In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  And Effington conceded to say, “I dare say it may be, milord.” But it was clear that he was less than happy with his employer once again as he dared to sniff with disapproval upon the end of his words.

  “Just see to what I have asked you to see to, Effington, and there should be no need for your scandalized expression.”

  “Yes, milord,” Effington returned. “I only hope that you know what you are about.”

  “It is the only thing of which I am certain that I know what I am about.”

  Effington left the bedchamber and a short time later St. James heard his cousin's coach driven along the lane as St. James had instructed Effington to use it upon his mission, that man not being inclined to riding a mount.

  Within an hour he heard Ryan, Bertie and the Squire setting off for the inn. The house was silent about him and the night darkened upon the windows with the setting of the sun.

  Everything was neatly in place. Now if he could only manage to get from this damned bed.

  Miss Murdock lay in nothing but her chemise upon the coverlet of the bed. Night had fallen and the fire in her chamber had burned low as there were no servants in residence to build it back up, and she shivered with the chill.

  She had intended on lying down for only a moment, and had removed her dress to avoid wrinkling it. But now, she saw, she had slept very long and she sat up in a panic. How could she abandon St. James in his hour of need? Then she recalled that as of that morning he had been awake and coherent for the first time since the accident and she sighed with relief.

  A noise came from the hall, a thumping and a curse. The voice was nearly unrecognizable to her for surely it could not be St. James, bed-bound across the hall. She curled her legs beneath her and sat straighter on the bed, her hair mussed and down her back. She tried matching the voice to the other members of the house. The very proper Effington would not bang about in such a manner or use a word as foul as this one had been. And the voice was strained and did not fit Ryan nor Bertie, nor her father either.

  But surely it could not be St. James? He could not be making that much noise from his bedchamber and she should not be hearing his curse as clearly as that.

  The noise repeated itself but this time there was no curse or any sound of human voice at all and she became afraid. The house was too silent other than this disturbing activity in the hallway. It had the silence of abandonment and she was filled with an unreasonable dread that she was alone with whatever was out in the hallway.

  A heavy weight thumped against the door, and this time, beyond reason, she was certain that it was St. James. But that thought reassured her not at all for she could only imagine what terrible circumstance made him determined to be out of bed and had given him the strength of will to accomplish it.

  The door flung open, its abruptness adding to her fright. The form standing in the dim light frightened her completely. It was St. James, but his eyes were ferocious, his face drawn into a half grimace and the stitches upon his cheek stood out in harsh contrast to his pale face.

  He was gasping, leaning hard against the door, a cane in one hand and his other hand upon the door knob. His robe was undone and half hung from one shoulder. He seemed but a mass of bandages and stitches and dark colored bruises. His dark hair was disheveled, his brows knotted tight in pain and effort and his eyes pried with determination deep into the dimness of the room.

  His gaze lighted upon her and in a single flash of incoherent thought Lizzie had a vision of someone who has clawed their way from a grave standing before her.

  But then he said in a tight, strained, panting, but still somewhat teasing voice, “You are looking very well tonight, Miss Murdock.”

  As she remembered that she wore nothing but her chemise, she blushed quite furiously. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, St. James, whatever are you doing out of bed? Can you never leave be tormenting me for even a moment?”

  But he only lay his head against the door frame, catching his breath, and she realized that the ferocity of his expression was a symptom of his whole-willed effort to obtain that brief port on his journey.

  Lizzie scooted from the bed, snagged her robe and slid into it with a good deal of anxiety and turned to go to him. He halted her with his words before she could reach him. “No, Lizzie. Stay where you are for but another moment.”

  She stopped, perplexed. He gathered himself with an effort, controlled his breathing so that his voice was steadier and continued. “I have no intention of returning to my room if that is where you think you were going to hurriedly aid me back to.”

  His eyes in the pain-harshened features of his face met hers and she trembled, understanding his intent. And she stood, uncertain, in the center of the room.

  He nodded as though by reading only her expression he knew that she had digested all that he had not spoken. “I can see that I am quite terrifying you already,” he chided.

  “I am not terrified,” she said. “I am only—only—Oh, damn you, St. James! I do not know what I am. I only know that you are in no condition. And neither am I, I dare say.”

  His lips quirked as with his resting there against the door frame he was able to leave go his dreadful concentration for a moment. “I admit it is not quite how I had foreseen it, but I dare say we shall manage adequately.”

  Lizzie's face flamed at even the brief picture this brought to mind. “Hush!” she said. “I swear you must be delirious to even consider it.” But she bowed her head for she could not meet the amused tenderness in his eyes without it blinding her beyond reason.

  “I really do not think it can wait, Lizzie,” he continued and his voice was very gentle. “And although I know that must shock you to a great degree, I must point out that I am very much afraid that as early as tomorrow or the next day at the latest this now peaceful house is going to be swarmed once again. And although it would irk me considerably to wait until we were married, I would wait if it were only that. But I am also afraid that my attention is going to be taken considerably up with dealing with my cousin when he arrives. And I've no doubt that you shall be doing as much as possible to prop him up also until he gets through this.

