In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  She sat upon it and took one of St. James' scraped hands in both of hers, held it up to her cheek. His eyes did not open, but his tight set mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile, and she knew by this that he was aware she was there.

  Her calmness returned. He was not dead. He had promised to fight and she knew the power of his will and took comfort in it. She began to speak as she had once before when he had lain helpless and weak and she had sought to comfort him. Her words were choked and unsteady at first, but they became more even and softly lilting when his hand squeezed hers and she knew that he heard.

  Do you remember the story of King David and Bathsheba, Dante? And her husband Uriah? I am sure that you do, although I dare say it has been some time since you have read your Bible. But I am not going to say what you have done is wrong, or that it was right. I am only going to say that perhaps it was not the will of God that you followed.

  But David, he was as you have been. What he did he knew was not right and not pleasing in the sight of the Lord, but he seemed helpless to stop himself once he had seen the beautiful Bathsheba, and he took her, even though he knew her to be a wife of another, and got her with child. And her husband, Uriah, who was a soldier, he ordered sent to the part of the war they were waging where the fighting was heaviest and there were a great many deaths. And Uriah was killed, all so that David could marry Bathsheba and claim the child he had put into her womb.

  And God was not pleased, Dante. No, He was not pleased at all.

  And because God was not pleased, when the child was born, it died. And although David repented and prayed mightily that it should not be made to pay for his sin, he accepted this as his punishment.

  And Bathsheba conceived of another child and this child survived. And do you know what this child's name was, Dante? I am sure that you do, but I shall remind you because it pleases me to speak of it. It was Solomon, the wise king.

  And so you see, Dante, God can take our own willfulness and use it to His advantage, even when we think we are going quite contrary to Him. And if He can accomplish so much when we are going against Him, think of how much He can accomplish when we are working with Him. And I think He must have great plans for you and your willfulness. I think that He has known for many years exactly how He shall use you and your unorthodox self-education in the ways of fury and vengeance, and that from your prior sins will be born wisdom if you will now, finally, only learn to accept His will in the stead of your own.

  And I do not know if He will mete out punishment, or if He sees you lying here now and considers the tally paid fully. I only beg that you live not only for me but for yourself and to fulfill whatever tasks He may now set before you.

  He squeezed her hand and she leaned to lay her cheek next to his. He turned his head in closed eyes searching and she followed his direction and moved her mouth to touch his lips.

  Even that light touch sent a shiver up her back and when she went to withdraw, he moved his mouth in silent demand for further contact and she obeyed. She trembled as his hand tightened in hers and her mouth locked fully with his. His shallow breathing deepened as he pulled great lungfuls of air from her own body and into his. And she nurtured him with her mouth and felt him drawing strength from her as though she were some manner of restorative unique only to him. And if she felt drained simultaneously, she did not count it as cost but as profit. Her head swam as she closed her eyes and she shook at the urgency of his mouth on hers. And he ravished her mouth as though he would devour her in total as an antidote to his pain.

  There was a discreet tap on the door, and with an effort she let off from his mouth. His eyes opened at this interruption but he only sighed as he looked upon her and then his eyes closed again and she was certain that he slept.

  The door opened and she turned her head, afraid that she was flushed as well as dizzy and the doctor and Bertie entered the room. Bertie came to her and Lizzie arose and he took her in his arms. “Are you all right, Miss Murdock?” he asked. “For he will kill me, you know, if he comes through this to find that I have let you die from exhaustion and worry.”

  And she gave a soft laugh but did not answer as she was not certain if she were all right or not.

  The doctor observed, “He has gained some color in his cheeks at least. That is a good sign. And he seems to be sleeping well enough that I will hold off on the laudanum.”

  And it was at that point that Miss Murdock was certain he would live. And whether it was God's will or St. James' will or her own will, she could not be sure, but suspected that it was all three of theirs, and who would dare to try and go against that combination?

  Chapter Thirty

  The dowager traveled late into the night and as it was the first time she had done so in many years, her driver and her footman found much to comment upon this circumstance. And much to be unhappy about, as they were not getting younger either and quite resented the fact that they were not afforded the luxury of a break for the night but were forced to gallivant toward London as though they were half their ages and of less than half their wits.

  But the duchess tolerated no bellyaching, and she told them that the horses were to be changed out as needed and that they were to continue without delay to her London home. She, however, slept as well as she were ever able to sleep, despite the jouncing of the coach. And if she knew herself to be very weak in her old age, she only reassured herself that this would all soon be over and that she could rest a great deal longer, and no doubt better, then.

  Her thoughts churned with leaving her grandson. She worried about him and only the thought of Miss Murdock being there consoled her. He had looked very bad when she left, and she knew not if he were to live or die, but she knew where her duty lay and his accident and Andrew's lesser misfortune allowed her to attend that duty without interference from either of those two men.

