In the Brief Eternal Silence (44 page)

Tyler succeeded in controlling the horses but
the carriage moving up had removed the shadow that had been over
the struggling boy and man. St. James could now see them both in
the light of the moon. Steven was on the bottom, which did not
surprise St. James as his attacker was older, heavier and much
wiser in the ways of combat. St. James clawed himself along with
his weak and bloody left hand, his body squirming until whatever
wound he had in his chest screamed agony in an endless piercing.
His right hand stretched before him on the ground, holding his
pistol as he searched for a chance to shoot.

The man arched his back bringing his head
from where it had been close to the boy's neck. He managed to pull
something from some secret hiding place upon his person. The sudden
flash of a knife gleamed sharply in the moonlight.

Then three things happened at once. St. James
would forever be uncertain of what happened first, second and
last.

There was a startled cry that St. James
supposed to be fear as Steven must have seen the blade of the knife
(but which he would later damningly come to understand was a sound
of shock). Then Steven said a single, bewildered word, “Da?”

At the same precise time, St. James heard the
man say, “God, no, Steven! Say t'isn't you, la—”

And at the same precise time, St. James
loosed his thumb on the hammer of the man's own pistol. The man's
body jerked back in mid cry before the crack of the shot was even
heard. What St. James would always remember most was that brief,
eternal silence between the man's words cutting off and the final
boom of the gun, like thunder following lightening that has already
struck.

St. James' gold eyes widened in sudden agony
that had nothing to do with his own injury. The man was half
knocked, half slumped off of Steven and lay with his face up to the
full light of the moon.

Steven cried out in a voice filled with
abhorrence and pain and the shock of tragic loss, “Me God, but
t'was me own father! Me own Da!”

And St. James lay his face down on his
outstretched arm that still held the smoking gun and shuddered.

Tyler's hands pulled at him, but he never
raised his head, just motioned with the gun in his hand in Steven's
direction in silent order that Tyler attend to him.

“Lad,” Tyler said over that boy's incoherent
speech that consisted of no understanding at this point. “Lad!”
Tyler said more sharply. “I need your assistance, lad! Can you
manage?” and something in Tyler's voice broke through to him for he
became silent except for the heaving breathing in his chest.

Tyler went on with force. “We have to get his
lordship into the coach and away from here. He is bleeding
badly.”

“Me father,” Steven said. “Me da.”

“I know, son. But your father put a bullet
into St. James there and if we do not attend to him he is going to
die also. Do you understand?” He picked up the knife and shoved it
beneath Steven's eyes. “Do you see that, Steven. He thought this
man were gonna kill ya. He didn't know it was your Da. Neither did
you,” he added a little brutally.

Steven was only gasping.

“Do you want to see his lordship die, lad?”
Tyler asked.

“No.”

“Then you have to help me! Can you do it,
boy?”

Steven nodded, and a second later, they were
rolling St. James over and struggling to sit him upright. They put
their shoulders under his arms, forced him to his feet. He groaned
once as his left arm was pulled around Steven's shoulders, and then
he was oblivious.

“He's out of it,” Tyler said as they shoved
him into the carriage.

“Tie that cob to the back, boy, and then
drive, do ya hear?”

“What about me father?”

“Later, son. Haven't time now, do you ken?
We'll come back, I promise, but first we have t'get his lordship
taken care of or we'll have two bodies t'deal with 'stead a
one!”

Steven went to slam shut the carriage door,
but Tyler forestalled him. “Hand me that knife,” he said and Steven
bent over the body of his fallen father, took the knife that was at
his side, large tears streaming down his face and gave it to Tyler
as he had been bid. “Fine lad!” Tyler spared. “God help ya, but
you're a good and brave one. Now on with it, son!”

And so saying he left the conveying of he and
the duke home to a distraught thirteen year old boy, but he could
see nothing for it. If he did not do something now, St. James was
sure to die from loss of blood. He closed the carriage door behind
him with a slam, bent over the unconscious man with the knife and
slit his clothes from his chest and his sleeve from his arm with
quick precision. There was so much blood that it took him a moment
to locate the injuries. The bullet had grazed along one of St.
James' ribs just above his heart, entered the underside of his
upper arm and exited out the other side. “God a might! If he'd been
turned another hair toward the man, he woulda been plugged proper
for all,” Tyler muttered.

