Edith Layton (7 page)

He squared his narrow shoulders. “For now, Miles, let’s see her wake, be coherent, and remember. Then let’s see her walk and talk again. Then…well, time will tell.”

Miles put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just heal her, Harry. I’ll leave the rest to fate.”

“I’ll try,” Harry said earnestly. “I can’t do more. It is, as you say, not in my hands anymore.”

The sunset was pale, twilight coming soft and slow. It had been a beautiful day, mild and clear. Now birds were cooing their evening songs, a mild breeze stirred the trees. The scent of flowers was heady on the evening air. Miles paced a garden path and consulted his watch again. He’d only have to stay there a few minutes more. However pleasant it was, he’d taken this walk alone outside only to stop Harry’s nagging and Mrs. Farrow’s complaining that he never left the room upstairs. She said she didn’t need another invalid to watch over. Harry had been more precise. “Get out,” he’d said.

Miles took in a deep breath. The air was piercingly sweet. He looked up and saw the first
shards of stars peeping out of a deepening purple sky. It was like balm, he could feel his muscles unknotting, his spirits rising. God, how he’d missed this.

The navy hadn’t been his first choice of career. He liked the sea, but loved the land. But it had promised him what he’d needed: a chance for rapid advancement and an opportunity to make money. And a life in the open air. What his career had in fact netted him was too many hours in cramped and stifling cabins, too much time away from the open air just outside, just beyond his reach. Being an officer wasn’t like being a gentleman on a cruise. He didn’t often have time to enjoy the sea air.

He touched the long indentation on his chin, and smiled, remembering that when he did have outside duties, they were often dangerous and occasionally painful, giving him interesting scars for his change of routine. But his work had also gotten him the advancement and the money, and that was what he’d needed most.

It seemed to him that his life since his father died and his mother so hastily remarried had been a relentless search for what was needed. When would it be his turn to get what he wanted? Or were they the same?

Harry and Mrs. Farrow were right, he thought, as he drank in the slow sweet twilight, he’d needed this. They dared not open a window in
Annabelle’s room. A draft, however soft and redolent of flowers, could be her enemy now. But the fresh air was his friend. It lifted his spirits, reminding him there was a world outside his problems, a world filled with sweetness. He could feel the knots in his back unwinding, the peace of the settling dusk calming his nerves.

This lodge was a small place compared to Hollyfields, but he liked it better. It hadn’t been built to impress but rather to express the beauty of its surroundings. He gazed around the garden. Someone had kept it up well. There were early roses and late primroses; an arch covered with purple wisteria was already fading into deeper purple shadows; a bright yellow laburnum just beyond fought the dimming of the light.

Here a man could walk his fidgets off, roam green fields, or stroll down country lanes. He could ride through verdant meadows and pause along the banks of clear streams, take a rod and try his luck at catching a fine fat trout for his dinner. He could rise at dawn and sit at the pond side watching water lilies open, or go to the lake just down the road, take a small skiff, lie back, listen to the water lap, and watch the day slide away. He could…

The day
was
sliding away. This was the most dangerous time, Harry had said, when a life could slip away too.

Miles turned and strode back into the house.

M
iles had just finished his hastily eaten dinner, and now he sat in a comfortable chair by his wife’s bedside. He was reading. He hadn’t had the peace of mind to concentrate on a line before his talk with Harry, but now that he felt he didn’t have to sit poised, listening for his wife’s last breath, he could at last actually read again. It was luxury. But his senses remained alert.

He looked up at a sound, his muscles tensing, then relaxed and smiled at the maid who had tiptoed in to light the lamps. The long twilight was over. The maid glanced at Annabelle’s bed, and then gave Miles a sweet sad smile in return to his. She left as quietly as she’d come in. He picked up his book again with a soft sigh of pleasure.

He didn’t recognize the difference at first. He
knew only that he was distracted and couldn’t concentrate on the words he was reading. He looked up. Nothing had changed. The lamps were lit, the room had a rosy glow, a small fire in the hearth kept off the evening’s chill. But there was something new in the atmosphere. There was definitely a different feeling to the room.

