not heeding advice from Lizzie that she did not care if it matched or not.

  But even as Lizzie said this, Jeannie bounded down the stairs with the discussed garment in her hands, and as it was powder blue also, she held it up with triumph. Outside the open door, Bertie came to the foot of the flagstone steps, the Squire at his side, still in his dirty robe and boots. They moved slowly, for it had stormed (a circumstance that Miss Murdock had not even particularly noticed) and although it had quit raining there was still a good deal of damp in the air, and her father's gout had not taken kindly to this spurt of bad weather.

  Andrew's carriage was waiting, and Lizzie saw this with relief. Although she imagined she would spend many grueling hours of worry in it, and still more hours across the border waiting, she still had an urgent feeling of haste. The fact that St. James would in all likelihood, if he survived, be many hours behind her could not dispel this feeling. For she well realized that there would be Tyler to attend to, and St. James would not leave him until he was certain that he could be made well and comfortable. And there would be the business of the two assassins. And finally the business with his aunt that would necessitate him traveling to London, quite the opposite direction of Miss Murdock, and the actual confrontation, and then of course a great deal of distance to be covered in coming back. Somewhere in there, he would have to sleep also.

  She reasoned this all out, but still had this dreadful feeling of hurry, hurry, and she refused to study upon this compulsion, for she very much feared her true reason was that she was afraid if she did not leave soon, she would have word of his death, and would not even have the hours of hope that the traveling and waiting would afford her.

  And if she were normally not so cowardly as to not want to face up to bad news immediately, she was feeling a good deal cowardly now and wished to delay that possible news as long as possible.

  Bertie glanced up at sight of her in the door. “They are ready, Miss Murdock, as you can see. If you can but give me a few spare minutes, I will gather a few of my items and be with you.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, but had no chance to expound, for her father, perceiving Bertie's words and Lizzie's intent, interrupted her.

  “What is this, lass? You do not mean to say that you are leaving again? Not when you have only just arrived and that infernal scoundrel of a fiancé of yours. . . has. . . ridden—” his words trailed and then broke off as he turned with distraction, as did Bertie, and they were part way up the steps and had a clear view of the lane, and it was the sound of horse's hooves, galloping unchecked toward them, that had drawn their attention.

  Lizzie saw over the top of the waiting carriage that a horse ran with abandon toward them. She recognized it as her black filly, and before she could wonder who had saddled her and taken her out, she saw that the figure in the saddle listed far down, one arm hugging the filly's bobbing neck as a last resort before falling.

  And as illogical as it was that he had ridden out on one horse and was returning on another, Miss Murdock was certain it was St. James!

  “Egad!” her father exclaimed. “Someone check that horse, for I am certain it is running wild and he is not even conscious to control it!”

  But before any of them could decide how this feat was to be done, or make a move to try and do so, another horse they had not even noticed spurted forward from behind the filly. Its rider worked it hard with pumping legs, risking his own life for if he did not catch the filly and pull both mounts to a halt, he would soon be past a point of being able to rein in his own mount from this great speed, and they would both crash into the parked coach.

  His horse shied in desperation, having more sense than the young filly that was only aware of the awkward and frightening position of her rider hanging on her neck. Lizzie now recognized Andrew on the second horse, but more from his build than his countenance, which was bloodied and swollen and bruised.

  Andrew gave a loud curse, reined his mount into line again, kicked it hard in its barrel in command for it to make up the ground it had lost with its swerving. Then he leaned from his saddle, made a last desperate snag at the filly's loose reins, and dragged back on them and his own mount's in a manner that surely bloodied both horses' mouths.

  There was a great spraying up of mud from beneath eight braced hooves. The carriage jolted forward in a delayed reaction from the groom that had sat atop watching all of this with stunned awe, and then there was a sudden squealing, shrill neighing from the black filly and an answering call of panic from Andrew's horse as their front legs somehow intertwined and both horses went down sliding in the mud. St. James was thrown into the midst of this jumble, sliding limp with the two heavy, flailing bodies of the horses. Andrew tried abandoning his saddle as he felt his horse going down, but his already twisted ankle caught beneath his horse before he could free it, and there was a great yell from his throat as he was dragged, the full weight of his horse on his already injured leg.

  This whole melee slid for an eternity beneath Miss Murdock's horrified eyes. And although she had accepted that St. James may die, she had never in her wildest imaginings thought that she would be on hand to see it.

  “Jesus,” Bertie said as the two horses and the two men came to a stop, finally, just below the party standing upon the stairs. For a brief second no one moved, not the horses, the two men in their midst, nor any of that horrified group that was just above, looking down on them.