He tried stopping the bleeding with the coat
he had cut off, but velvet is not a very good packing for a wound.
“Damn it! Can't make a tourniquet, have nothin' to stuff in there—”
and then hit with inspiration, he pulled out his bag of chaw,
opened it, and pulled out great handfuls and packed it into his
lordship's chest.

Only when he saw that this appeared to be
working did he become conscious of anything else. With a start he
realized that the coach had not yet begun to move. “Hell and
Damnation!” He kicked open the door and flung himself out. Nothing
but silence and darkness met him in the alley. The cob was gone and
Steven was no where to be seen. The boy's father lay staring
sightlessly up at the glow of the moon.

Tyler, who had just begun feeling as though
he had some control of the situation, slammed the door behind him
in near despair, took the last bit of tobacco that was left in his
bag, put it in his cheek, flung the bag to the ground and climbed
hastily onto the driver's seat. He slapped the reins onto the
horses, yelled at them, no longer even caring of the noise for if
the shots being fired hadn't brought anyone then he doubted a
common, “Yah!” to the horses was going to. He drove hell for
leather to the duke's home on what seemed to be the longest ride of
his life.

It was an hour later when St. James returned
to consciousness. He recognized the familiar surroundings of his
bedchamber. The fire was built up and threw flickering light out to
join what came from the lamps on the tables at either side of the
head of his bed. Effington was bent over him, examining his side
and Tyler was holding a third lamp over his chest.

“Steven?” St. James' asked, but they did not
even hear his weak question, for they were bickering in low voices
to each other.

“How could you pack his wound with tobacco!”
Effington asked with distaste.

“I hadn't nothin' else, man,” Tyler returned.
“I suppose if you'd been there, you would have had something a good
deal more dainty t'place in him, like that ridiculous night cap a
yourn for instance!”

“I would have never been there,” Effington
pointed out in a straitlaced voice. He looked incongruous leaning
over his lordship with the point of his night cap dangling down and
his sleeping gown making him appear as some ghost. “Well,” he
conceded at last, “it did slow the bleeding.” Then he added, “I
could weep, for look at his splendid clothes.”

“You will have to burn them,” Tyler informed
him, “as soon as we manage to get the rest off 'im.”

St. James, becoming a little more lucid as
Tyler set down the lamp and they proceeded to jar him about in
attempt to get him out of his clothes, said, “T'is why. . . I
insist upon plain clothing. . . no great loss when faced with this.
. . predicament.”

Effington frowned down at him, “There you
are, milord. I hope you can anticipate that I will be writing yet
another letter of resignation over this night's work! But not until
we get you safely out of danger for I daren't leave you to Tyler's
hands.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across St.
James' lips, but he only asked, “Where. . . is the boy?”

Tyler and Effington exchanged glances. Tyler
went to the sideboard, selected a bottle of whiskey as Effington
pulled off the last of his lordship's bloody clothing. Tyler came
toward St. James with the bottle. “Need t'get some of this in you,
milord. Wasn't expectin' you to come 'round.”

St. James raised a shaky right hand, took the
bottle of whiskey from his groom, but before drinking it, he asked
again, “What has become of the lad?”

Tyler went to the fireplace. St. James turned
his gold eyes to Effington, but the valet was preoccupied by saying
to himself, “Basin of water and linens. Shan't be a moment,” and he
left the room.

“Tyler!” St. James demanded, his voice a
croak. “Do not tell me. . . that first bullet hit Steven?”

“No, milord,” Tyler hastened to say. He
pulled a red hot poker from the fireplace, nodded in satisfaction
before placing it back. “Now drink t'whiskey, milord, for I'll be
at ye as soon as Effington comes back.”

St. James, with a curse, swung the bottle to
his lips and drank as much as he could manage in as short a time
possible. He broke off for air and gasped, “How bad, Tyler?”

“Grazed your rib and went through the
underside of your arm. If you had been facing him by another inch,
he would have drilled it right through your heart.”