Miles put down his book, rose, and though he suddenly didn’t want to, went to look at Annabelle.

She looked back at him.

He tried to speak, his voice caught, he tried again. “Annabelle?” he asked softly.

“I have been ill,” she said.

He nodded. “Very ill.” He touched her forehead. It felt cool.

“I remember some of it. How long has it been?”

“Too long,” he said.

“Am I better now?”

“I think so. What do you think?”

She tried to wet parched and peeling lips. “I’m thirsty.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just a moment.” He went to the pitcher and basin near the bedside, and marveling at how steady his hands were in comparison to how fast his pulses raced, he moistened a facecloth. Then he returned to her and dabbed her lips with it.

She gave him a curious look. “That was nice. But I’m thirsty. May I have a glass of water?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I have to ask,” he added before he strode to the door and shouted, “She’s awake! She’s talking!”

“I was that ill?” she asked when he came back. Her eyes were wide.

They were the same, at least, he thought on a surge of rising joy. Blue, intense, looking larger than ever. He took her hand, hiding a grimace at how frail it felt in his. “You were very ill,” he said.

“But I can’t have water?”

“Buckets, if the doctor agrees.”

She tried to sit up, sank back, and frowned. “I feel so dizzy.”

He put his arm around her, trying not to shudder at how fragile she felt in his arms, how pointed her shoulders had become. “Don’t worry, it’s natural. You’ve been in bed a long time.”

She touched her head, and frowned. “A nightcap? I don’t wear nightcaps.”

“You do now,” he said, and looked toward the door, wondering if he’d have to shout again. There were things she had to know, but not now, and not from him. Maybe not even from a doctor. Where was Mrs. Farrow?

He saw Annabelle lick her lips and put the wet cloth to them again.

“A drink soon then?” she asked.

“Soon,” he said.

She looked up at his face and frowned again at
what she saw there. One of her hands went to her face, “May I have a looking glass?”

He didn’t answer.

“May I?” she asked again.

“Ah! Here is Mrs. Farrow,” he said with boundless relief. “Annabelle, Mrs. Farrow is the good woman who’s been nursing you. She’s a neighbor and an herbalist, a hard combination to find. Lucky us. Mrs. Farrow, I can finally properly present my wife, Lady Pelham. And here, on Mrs. Farrow’s heels, is Dr. Selfridge, a famous surgeon and an old friend, come all the way from London Town—and from his interrupted dinner too, unless I miss my guess. Harry, meet my lady. Now. Mrs. Farrow, Harry: my wife would like a glass of water.”

Neither of them budged. They stood looking at Annabelle, wreathed in foolish smiles.

“A glass of water,” Annabelle agreed. “And a looking glass,” she added.

Their smiles faded.

“First things first,” Mrs. Farrow said briskly, recovering herself. “With your permission, Dr. Selfridge, I think a lady who has woken after such a long beauty sleep needs a good wash, don’t you? You’ll feel so much better then, my lady.”

“So she will,” Harry said heartily, “but first, my lady, if I may just have a look at you, and a brief listen to your heart first? Then Mrs. Farrow can set you to rights, and then we’ll talk.”

“How long have I been sleeping?” Annabelle asked after Harry had listened to her heart, looked at her tongue and into her eyes.

“Ten days, all told,” Harry said, stepping back.

Annabelle sat up sharply, her gaze flying to Miles. “Were my parents informed?”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t want to alarm them. Do you mind?”

“I’m very grateful,” she said, sinking back on her pillows again.

“Now shoo, gentlemen,” Mrs. Farrow said. “I’ll call you when my lady feels fit to be presented to company again.”

But when Mrs. Farrow finally did leave Annabelle, she closed the door behind her. She went into the hall where Miles and Harry were standing, chatting, and shook her head.

Miles grew pale.