  She was set upon keeping St. James, if he survived, from killing Lydia, as she was sure was his intent. And Andrew must not then seek to kill his cousin, as she was sure would be his intent. And which would fall in that circumstance, she did not know, but it was an unacceptable conclusion with either result and she knew herself capable of preventing it. But it meant that she must reach London before either of them were able. If indeed, St. James were ever able.

  So she traveled through the night and she slept as she went, resolved to see this through to the end and to give both of her grandsons a clear future with both of them alive and hopefully upon speaking terms. That one or the other or both should despise her for interfering, she thought of not at all. It did not particularly concern her.

  It was in the wee hours of the morning when she arrived and it was with weariness that she allowed herself to be helped from the coach at the front of her London home. She looked up at it, thinking of how many times over the years she had been dropped here. First as a blushing bride and now sixty years later as an old widow. And all the years in between seemed but a blink of an eye. The raising of two sons. The death of her husband, the deaths of her son and daughter-in-law and that un-born grandchild. The raising of Dante when she was getting beyond the age of controlling one of his temperament. The death of Morty.

  And she remembered that foreboding she had felt when she had read a letter from St. James informing her of a Miss Murdock being sent to her, and although she held a great deal of affection for that young Miss, she also now understood that foreboding. But she was not afraid any longer. No, she was not afraid now that she understood all of it clearly.

  For she had faint suspicions for many years. The suspicions had seemed such madness that she refused to entertain them. But the letter in her reticule from Tyler now confirmed them and she did not doubt her grandson of his conclusions.

  She was certain that Dante had tread carefully, that he had been absolutely sure, or he would not have voiced the thought. All the same, she had to be certain also, and she fingered the head of her gold handled cane as she stood there at the foot of the steps to her own door and looked up
at the mute, black windows above her.

  She had to be absolutely sure.

  The old lady nodded and the driver and the footman that patiently supported her moved now and helped her up the stairs. They unlocked the front door and helped her inside and she bade that she be seated on the upholstered bench that stood along one wall and that they fetch Ashton from his bed, please, and they did so.

  And she reflected not at all as she waited, but only sat with head bowed and her fingers working the top of her cane and studied the parquet flooring that rested beneath her old and twisted feet shod in her comfortable, old lady shoes.

  Ashton came and she dismissed the footman and the carriage driver and then looked up to him. She gave a faint smile and took his old arm he held down to her.

  “To bed, milady?”

  “Not yet, Ashton. I fear that we must wake Lady Lydia.”

  “As you wish.” He helped her to her feet and together, the old Duchess and the old butler struggled up the stairs in the silence of

  the house.

  “This is a bad piece of business, Ashton. Are you up for it?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and shuffled down the hallway, through Lady Lydia's sitting room to her bedchamber door.

  “Shall I knock?” Ashton asked.

  “I think not. Merely throw open the door and let us see how the snake sleeps in its nest while its poison works upon its victims far off.”

  Ashton turned the knob and opened the door inward, and the Dowager saw that Lady Lydia did not sleep, but by the light of a single lamp was packing her baggage.

  She turned as she must have heard their near silent entering, or perhaps it was just the sudden admittance of fresh air that alerted her, a small flickering of the flame in the lamp. She looked frightened in that instance, her blue eyes widening, but when she saw it was the old lady and the old man, her look turned contemptuous.

  She turned her head in an effort to hide this expression. “Lady Lenora, I had not realized that you had returned. Did my being up somehow disturb you?”

  “I find much about you disturbing, Lydia,” the Dowager said. “What are you doing?”

  With only her night clothing and a robe on and without her stays, Lydia appeared neither as delicate nor as helpless as she normally did. “I was packing a few of my things,” she answered. “I find that I am getting arthritis, which should not surprise me, although I do so hate getting old, and I was rather thinking of traveling to Bath on the morrow to find some relief in the waters. As I could not sleep, I was going ahead and packing a little. That is all.”

  The duchess leaned upon her cane and Ashton almost as equally bowed held to her arm to support her. Her faded eyes studied her daughter-in-law as she moved about the room. The innocent, vapid eyes that she had always marked off to a lacking of intelligence. The vain silkiness of her bedclothes and robe. She may be up in the middle of the night, but she had found time for a faint hint of rouge, a slight blush across the lips and a little light rice powder to fill in the coming wrinkles on her face. Ah, but her face and her form had once been her greatest asset and she was loathe to admit that perhaps their value had decreased to a degree, even at this late date. “You lie so glibly, Lydia,” the duchess commented. “Tell me, do you think of these stories before hand or are you able to come up with them truly on the spur of a moment?”

  And Lydia flushed but her eyes, which had been exuding innocence and warmth turned more pointed. “I resent that very much, Lenora.”

  “And I resent the deaths of my son and daughter-in-law and unborn grandchild very much. And I daresay Morty also.”

  Lydia stopped her packing, standing in stunned silence. The old Dowager almost believed that St. James was wrong (please, Lord, let him be wrong!) after all. But then Lydia laughed with a sudden unpleasant shrillness and it cut off awkwardly at the end. “I do not know whether to laugh or to cry to have you make such a mad accusation, Lenora,” she choked. “I can see you would rather believe any thing than believe that your darling St. James could be behind any of this. For it was he that killed Morty. I am certain of it.”

