The Apothecary's Curse (26 page)

Simon was caught in Eleanor's gaze; he broke from it, turning away. She pulled him around to face her. “That
what
?”

“Never mind.” He must change the subject. “Had I spoken a word back then, sis, how might that have changed your mind? I think not at all. You were quite steadfast in your decision. What is it about him you find so unpleasant now that was not apparent months ago? Have you found him penniless—and a fool?”

Eleanor gasped at the rebuke. She slapped him hard. “Simon! Do you think I care one whit whether I am rich or poor? Have I ever cared?”

“Forgive me, Eleanor. I do not know what possessed me to say such a horrible thing to you. But you've certainly no desire to be poor, else why marry a man like Braithwaite: estates, a peerage, servants to your heart's delight . . . ?” He could think of no other reason for her to cast her lot with him.

“I am nearly two and thirty years, and was until my betrothal, as Mama daily reminded me, a spinster. It grieved me sore that she worried so about my welfare. Father's entire estate will go to our brother Ben when Mama passes, as Uncle Samuel's has gone to you. I desired independence, and it was the only way.”

“You call yourself independent? Married to Braithwaite? Ha! And it wounds me to know you believe I would allow you to grow old, penniless, and uncared for—”

“She wants me to have a home and children of my own. Lord Braithwaite loved me, and he was sweet and charming and kind . . . at first. I thought I was in love with him—I
was
in love with him!” She was near tears, hysterical.

Simon drew Eleanor into his embrace, holding her gently. “I am sorry to have harangued you. But what has changed now to make you flee him?”

“That, I am not ready to speak of. Perhaps in a day or two, if you will indulge me the time to consider what to say and how—”

“You speak in mysteries, Eleanor, but all right then.”

She picked up a small glass tube, fingering it absently, the darkness receding slightly from her countenance. “Let's not talk of my worries. What are you doing up here? It is sore neglected, and I'm surprised you've not removed the roof and replaced it with more windows. It would make a beautiful solarium.”

Simon shrugged. “Come, let us leave this dusty place. Would you join me for a brandy before retiring for the night?”

“I am indeed restless, but quite fatigued as well. Perhaps I should go to my room, try to sleep.”

Eleanor stopped on the stair, pausing before the Cluny. “
Mon seul desir . . .
” she said wistfully, running her fingertips across the rich red of the tapestry. “I've always loved that tapestry. The meanings hidden within it are as many as the mysteries of the universe.”

“So you will not tell me, then? Why you've left your husband?”

Eleanor slapped his arm, not quite playfully. “I told you, in due time. Besides, I've not said I've
left
him at all.”

CHAPTER 32

Sleep was Gaelan's enemy, each blink of a heavy eyelid another step on a journey back to the nightmare of Bedlam. And this night dragged by interminably, made worse by the presence of Lady Braithwaite in the next room.

The forlorn silence was broken only by the plaintive whoop of an owl, its yearning cry growing fainter before dying on the breeze. So. What to make of Simon Bell? Was he truly destined for immortality, poor wretch? Gaelan supposed it was possible, but what was it then about medicines conjured from the ouroboros book that caused such an unnatural concomitant effect? Were others walking this earth like the two of them? Gaelan had wondered about such circumstance over the years, but . . .

Bell seemed oddly bound to reverse it. Yes, it was shocking to find oneself unable to die, and yes, Gaelan well understood the desire to join one's beloved in the afterlife, but why hasten death, especially when surrounded by such luxury as Bell found himself ? Gaelan had wanted to die at times, more so of late, and only since Handley had made life so much worse than death. But had the opportunity presented itself, would he do it? Undoubtedly yes, whilst he'd been Handley's prisoner. He'd prayed for it, and nightly. But now . . . now that he'd been redeemed from captivity?

The clock ticked by the lonely minutes; he counted aloud, switching language every ten beats, a futile effort to push back against sleep. It would come, and he would be thrust through the gates of hell.

In the distance, the sounds of London: the bay of a stray dog roaming the street outside Regent's Park, the distant clip-clop of a horse carrying a weary traveler home or away, an infant's cry borne upon the wings of the warm July air and through the open window. Forestalling sleep the entire night would be all vain effort; exhaustion would soon overpower fear. He was too tired, too weak from his injuries.

What would it be this night? The blade slicing true and deep through muscle and bone until there was nothing left of his hand but a bloody stump? Poison? Rats? A rabid cur, its mouth frothing, teeth sharp and at the ready? Handley had tried them all—variety for his show. A scream startled Gaelan from the shadowland between wakefulness and sleep. Was it his own voice or the tenuous echo of a nightmare?

Droplets of cold sweat sprang out along his back, and he shivered, but at least he had awoken. Perhaps a brandy, or something stronger, was in order. He maneuvered down the stairs quietly as he could manage to the drawing room, and poured a large tumbler of Scotch whisky, savoring the burn as it coursed its way through his gullet.

The soft cushions of the settee and the alcohol-soaked lullaby of citrus fruit and ginger on his tongue released the tension gripping every muscle. Gaelan set the empty glass on the side table and drifted, calmer now. Perhaps enough . . .

A rusty scalprum appeared, suspended above him, wafting slowly as an autumn leaf. He sat up, once again alert, tense, his breathing too rapid and too shallow.
Damnation. Will I never be allowed to rest for even one moment?

Restlessness drew Gaelan to the garden doors, and he gazed up into the night sky, the stars and planets, asterisms. The constellations. Their constancy the one thing in all his years at Bedlam to keep him tethered. How many times had he conjured them in his mind's eye, reciting their names from memory?