“No, no,” she said at once, “she’s well. But so exhausted, poor lady. She fell asleep when I was done washing her. She thanked me sweetly and said she’d never felt better, and just slipped off to sleep again. A healthful sleep,” she told Miles. “Don’t worry, I made sure before I left her.”

Miles turned to Harry. “Is the crisis over?”

“I believe so. She suffered from your previous doctor’s ministrations as much as from the influenza, but didn’t have any complications. Her lungs sound clear, her heart is strong.”

Miles nodded. “How long before she’s entirely well? I mean, as she was before she fell ill.”

“I think she’ll follow the usual pattern,” Harry said. “Don’t you agree?” he asked Mrs. Farrow.

She nodded. “I think so. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? I believe I can safely leave her tonight, and I haven’t been home in days!”

“Mrs. Farrow,” Miles said, “I hope you know how much I appreciate your contributions. I’ll have the carriage waiting.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“Now, tell me about my lady,” Miles said, staring at Harry. “How long until she’s recovered?”

“She’ll need two or three days to regain enough strength to be less sweet than Mrs. Farrow said she was just now. Your lady may be an angel for all I know, Miles, but I promise you she’ll be tetchy and cross when she feels good enough to move around but still too weak to actually do it. That’s natural. After that, if you two are still speaking—because that’s a critical stage of illness, at least for the patient’s family—let me see…With proper care I think it will only be a matter of weeks until she’s herself again.”

Miles face was solemn. “I see. And how long before we give her a looking glass?”

“That’s for you to decide, Miles,” Harry said.

Miles grimaced. “Given my way, I’d say not un
til those weeks were up. I’d hide every mirror in the house until then, if I could.”

“Rather like Sleeping Beauty’s family hiding every spindle,” Harry said. “That didn’t work either, did it?”

Miles laughed. “Exactly. What I’m actually asking is if the shock of seeing herself too soon will set her back.”

“Worrying about it will set her back more, I’d think,” Harry said. “But if you prefer, leave the matter alone for now unless she absolutely insists, because fretting will distress her. She can’t get out of bed yet. I’d suggest waiting until she feels more the thing. When she feels better, her mood will be more optimistic.”

Harry paused and took off his glasses. He huffed on a lens, withdrew a handkerchief, and polished it up, never looking up at Miles. When he put on his glasses again, his voice was cool and correct, and he didn’t meet his friend’s eye. “I know she was a great beauty, Miles. But I think you’re making too much of it. Unless, of course, the way she now looks bothers you that much. That’s a very different story. If that’s the case, I suggest you find a reason to travel until she
is
herself again. Surely you can find business in London to attend to? Because in her present fragile state negative opinions will influence her, to her detriment. Far better that she believes you to be
called away on business than knowing you find her repulsive.”

Miles hands closed to fists. “You’re a complete ass if you think that of me,” he said, with obvious difficulty.

Harry took a step back. Mrs. Farrow looked startled.

“I won’t defend myself again,” Miles went on in a clipped voice. “If you’re a friend I won’t have to. And it’s only because you are a friend that you don’t have to defend yourself against me. Hear me out. I know the lady’s habits, if not her mind. What I worry about is that she’ll be the one who’ll want to leave because of how she looks. And it’s difficult to run away from oneself.”

“Surely she’s not that shallow?” Harry exclaimed.

“I don’t know the lady,” Mrs. Farrow interrupted, “but I do know women. Even a farm wife would grieve if she lost her looks. It’s not because we women are so foolish or shallow. Rather, I think it’s because we’re led to believe we have little value outside of how we appear.” She smiled to take the sting from her words and went on, “I think we’ll continue to feel that way until you gentlemen start flocking to ugly women, paying them compliments on their stringy hair and big noses, poor figures and drab looks, praising their minds and not their appearances.”

“Nonsense,” Harry said. “How are we to know their minds until we know them?”

