by Regina Darcy
Word was put about to other members of the household, the newer hirelings who had been taken on during spring and summer, that a member of the family was convalescing in the guest room and did not wish to be disturbed. The new servants were not particularly interested; they took their orders from Mrs Burton.
“I trust that you are taking some exercise, my lord. You must not remain bedridden; too many maladies strike those who do not get out of bed.”
His exercise, if it could be called that, was to walk in his room for specified periods of time. When the governess took his son out daily after lunch, he would leave his room and wander up the stairs to expand his boundaries.
On Sunday, when Tabitha and their son went to church, accompanied by the governess, the lady’s maid, Sutherland and Mrs Burton, and the servants had their half-day off, Arthur was free to walk about the house.
Although he had little energy, he found himself anticipating Sundays, when he could visit the rooms that had once belonged to him and now showed evidence of his wife’s presence and influence. The house had undergone some decorating changes, he noticed; he was surprised to discover that he approved of the alterations she had made. No, that was not correct, he must not think that it was for him to approve. He appreciated the new wallpaper in the rooms and the new curtains on the windows. The house seemed to be brighter than it had been before. More sunlight came in through the windows and it gave the rooms a sublime presence as if the summer’s bounty was not confined to the outdoors.
“You are taking your tonic, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. It will help you gain your strength.”
“It tastes vile.”
Dr Philpot chuckled as if this response were quite humorous. “So all my patients say, but its effects are remarkable. It gives the blood back some of its vigour; it restores vitality to the eyes; it increases the flow of air in and out of the lungs . . . in short, vile though it may taste, it is truly stupendous in its results. You shall thank me when your recovery is complete.”
“When will that be, Dr Philpot? I am a man of seven-and-twenty years, not someone who ought to be an invalid.”
“Why, no, of course not, my lord, but you have—forgive me for presuming, but I may make a medical guess—neglected your health in recent years. You have worked harder than a man of your station customarily does—do not remonstrate, my lord, I see the callouses on your hands, the sinews beneath your skin, the breadth of your shoulders—and I know that you have done physical labour. There is no shame in it, but it is not something which a viscount customarily experiences. At some recent point, you have undergone privation of some severity.”
Arthur thought back to the miserable days of his sea journey from the United States back to England. With very little money, he had been forced to economise as much as possible and he had eaten sparingly. He had been weakened by the experience. Privation was not too strong a word. The doctor was correct, too, in his estimation that Arthur had been performing physical labour. But Arthur had no intention of enlightening him on the reasons for his current bodily condition. He would get well, and he would live, and he would win Tabitha back. This he was determined to do.
It was not something that he could accomplish from the sickbed.
“Can you not provide me with a possible date?”
“I am sorry, my lord. But I cannot. There are many factors which affect convalescence. Recovery is not only a matter of one’s physical being, but of the spiritual entity as well. You must look to your internal character as well, my lord. I trust that you spend time in prayer? That you are attentive to the needs of your mortal soul?”
“Yes, of course,” Arthur replied impatiently. “Have you a tonic for that as well?”
The doctor smiled indulgently. “You are not of a theological bent?”
“I am not a theologian, sir. I am a man.”
“As are theologians, my lord. You have, forgive me for saying so, a temperament which is more suited for action than for contemplation. You are willing to be visited by myself, for your physical wellbeing. Should you not also welcome a man of God?”
“A cleric will not restore me to the man I was four years ago, Dr Philpot. If you have no way to accelerate the pace by which I may have my health and position returned to me, then I cannot see that spiritual contemplation with the bishop will make it happen.”
“You separate the body from the soul, my lord? What if I were to tell you that I believe they are one?”
Arthur, who had turned his head to look out the window while the doctor ministered to him, looked to the doctor with sharp eyes. “You are wrong,” he replied.
“You do not think that a disheartened soul can enliven a weary body?” the doctor asked kindly. “I put it to you, my lord, that perhaps the unhappiness within you is contributing to the malaise of your anatomy.”
“You, sir, are impudent! You—”
He stopped. The door to the guest bedroom opened and Tabitha came in, bringing with her the fresh air from outside. His heart sank; had she been with Hendrickson? Was that the reason why she seemed to be imbued with vivacity, even though she had not spoken a word? How could he, mostly bedridden as he was, hope to compete with a healthy young man at the fullest capacity of health?
The doctor turned. “My lady,” he greeted Tabitha. “It is a pleasure to see you. I hope you do not mind that I came to visit my patient while you were out.”
“Of course not, Dr Philpot,” Tabitha answered. “You are here for Arthur, not me. He is your patient.”
Arthur glowered at the mention of his status as a patient needing a doctor’s care. Tabitha saw the expression on his face. She supposed that Arthur was displeased with her, as he had always been in the beginning of their marriage.
“I have been discussing the Viscount’s spiritual health,” Dr Philpot said.
Tabitha was surprised.
“His spiritual health?” she repeated. “I am sure that is very thoughtful of you, but surely, it is for his physical health that you are most qualified to speak?”
“Thank you,” Arthur muttered. “Exactly the point that I was making.”