  “And I am equally certain that if we delay until this circumstance is behind us that there will be yet another circumstance that will necessitate another delay and so on and so forth. For I am beginning to believe, Lizzie dear, that life is no easier to deal with than death.

  “And if you are afraid that God will be frowning quite displeased from His throne, I can only point out that Effington is about making the arrangements and getting the proper paperwork so that our waiting period may begin even as we speak and so that we shall marry as soon as possible at any rate. Sooner, I believe, than I would manage a journey to Gretna Green in my condition, otherwise, we would be on our way there even now. And of course,” he added, self-mocking, “I am certain that God is fully aware that he is not working with a saint here at any rate.”

  “St. James!”

  But he only grinned a little. “Hush, Lizzie, and let me finish, shall you, dear, and then, I promise you, I shall allow you to have the last word.”

  It occurred to her that for the moment, propriety ruled, and he would not cross her door frame unless she allowed it. That realization made her tremble all the more.

  “That is not to say that I do not fully know of what I ask of you.” His voice changed from caressing indulgence to intense imparting, and she nearly flinched, but her brown eyes were no longer dropped from him but were held steady by his as he spoke. “For I well understand that even the best of intentions is not a guarantee that something will not happen that will prevent me from wedding you in as speedy a manner as I can arrange. After a week in my company, I am sure that you are equally aware of that possibility.

  “The consequences could in fact be damning for you,” he warned. “And although you have said you have no care that I have tried ruining you, I think you will find that the appearance of being ruined and the actuality of it are far dif
ferent.”

  And she did flinch at that, but took a step toward him.

  “No, Lizzie. Let me finish!” he told her, his voice rough. “For once you allow me through this door, I will no longer be taking into consideration any of these things. I have cleared the house of everyone. There is no one here but ourselves. For you must know I would not come to you if there were any chance of our being interrupted or your being embarrassed or shamed. But there will be suspicions, Lizzie, for they are bright and I am certain that there will be little signs on the morrow that we will be helpless to stop that will show that neither of us spent the night gently sleeping. You must be prepared for that also. Although we are to be shortly married, I am sure it will be remembered. Your father, particularly—”

  But she swept forward and although she only stopped and stood in front of him, looking at him, her presence there was enough for him to cut short his words with a little groan and a click of his teeth.

  He stared down at her and she stared up. Still he did not reach for her although his eyes blazed with a fire that seemed to scald her. She swallowed in effort to make her voice steady and then she only said, “Yes.”

  With that single word he placed his hand upon her shoulder and leaning upon his cane in his other hand, he moved into the room. He turned slightly, and his weight was heavy upon her shoulder for that second, and he caught the door with the tip of his cane and swung it closed behind him with he and Lizzie upon one side of it, and the rest of the world upon the other.

  With the closing of that door, he seemed in no hurry at all, only leaned upon his cane once again, took his hand from her shoulder and moved it to cup her chin. “Come to me, Lizzie,” he told her. “For tonight is our moment of brief, eternal silence between the lightning's striking and the rolling of the thunder. There will be no distraction for me tonight and my attention will be upon you fully. For this one night we shall live in a cottage surrounded by gardens and there will be no other consideration except for how we care for each other.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It was a difficult interview with Andrew when he arrived, but St.

  James had not foreseen it as any but such. For some truths are so difficult to accept that one searches with eagerness for lies if only to console oneself. Although Andrew had matured to a degree that he recognized this tendency, it still seemed they had to go over many points repeatedly for the full import to settle long enough to be digested.

  Even with the most of his mother's confessions still fresh in his mind, his grief over her death and his grandmother's was enough to induce him to make certain accusations. Accusations that St. James had sent grandmother in his stead. Accusations that St. James had been blinded by rage and furious vendetta and had never had any intention other than murdering Andrew's mother outright.

  Of which St. James replied, “Indeed, you are correct, Andrew. Up until the moment I gave you the draft made out on your account held in trust by her, I had every intention of stomping her into a lifeless mass upon the floor. For I dare say that shooting her would not have satisfied me in the least.”

  And if this brutal summary made Andrew blanche and become sickened with disgust, reminding him of how his mother had died, it also held such a ring of unsuppressed truth that he knew St. James' further answers were equally as honest.

  It was not a matter for a single afternoon, nor even a single day, nor week, nor as St. James reflected, even a single lifetime. But Andrew did not leave the Squire's home for many days, and his willingness to be there said much about that young man's character.

  Miss Murdock did not interfere with these meetings, which began in the Squire's bedchamber and as the week progressed moved to the parlor and then to slow walks outside in the cold air. December was advancing as was Christmas. As was the twenty-fourth anniversary of the deaths of William Desmond Larrimer and his wife and their unborn child.

  But Miss Murdock only left St. James to his business and she went about her own. Mrs. Herriot returned as did Jeannie and the other staff. Miss Murdock tolerated the cook and she kept on one maid and Jeannie, but she convinced Mrs. Herriot to return to Morningside and ensure that it was made ready, for the duke would be returning there for the holidays.