“Precisely,” Mrs. Farrow said smugly. “And how often do men ask an ugly duckling to dance? Or an ugly old hen, for that matter? Much less sit down to chat with one so as to get to know her beautiful mind?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Miles spoke first. He obviously hadn’t been paying attention to them. “I think,” he said bemusedly, “I’d better stay close to her for the next few days. She needs the bed to herself of course. I’ll sleep in the dressing room so I can be near, in case…of anything. I want to be on the spot.”

Miles woke and lay still. The cot in the dressing room wasn’t comfortable, but he’d slept in many worse places. Early morning sunlight streamed into the room. He hadn’t pulled the draperies closed last night because he’d instructed the maid not to come in to draw them open in the morning. Now that he was assured of a good night’s uninterrupted sleep, he didn’t want to forgo one of his life’s great indulgences anymore. He flung back the covers and stretched, feeling the sunlight on his bare body, and almost purred with content. After so many years of sleeping in the close company of so many men aboard ship, he deemed sleeping naked a great luxury.

He squinted at the light and judged it to be just
past dawn, at least six bells. He listened, hearing only the morning songs of birds. He rose, padded over to the window, and threw it open. Another reason to sleep in here, he thought as he breathed in deeply. He could have all the fresh air he wanted without worrying about it harming Annabelle.

Annabelle. He had to see how she was, assure himself that last night hadn’t been a dream. He ran a hand over his chin. Should he wait, shave first, make himself presentable? He couldn’t wait. He dashed some water on his face, rinsed his mouth, then threw a dressing gown around his naked body, and went to the door that adjoined Annabelle’s bedchamber. He cracked it open.

It was dimmer in the blue bedroom, but a drape had been pulled back from a corner of one long window so he could see in. But he couldn’t make out Annabelle’s slight form amid the heaped coverlets on the great bed. He went quietly into the room.

And almost fell over her.

She lay in a huddle on the floor in front of the dressing table. His breath caught; he dropped to kneel beside her. She was curled up on her knees, facedown, arms around her head, her body drawn into a knot.

“Annabelle?” he whispered, “Annabelle?”

She turned her face away.

“Annabelle?” he asked, touching her shoulder.

She shuddered.

He gathered her insubstantial weight in his arms, lifted her, and strode to the bed. She refused to unclench her body, so he sat, holding her tightly in his arms. He’d been too aghast to look at her before, but now he peered down. And felt his heart clench as tightly as her body.

Her nightcap was off. She saw him looking at her and buried her face in his chest. He looked down at a pale pink scalp covered with a faint re-growth of black hair, stubbled as his own unshaven chin. Something was poking into his chest. He moved a hand down to discover that she held the handle of a silver-backed mirror. He tried to gently pry it from her white-knuckled grip.

“Please let it go,” he said softly. “It’s digging into my chest, you see,” he added, knowing that it hurt her more.

She loosed her grip and he tossed the looking glass on the bed.

“Ah, Annabelle,” he said. “I’m so sorry. It will change, you know. It will go away, or rather, your looks will come back. It’s only for now. You’ll see.”

He wanted to stroke her, but when he ran his hand along her back he could feel every vertebrae even through the material of her nightgown. So he merely let his hand rest on her back. He tried to see her expression.

“It isn’t that important,” he insisted. “It’s only here and now. You were so sick we thought we
might lose you. All you lost were your looks, for now.”

Her head shot up. “What else did I have to lose?” she cried.

He sought words but couldn’t find them. He didn’t know her well enough to know what else she did possess. Was she proud of her singing? Her skill at the piano or harp? Was she a fine needlewoman? Did she like to grow roses or orchids? What did she excel in, apart from being lovely and moving so gracefully in society?

“Your life,” he finally said. “You could have lost your life.”

“I am no one, nothing now,” she grieved.

“You are Annabelle,” he said firmly, “Annabelle, Lady Pelham. A clever woman with wit and style. So much so that I don’t doubt you can make baldness a virtue. Why, I fully expect to find every lady in London shaving her head within a week!” He hoped to hear that unexpected giggle of hers again. She remained still. “Except,” he quickly added, “by the time we go back to London you’ll just have a new shorter hairstyle for them to copy.”