“There is a school of thought which holds that the mind and the body are not separated. Too often, my profession treats patients as if a tonic or a bandage or a crutch will solve the malady.”
“If my leg were broken, Dr Philpot, you would not prescribe a sermon, I think?” Tabitha asked him. She was smiling, but there was a measure of strength in her voice that Arthur found fascinating.
The doctor did not take offense at her query. “I would prescribe a crutch,” he conceded with a smile. “But I would also recommend prayer and contemplation.”
“For a broken leg?”
“For the lethargy and sometimes despair which accompany a condition which so restricts a man—or a woman,” he bowed to the Viscountess, “when he or she cannot move and act as desired. I ask you to consider what else is needed. Sometimes, a crutch is insufficient.”
Tabitha escorted the doctor to the front door when he had finished tending to Arthur. As he took his hat from Sutherland, Dr Philpot said, “I encourage you to consider my suggestion, Lady Randstand. If your husband is to mend, he must do so in his spirit as well as in his body. As his wife, your contribution to his health may be the most important physic that can be administered. I have tonics, certainly, and they are very good. For the body. But I am concerned about the Viscount’s spirit. Perhaps if you could reach out to your husband and ease the disquiet which he is suffering, it might spur his recovery.”
Tabitha stiffened. “I shall certainly do what I can, Dr Philpot, but I hope you are not suggesting that the Viscount’s condition is my fault.”
“No, Lady Randstand, I am not. I am offering you the benefits of my experience.” He put his hat on his head. “I hope you will consider my suggestion.”
“Thank you, Dr Philpot,” she said. She promised nothing but as she walked up the staircase, she could not ign
ore the physician’s words.
She did not spend much time with Arthur. She only visited his sick room every other evening or so, after Micah had gone to bed. Was it perhaps the wrong time to go to him, when he was tired by the end of the day and she had been occupied with household matters, her social engagements, her son, and of course, visits to Joshua? The timing made Arthur an afterthought, she had to acknowledge.
Was that intentional? Did she schedule her visits to her husband in order to ensure that she remained distant from him? Was it easier to be his widow than his wife? How had the doctor sensed that there was more amiss with Arthur than physical weakness?
She paused before the door to the guest bedroom and then, propelled by a sense of duty, she turned the knob and went in.
Arthur had been staring out the window. He did not turn his head when the door opened, but then, smelling her fragrance, that subtle blend of roses and gardenias that he associated with her and remembered so well, he looked to the door and an expression of delight transformed his wan features.
“Are you feeling any better, Arthur?” Tabitha asked stiffly, approaching his bedside.
Arthur’s countenance lost the liveliness that he had shown upon her entrance. He shrugged, his white nightshirt shifting against the sheets. He looked colourless and worn, far too depleted for a man not yet thirty years old.
“I am doing what the doctor has told me to do,” he said, “including taking doses of his noxious tonic.”
He grimaced. “Now, as if that were not enough, he seems to think that I need a sermon if I am to improve. I do not ever recall a single sermon at the Randstand church which so uplifted me that I felt myself transformed.”
Tabitha smiled at his words. “I would agree with you that the Reverend Cawley is somewhat lacking in inspiration.”
“He has not improved, then, during my absence?”
“Sadly, no.”
“It was a forlorn hope that during my absence there would be a transformation in his sermons. I am aggrieved to learn that this is not so.”
Tabitha’s smile was genuine as she shared her husband’s thoughts on the vicar’s Sunday sermons. “Micah is so good; I always ask Cook to prepare his favourite desserts for Sunday lunch as a reward.”
Arthur’s smile widened. “What is his favourite dessert?” he asked eagerly.
“It depends on the season, but his favourite is when strawberries are in season. Cook can do no wrong if strawberries are part of the dessert.”
“Strawberries,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “My mother was quite fond of strawberries. Perhaps that is where he has acquired the taste.”
“Perhaps.”
“Does the dessert bribe work? Is he well behaved when Mr Cawley comes to lunch after services?”
“Micah is always well behaved,” Tabitha said quickly.
“I meant no offense,” Arthur said. “I merely wondered if he found it easier to bear Mr Cawley’s thundering dullness with the thought of the dessert that awaits him. When I was a boy, I was not allowed to dine with the adults until I reached the age of twelve. I remember how disappointing it was, and chief among those disappointments was the unpleasant realisation that after having endured Mr Cawley’s sermons, I was then obliged to listen to him pontificate over Sunday luncheon.”
Tabitha, who had bristled at any implication that her son might conduct himself with anything less than the behaviour of a young gentleman, and then again at the possibility that Arthur disapproved of Micah sitting down with the adults at his age, relaxed at Arthur’s explanation.
“Yes, he is very tedious, but he is a good man. He teaches Micah his catechism on Thursday afternoons. I believe that he is a better teacher than he is a writer of sermons; Micah seems to enjoy the sessions.”
“Teaching his catechism . . . I would not have thought it. When I was a boy, my father instructed me.”
“You were not present to instruct him,” Tabitha said.