  Then all snapped from their immobility at the same instance. The horses struggled, whickering nervously and with pain. Andrew gave a long grunt and said, “Get my bloody cousin out of thi
s mess, damn it!” Miss Murdock, the Squire, Bertie, Mrs. Herriot and Jeannie all leaped down the stairs. And from inside the house they heard from above stairs and through the open door, the imperious banging of the Duchess's cane as she shrilled for someone to attend her and to bring her below stairs immediately.

  “Mrs. Herriot!” Bertie commanded. “Be so good as to take care of that!” And Mrs. Herriot, rather pale at the sickening mess before them, was most relieved to be sent away.

  “Miss Murdock, can you keep your filly from rising yet until I see what is what? And Squire, the other horse?”

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Murdock agreed and went to the filly's head, her face very white, and the Squire, despite his gout, moved quickly.

  “Where is St. James?” Miss Murdock asked trying to keep calm

  but fearing she sounded frantic.

  “I can not tell as of yet, for all this blasted mud!”

  “Here!” Andrew called. “By God, he is just peeking out from beneath my mount's nose! Get him up off of him! But careful, for God's sake!”

  “Oh, Bertie, has Ryan come with the doctor as of yet?” Miss Murdock pleaded.

  “No. Damn it! Groom! Squire, hold him for he is trying to flail about!”

  “The horse? He's not moving!”

  “No, damn it! St. James! By God, he is still alive!”

  Miss Murdock grabbed the groom's arm as he hurried to be of assistance and bade him to hold the filly in her place, and then she crawled through the mud around her filly's stretched out head and over to in front of the other horse. “Dante! Lie still,” she ordered. “Until we get this horse from you!” He had come around despite everything, and had managed to maneuver one hand free, and she saw that he still held his pistol, mud plugging the barrel, and fearing that in some pain filled delirium he would try to fire it off and it would explode and kill him the rest of the way, she took the time to pull it from him and fling it away.

  She prayed his other hand did not hold one as well for she could not even see where his other hand was. Only one shoulder and his head was visible and the rest of him disappeared beneath the mud and Andrew's mount.

  His eyes flickered open in his muddy face and she leaned further over him, the top of her head pushing against the neck of Andrew's mount so that he should see her. He focused on her and grimaced as he tried to speak and she leaned closer still.

  “Rescind. . .” he gasped, “your. . . vow!”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Rescind! You've. . . followed far. . . enough. Don't. . . need you. . . to follow. . . me to. . . hell. . . also!”

  And she was crying and her hand went to his muddy hair but she was afraid to move him or jar him and so could only touch him through its filth. “No.”

  He gasped harder, and she was afraid he was gasping his last, but he still choked out, his voice faint and, with all the frantic speaking about them, nearly indiscernible, but she strained to hear him. “Lizzie. . . I. . . want. . . to. . . live. No longer. . . need. . . you. . . to prop. . . me. . . up. Stubborn. . . lass!” He moved his hand that she had robbed of his pistol and grasped her hand resting near his throat. He squeezed it hard with the waning strength of his body. “Rescind. . . damn you! I. . . shall. . . fight. I. . . will. . . not. . . give in! Rescind. . . just in. . . case. Rescind!”

  His eyes would not close and she realized he was wasting himself on these efforts and with a complete capitulation to his will she said, “I rescind! I rescind! Just live, damn you! Just live! Or even though I shall live I shall still be in hell! Without even you to comfort me!”

  He gave a slight nod, and his eyes closed and his hand slackened in hers and the other voices about her came again into her awareness.

  Andrew clawed his way free. He lost his boot in the process, it still being beneath the horse, but the mud was such that his foot had sank into it instead of being trapped against hard ground and this circumstance gave Lizzie some hope that St. James may be as lucky.

  A groom supported Andrew as his stockinged foot rested with gingerness just touching the ground, and Andrew barked orders almost as fast as Bertie. “Go! Go, damn it! For he's losing blood like a sieve also!”

  “Back, now, Miss Murdock!” Bertie told her, and she freed her hand from St. James' now still one and hurried aside. Her father rose from where he knelt, his hands firm on the horse's halter as he directed its head up and helped it to rise. “Grab him and pull him, ye bloody useless footman!”