  And as Mrs. Herriot was not quite bold enough to ask Miss Murdock if she would be returning with him, Miss Murdock left that unasked question equally unanswered.

  For the most part, Lizzie managed to keep the house in some degree of peace.

  She did not ask St. James of his conversations with Andrew, but she came to understand that Andrew had learned much more of the true circumstances of St. James' parents' deaths than St. James had ever fathomed, and many evenings St. James spent alone, only silently brooding in his room.

  He came to her no more in the night, and she knew that he would not. It was one thing for those other members of the household to have their suspicions, it was quite another to risk actual detection, and she knew he would not do that to her. But she was satisfied that what he had sought she had supplied and throughout all these long days of reckoning, it seemed to be sustaining him in a way that she did not understand.

  Only on occasion when he came out of his deep preoccupations did he flash her a look from his gold eyes that was intense with remembered pleasure and bright with anticipated renewal did she then falter in whatever she may be doing and only stand blushing beneath his gaze.

  But for now, it was very much as he had foreseen and they were both taken up with the task of helping Andrew find some semblance of order in a world that had been torn apart, very much as St. James' had been at the age of ten.

  But there came a day when further discussion would reveal no more truths, and that the dust must again settle and on that day, Andrew ordered his coach made ready, for it had remained at the Squire's after Effington's use of it and return.

  And Andrew dressed for leaving and when he was ready he went down the hall to St. James' bedroom and knocked upon the door. Effington opened it and St. James looked up from where he was reading the Bible in a chair near the window. His stitches had been cut from his cheek, but the scar was thick and shiny with newness, and Andrew still flinched each time he looked at it. St. James' words came back to him, for he had said with a strange twist to his mouth when conversation had turned to what could be called nothing so much as a 'conversation piece' that he considered it very much his 'Tyler scar'.

  And although Andrew could not fathom why St. James should determine it as such, he had observed that his normal habit of rubbing his upper lip with the tip of his finger when deep in thought had metamorphosed into a rubbing of this shiny scar upon his cheek instead.

  St. James looked at him now and something about the expression in Andrew's face caused the tip of his finger to rub with thoughtfulness up that scar. “Leave us, Effington, and see if Miss Murdock is in need of assistance, as I still do not like how drastically she has reduced the staff of the house.”

  And Effington only bowed out and closed the door behind Andrew.

  Andrew, at a loss for words at this abrupt setting of mood in the room, turned and paced a little. And he almost stopped when he realized how much his action mirrored the habit of the man that sat across the bedchamber from him. But he continued, for he did find it a good means to pace thoughts that were running so quickly through his head that he feared he would lose the full significance of them in their rapidity.

  And it was frightening to think at such speed that he felt that he would reach a conclusion without having a clear idea of what avenues he had used to attain it. And indeed, he found that he was at the conclusion and that in his pacing he was thinking backward, finding the roads that had led him there and going over them and testing them for soundness and his thinking was only verification for what he had already come to know as true.

  And it was disquieting to him to think that whenever his brother had paced and Andrew had thought it was in effort to reach a decision, St. James had in reality already made his decision a
nd had only been back-testing it in his mind with dreadful and calculating determination to make sure that it was the absolute soundest decision he could make.

  For a twenty-three year old young man the questioning of his own impetuousness was a new experience for him. And St. James, he guessed with bitterness, had been doing such since he was ten.

  With this thought he turned and spoke to the waiting man who had observed all this pacing in silence, only rubbing his scar.

  “There is something I have held back from you, St. James,” Andrew began.

  “Indeed?” St. James said. “And I gather now that you think it may be of some importance to me.”

  “Yes,” Andrew returned. “As it is, I might add, important to me. I have not told you for, frankly, I was not certain how I felt about this little wrinkle myself.”

  “And you have come to some kind of terms with this as yet untold revelation?” St. James asked and Andrew could see that despite himself, the duke was very puzzled.

  “You are my half-brother, St. James. It seems that the affair I spoke of that my mother had with your father in fact produced me.”

  St. James looked at him for a long moment and his only indication that he understood what Andrew had said was a slight cocking of his head. And Andrew felt his face redden a little at this response, or lack of it. “Really, St. James, I did not expect transports of joy from you, and I understand that you will probably in no way know how you feel about such a circumstance since I myself am only now coming to terms with it—”

  But St. James cut him off with a tender word, a small smile playing about his lips. “Whist, Andrew. I am only in my mind bewail-ling the fact that my favorite pony has been dead for some years.”

  Andrew did not quite understand what his words meant, but he understood that when St. James rose from his chair with the help of his cane and turned to the window for a moment that it was so Andrew could not see the extent of emotion upon his face. Then St. James' voice came to him, low and once again in control. “And as you have held this knowledge for a time when I have not, perhaps you can guide me by telling me how you yourself feel about this circumstance.”