What might he observe of them this July night over London? There were times, so long ago, when it was so clear you could almost touch the stars. These days the heavens were choked with steam and coal dust. Peering through the garden doors and up, he was surprised to find the skies unblemished by the usual brown cloak of haze.
Ah, stella polaris.
He found, then, the Bear, down and to the left—the outlines of the Ursa Major, and the seven stars of the Plough. Off to the right . . .

“What on earth are you gazing at, Mr. Erceldoune?”

Gaelan spun around, staggering into a table. He exhaled shakily, heart fluttering. “Lady Braithwaite—”

“Forgive me, Mr. Erceldoune, I did not wish to startle you by stealing in here so quietly. I should have been more conscious of—”

Gaelan held up his right hand, halting the apology as he reclaimed his composure. “I . . . No need, my lady. On the contrary, you must forgive me; I am quite a bit on edge these days. . . . I've not . . . I've not been well—”

She'd lit the room with several large candles, one of which she yet held.

“No need to explain, Mr. Erceldoune.” She looked over his shoulder through the window. “What is it out there to so mesmerize you that you did not hear me enter?”

The quiet warmth of her voice stilled the thrashing in his chest. Yet he must be on his guard; she was Braithwaite's wife, after all. “I . . . I have always been drawn by them . . . the stars, and—” He glanced away, toward the window, motioning up at the sky.

The candlelight rendered her melancholy eyes luminous, captured in the window glass. “Ah, then, you could not sleep, either?” Her wan smile beckoned a camaraderie he did not desire.

“I . . .”

“Please, let us sit, Mr. Erceldoune.”

Gaelan nodded. He refused to allow this woman . . . Braithwaite's wife . . . to be his comforter. Yet he could not deny that he felt much calmer now.

“Forgive me. I know it must grieve you to be resident in the same house as I.”

He looked away.

“I confess I know but a little of your terrible ordeal,” she said with a sigh, nodding toward his bandaged hand, “and I am sore grieved by your suffering at Lord Br . . . at my
husband's
barbarous hands. I am aware,” she said emphatically, gazing down at the carpet, “that apologies are insufficient by far. But please understand, it was only a day ago I learned of . . . and—” She dabbed the corner of her eye with a delicate hand. “He—”

True enough, she was not responsible for her husband's behavior, yet her very presence could bring Braithwaite—and Handley—down on him at any moment. He would not confide in this woman, of
all
people, no matter how much remorse, how much pain he beheld in her visage. “And what brings you from
your
bed at this late hour?”

“My room is near yours upstairs.” Gaelan shook his head, confused. “You cried out . . . I was concerned that you might be unwell—”

He was mortified. “Please forgive me, Lady Braithwaite. I—”

“No! No! You do not comprehend me. I, too, could not sleep, but your shouts . . . they cut me to the core, knowing my husband was the likely cause of your extreme distress.” She stared at her hands, clenched into tight fists in her lap.

Had he called out Braithwaite by name? He could not recall. “I . . . I . . . thought perhaps a whisky might calm me enough to return to my bed; then the starlight caught my eye just as you surprised me.” He returned to the window, trying to wrest himself from her kind, sorrowful eyes.

“I have always been intrigued by the heavens, and had I been born a man, I might have been by now a famous astronomer. Our family tree is stuffed with
men
of science. I was quite interested in it as a student.”

Opportunity denied for the conventions of society was something Gaelan well understood. “I know them all from memory,” he said finally. “Asterisms and constellations, planets . . . The skies are the one thing unchangeable, yet ever changing. As a lad, I would sit at the edge of Glomach Falls on the west coast of Scotland, waters thundering below me whilst I gazed into the heavens, stars so close I could almost touch them. My father would come looking for me at dawn, only to find me asleep at the highest perch and admonish me roundly . . . until the next time.” The memory was keen for its pleasantness. He'd not thought of it since his youth, and what conjured it now was beyond his understanding.

“Show me . . . the stars, I mean. I have forgotten so much. My pursuits have changed since childhood and—”

“You can see but little from indoors. The windows are too narrow, and the mullions . . . I was about to go outside, before you . . . interrupted me.” Her company revived him, he had to admit.

“Might I accompany you? I wish to see.”

Gaelan stammered excuses as to why it would not be a good idea. She rebuffed each one.

The night was cool, despite the earlier warmth of the July day. The steady hiss of nocturnal life animated the silhouetted trees; nightingales called one to the other, and the hoot of owls answered in counterpoint. A perfume of closed blossoms, new-mown lawn, and summer fecundity seeped into Gaelan's withered soul. He'd missed this peaceful solitude perhaps more than anything.

He did not mind the company, even as he recognized his fortress foundations begin to crack and crumble, falling away into the glistening blades of grass. Even as he felt the cold granite surrounding his heart erode into sandstone. So long he'd been denied the kindness of companionship, he savored this moment as if it were the sweetest of wines.

Eleanor shivered beneath her light boudoir robe, causing the tiny jewels in her necklace to shimmer in the moonlight. Miniature stars illuminated her face. Again, he caught himself staring. He had been too long without female companionship. Too long, when all he could summon was the will to withstand another day of torture. The idea of standing beneath a real blanket of stars with a kindly woman was so far from reality that . . . 
No! This must be at an end.

“You shall catch a chill, Lady Braithwaite. It is quite cold and damp out here—”

“I am far hardier than you give me credit for, Mr. Erceldoune. And . . . you promised to show me.”

“Very well, then.” Gaelan stood to her side, pointing upward into the sky. “You see, there is Orion.” He indicated down and to the right.

“Yes. The three stars of his sword—I see it,” she said. “The sky is exceptionally clear tonight, as if for our benefit alone. For who else would be awake at this hour? Ah, and there, do you see it? Mars.”