“No,” Arthur said, and lapsed into silence. Then, “Tabitha . . . “
Tabitha jumped out of her chair. “I have quite lost track of the hour and it is time for your medicine,” she said suddenly. “I shall send Mrs Burton up with it immediately.”
She was already on her way out the door when Arthur called her name again. Pretending not to hear, she vanished from the room.
Arthur exhaled slowly. There had been a brief moment when he felt that he and his wife were actually taking part in a conversation. He had not known that there could be so many obstacles in a discussion of the Randstand vicar, but she had risen to defend her son whenever she thought him critical of the boy.
Their son.
Not her son, their son, Arthur thought resentfully. He wanted to know more about the boy. Why did she fail to realise that his motives were entirely pure? Micah was his son and heir and he did not want to feel shut off from the boy’s life as he had been from his own father.
She did not realise that, Arthur acknowledged to himself. His parents had been dead when he married Tabitha and she had never met them, not his vain, silly mother nor his stern, cold father. He did not want the same barriers to separate him from Micah. But as yet, Tabitha had given no indication of when it would be an acceptable for him to meet the boy and be a father to him. Surely, she could not wait much longer. He was here in this house, under the same roof as Micah and it was absurd for her to behave as if he were an unknown guest who was invisible to everyone.
Tabitha did not visit him that evening, nor did she come the next day. He heard the sound of the carriage from outside the following night and he supposed that she was off to a social engagement. He felt very isolated as he listened to the sounds the house made: the sound of the tree branches swaying outside as they moved in accompaniment to the breeze; the footsteps of a servant passing his doorway on her way downstairs . . .
Impatiently, Arthur threw off his bedcovers and stood up. He was tired of being treated as if he were some sort of mad invalid who must be quarantined from all but a select few. This was still his house, after all, and he was free to move about in it. He was not a felon!
He tied the sash of his dressing gown. Mrs Burton’s search for clothing had yielded success and she had brought the dressing gown, along with nightshirts as well as day wear, for him. There was, as yet, no need for him to attire himself in anything but what he wore to bed, although he had hopes that soon he would be fit to resume a gentleman’s wardrobe.
Feeling as if he were a misbehaving schoolboy, Arthur took the candlestick from his bedside and left his room. He walked past the rooms, stopping now and again to notice the changes that Tabitha had made. She had excellent taste; odd that he had never witnessed that trait in her. Perhaps he had simply failed to pay attention. He could not recall an instance when she had expressed a preference; was that because she had none, or because he had been so resolute in his own tastes that she had not felt comfortable in doing so?
He opened the door to the sitting room where his mother used to entertain her closest friends. As he entered, he spotted a young boy and a young woman; they caught sight of him in the mirror and the young woman rose.
“Sir?” she said hesitantly.
“Please, sit down,” he said. “I am sorry for interrupting you.”
“You are not interrupting. Lord Micah and I are playing a game before he goes to bed.”
“A game? With the globe?”
“Yes. I twirl the globe and put my finger on a spot, and Lord Micah tells me something that he knows about the country I have landed on.”
“I see.”
Arthur noticed that the boy looked at him warily as if he were not at all sure what he was doing there.
“May I join you?” Arthur asked the boy.
Micah looked to his governess, who gave a slight nod.
“Yes,” Micah said in a clear, well-spoken voice. “You may join us.”
Arthur sat down. “You have no reason to fear me,” he said kindly. “I am your father. I was gone
for a long time, so long that it was believed that I was dead, but as you can see, I am alive. I have been ill, and I am recovering, but I soon hope to be myself again.”
“I have never seen my father,” the boy replied.
“You are seeing him now.”
“Where were you when you were away?”
The boy’s curiosity was authentic. He did not seem frightened or alarmed now, merely interested.
“That is a long and somewhat complicated story,” Arthur said.
“I should like to hear the answer to that as well.”
All three of them, Arthur, his son, and the governess, looked up. Standing in the room was Tabitha, returned from her outing and still wearing her cloak and looking as if she were not pleased that Arthur had initiated a meeting with their son.
TEN
“Miss Allen, it is later than I realised. Micah, it is your bedtime.”
“But Mamma, Miss Allen and I were playing Globe.”
“You may play tomorrow,” his mother said. She came into the room and bent over her son as if she could protect him from any danger. She kissed him. “But now, it is your bedtime. Miss Allen may read you two stories instead of just one. Tomorrow, you may play Globe.”
Micah accepted this decree with good humour. Before leaving with his governess, he turned to Arthur and gave a formal little bow. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” Arthur said, making no claims upon the child’s filial response as he matched Micah’s formality. “I am sure to see you soon.”
After Miss Allen closed the door behind her, Tabitha sat down on the chair opposite the sofa upon which Arthur was seated. She had a grim expression on her face, one which was ill-suited to her gentle countenance. But she had not expected Arthur to seek out a meeting with their son and she was irritated.
However, when she looked at him, she was surprised to see an unusual expression in his eyes. She might almost have thought to call it tenderness. That was not possible, of course. Still . . .
“Do you not believe that I have changed?” he asked her abruptly.