  The duchess straightened from her bowed and weary stance. “I should have expected that you would fight, would do as much damage as you could with your lies rather than accept that you have lost at last,” she said to her daughter-in-law. “I suppose you will next have me believe that at the age of ten he planned the death of his own parents.”

  “And I should say he may have!” Lydia insisted and she was shaking. “For he has always been evil, even at that age. It is only that he looks like your late husband that you refuse to see anything bad in him, despite how many times he has flaunted it in your very face!”

  “I do not doubt that in your mind you do find him somehow at fault,” the duchess agreed. “Tell me, Lydia. Tell me of my grandson's guilt. Convince me of how he has been behind the all of this even from the age of ten.”

  But Lydia, whose intention had been just that, perversely changed her mind. For to be invited to do so seemed somehow not promising. She turned from the Duchess, and with desperation began again to pack in the low light of the lamp. “You will not draw me into this debate, for I am quite above it,” she warned. “I have no doubt that he has gone to you with some tale that makes me seem somehow at fault, for he has always hated me, you know.”

  “Why would he hate you, Lydia?” the dowager asked, and she motioned at last for a chair and Ashton brought one, so that she sat, but she somehow contrived for the door to be directly at her back.

  Lydia halted in her packing as she saw the Duchess blocked her way of exit and the lines in her face seemed heavier, and the weight she had put on in her middle age seemed more cumbersome, and not at all the graceful woman she normally was. She went to her dresser and pulled open a drawer and retrieved a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “You have me so upset already,” she told her mother-in-law. “To even suggest—!”

  “Why would my grandson hate you, Lydia? I truly wish to know.”

  “Because I know what he is,” Lydia said without looking at her. “I am not blind as you seem to be and as Andrew seems to be. I have known what he is since he was born, for he is like his father you know. Evil.”

  “Indeed?” The dowager raised her silver brows. “And how was his father evil, Lydia, for I confess it quite escaped my notice that I had somehow raised the spawn of the devil.”

  “Oh, of course you would not see it!” Lydia turned to look at the Dowager. “He was always the shining apple of your eye, was he not? The glorious Duke of St. James. A true gentleman everyone called him. But they knew nothing of how he really was. Nothing! I knew, though. I knew more than any one! He was deceitful, dishonorable and adulterous. The only difference between he and St. James is that your grandson has not even the decency to try and hide what he is, but flaunts it for all to see and for all to be embarrassed by.”

  She hesitated, her blue eyes clouding with inward thought, or perhaps memories. “He had his scruples,” she murmured, “but only when it was convenient to him. And when he first put those scruples aside, I thought, in all my foolishness, that it was because he loved me beyond even decency.”

  The Dowager's old heart trembled as one's heart would when seeing the first ashes waft up from a volcano, knowing there was no where to run or hide from the eruption that would come. But still she nudged the woman in front of her with her words, and even she did not know if it were loathing in her voice or sympathy, compassion or condemnation. She only knew she had to be certain. “Lydia. You must tell me the all of it, do you understand, Lydia? Now is the time for you to tell all.”

  “Confession. Yes, yes. Confession,” Lydia whispered. “And I admit that I am grateful that it is you I am speaking to, for I always feared that St. James would only kill me and would never allow me to tell. . .” and she looked into the flame of the lamp, “why. . . That he would have it all worked out in his mind already. All the obvious reaso
ns, all of them making his father seem entirely victim and myself entirely,” and she swallowed, “at fault.”

  The Dowager asked, “You spoke of William being adulterous. I was not aware of that circumstance, Lydia. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am sure!” Lydia snapped. Her blue eyes went from the lamp to the Duchess. “Why do you think there were ten long years between his first child and the coming of his second? Because his own wife would not even share his bed. She knew he was having an affair. She knew that he was in love with some one else and she was not willing to compete, of which I do not blame her. She only stepped aside and amused herself. She was my friend before she was my sister-in-law and it quite tore me apart.”

  Ashton shifted and the Duchess was grateful he was there, for her heart was pounding and her head was pounding and her blood was pounding in her ears.

  Lydia continued, “And you blamed her all those ten long years, thinking to yourself that there was something wrong with her for her not to conceive again and give you more precious grandchildren. And all along, it was my fault. For I told her, you know. I told her that her husband was unfaithful to her.”

  “I did not blame her,” the dowager returned, her frail voice weak and small. “He traveled a great deal. I understood that their time together may have been curtailed to such a degree that another pregnancy on her part was made difficult.”

  “Yes,” Lydia intoned. “He traveled a great deal, but it was not always on his business for the crown. He was with his mistress. He was with me.” The tears ran down her face, but she neither snuffled nor bawled nor made any notice of them, and it was quite, quite unlike the Lydia the duchess knew, who always made a great show of her distress and was most annoying about it. The drops only ran, collecting rice powder in their path and leaving two naked streaks on her cheeks.