St. James had no time to ponder on this for
Effington returned to the room, linens slung over his shoulder, a
basin of clean water in his hands which he set down upon the table.
He picked up the lamp that Tyler had left on the sideboard. “What
do I do now?” he asked Tyler.

“Put down that lamp,” Tyler told him. “And
you'd better move the one on that side of t'bed outta reach of
him,” and he moved the one near him as he spoke, “so he don't flail
about and catch t'whole house afire. Then hold him down and smother
him with a pillow if you have to, for we can't have him screaming
and waking t'household up.”

St. James took another determined gulp from
the bottle and then Effington was there, taking it from him. He was
grinning as he did so.

“Damn you. . . Effington.” St. James glared
and struggled to sit up.

Effington shoved him easily down again. “Now,
now, milord,” he said with more satisfaction than sympathy. “Take
your medicine like a good boy and let it be a lesson to you.”

“I'm. . . going to. . . bloody—” St. James
spat out.

Effington clapped a hand over his patient's
mouth. He raised his sleeping gown up so that he could put his knee
on St. James' shoulder. Tyler laughed at the valet's skinny, white
leg holding mi-lord down, but he did not delay. With methodical
quickness he dug into the duke's wound, pulling out tobacco as best
as he could.

St. James jerked with enough force to knock
his valet's night cap from his head as he had his hands full
keeping his employer as still as possible. There was a great deal
of noise coming from his clamped mouth and his eyes spat fire and
hate and damnation upon their souls.

Then Tyler got up from his knees, sweating,
and fetched the poker.

“There's still a great deal of tobacco in
there,” Effington panted.

“It'll burn,” Tyler reassured him. Then
added, “Oh, Lordy, but it will burn. Be ready!” He set the poker
into the wound.

St. James spasmed, his body going rigid.
Tyler scrambled to sit on his legs while still holding the iron.
Effington gagged and choked, his face turning green, and then,
mercifully, St. James blacked out.

Chapter Eighteen

Thursday Morning

Miss Murdock sat up in bed and stared with
disbelief at the window. Oh, he wouldn't, couldn't be so bold as to
think she would come to him again tonight. Not after his display at
Almacks!

But the tapping came again, and where it had
been gentle the night before, it was more insistent this night, and
she hurried out of bed and put on her robe. As she had no doubt who
it would be, she paused to light her lamp and went to the window.
With exasperation, she pulled back the drapes, shoved up the sash,
and whispered without preamble, “You may tell his lordship that
nothing he could say could induce me to come—” but she stopped as
she got a closer look at Steven's face.

“He's not down there, miss,” he whimpered.
His teeth were chattering but Lizzie had sudden certainty it was
not from the cold.

“Come in, Steven. My God, what has happened?”
She assisted him into the room, the flame in the lamp jumping from
the draft of the open window and making shadows move along the
wall. He stood shivering in the middle of the floor looking quite
lost. “Oh, what ever are you doing out at this hour of the night
alone?” she exclaimed. She took him by the shoulders, led him to
the chaise lounge and sat him down upon it. Then she gathered a
blanket from her own bed and wrapped it around his narrow
shoulders. “No wonder you are so cold,” she soothed, “for you are
all wet.” And she drew her hands back and catching sight of them in
the light from the lamp let out a little exclamation of horror.
“Blood! My God, Steven, are you hurt?” She knelt so that her face
was below his and looked up into his miserable eyes. “You must show
me where you are hurt, for you are bleeding, Steven!”

“T'is not my blood,” he mumbled.

Miss Murdock made a conscious effort not to
panic. “Whose blood is it, Steven?”

“Me—me father's. And St. James',” and he
cried in a great burst of confusion as well as grief, and she held
him in her arms and comforted him as best she could. All the time
her heart hammered and she could only think, and then refuse to
think, that St. James was dead. Oh, God, he was dead.

“Steven,” she said. “Can you tell me what has
happened? Can you at least tell me if St. James is alive? Has he
been badly injured?” and she tried to keep her voice even for she
feared that if she indicated just how frantic she was that she
would frighten him to such a degree that she would never get any
answers from him.