  Then Ryan appeared, and another man that Miss Murdock recognized as the doctor he had been sent to fetch. And Ryan rushed in beside the half-risen, trembling horse that the others were endeavoring to keep from rising further and stepping on the man beneath it, and at the same time trying to keep it from collapsing again upon St. James. Ryan grabbed St. James' shoulders and tugged him out with a mighty pull and the horse sank back to the ground and Miss Murdock saw with horror that one of its forelegs was broken and she had not even noticed.

  Then the doctor knelt over St. James. He checked his pulse and his voice was clipped as he bade that the duke be carried into the house and a bed, that water be fetched, and by God what was this hole in the man's chest, for he did not rightly get that from this mishap, and the ripped stitches fluttering from it were proof he was right.

  But Lizzie was only numb and beside herself, and she swallowed the fact that she did not have to hold herself together because for once, St. James had someone a great deal more able than herself to care for him. She was not even aware that she was crying hysterically until she heard the Dowager from the door to the house above her bidding Mrs. Herriot to come down and fetch her from that sorry scene. And if the Dowager's voice was choked at the sight of her grandson, possibly even now dead, being carried into the house by Ryan and Bertie, Lizzie barely understood it.

  She only knew that Mrs. Herriot came down to her and gathered her into her great bosom, and then helped her up the stone stairs and into the house, St. James carried ahead of her.

  They placed him in the Squire's bedroom. Several maids scurried past Miss Murdock with large basins of steaming water, and she realized that she really was not needed in any way. She made no argument when Mrs. Herriot took her to her own room, but only collapsed on to the bed.

  But she only lay there for a brief moment before she sprang up again, because where before the thought that St. James had someone more able than herself to care for him had brought her comfort, now it brought a great dread to her heart. For how else had he survived his prior misfortune except for his team of odd and mismatched care-takers: the groom, the valet, the lad and Miss Murdock?

  And Tyler was not there. Nor was Steven. And Effington was many miles away in London. Only Miss Murdock remained and she feared leaving St. James in the care of another.

  But Mrs. Herriot would have none of it, and between she and Jeannie, they nearly sat on Miss Murdock to keep her in the bed and they pled with her that there was nothing more she could do and that it was out of her hands now. And Miss Murdock understood at that point that it very much was out of her hands. She had done everything in her power and if Dante died now she could in no way prevent it.

  She remained in the bed crying, aware of the door across the hall from her room opening and closing repeatedly with urgency and the low voices of the doctor and Bertie, he of the steady nerves, coming from the other side of it.

  The hours ticked on and Jeannie returned at some point and convinced her that she should bathe and change again as she was quite muddy, and Miss Murdock agreed that of course she should. But even through this she was aware of every activity she could possibly be aware of going on across the hallway.

  Somewhere in her consciousness she was also aware of the sounds from outside and below her window: the voices of Andrew apologizing to Ryan for the ruination of his horse, and Ryan's reply back that he should think nothing of it before summarily pulling his pistol and shooting that poor beast. The duchess's coach when it was brought around and after that th
e dowager when she was helped into her coach. And she heard the sounds in the room next door when Mrs. Herriot tended to Andrew's ankle and his various other scrapes and bruises, some from the accident, some not, and then she was aware of his leaving also.

  She was aware of all these noises but she paid them no mind except to be irritated by them, for they at times rose to drown out the small sounds of furtive and frantic activity from behind the closed door across the hall.

  More hours went by and she went from pacing and wringing her hands to again lying on the bed but still the door remained closed, not even opening and closing to admit or relieve someone from the room as before. And she lay very still and finally half slept and St.

  James galloped dead through her dreams and he said, come to me, Lizzie. She awoke, startled, standing by her bed and it was many, many hours later, for the house was still and it was dark outside, and she was given to understand that it was sometime in the night. But Bertie was before her, holding a dim lamp and looking tired and not relieved in the least, but he only said, “He asks for you.”

  And the door opened to her and she went through.

  He lay, face tight and white, in her father's shabby bed. There was a cut with ten stitches just below one cheek bone. The bed sheet was pulled to his waist and his pale chest was again wrapped with bandages, but there were far more than he had needed before and they extended down the length of his rib cage and she understood by these bandages that some of his ribs were broken. She prayed that he had not punctured his lungs or any other vital organs.

  The doctor looked up at her entrance, his face grave and tired and bloody, and as she looked to him for guidance, he nodded and said in a low voice, “Miss Murdock. I will give you but a minute with him and then I am going to give him a dose of laudanum so that he may again rest without pain.” He wiped his hands on a wet cloth and then dropped it back into a red-clouded basin of water. Taking off his spectacles, he went from the room and it wasn't until the door closed behind him that Lizzie moved toward the bed.