The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (26 page)

Returning her attention to the stage, she watched as Mr. Talbot, acting as the village’s spiritual leader, carried up a brightly lit torch. He said a brief prayer, asking the Lord for bountiful crops and robust livestock, before carrying the torch off the stage and lighting a bonfire in the middle of the village green. Everyone stood, and Emmaline followed suit, joining Mrs. Talbot as they gathered around the blaze.

Several speeches were made, though Emmaline did not hear the words. Instead she found herself gazing at the fire,
watching intently as the logs burned orange and red, sending up spurts of bright, fiery ash into the darkening sky.

When she finally dragged her gaze away from the flames, she noticed a man standing directly across the bonfire from her, watching her intently. She blinked hard, focusing her eyes, trying to decide if she’d already made his acquaintance. She couldn’t be sure; after all, she’d met so many people before they’d sat down for supper.

Whoever he was, he was a gentleman. That much was evident by his dress and his manner. He stood proudly yet carelessly, a bowler hat resting on one hip. Tall and slender without being gangly, he towered over the men who stood on either side of him. There was no denying that he was handsome, exceedingly so.

Still, his direct stare made her uncomfortable. She dropped her gaze, pretending to examine her black kidskin pumps as if they were the most fascinating things she’d ever seen. Her stomach did a little flip-flop, and she realized that her hands were trembling. And not because the man was staring at her, she decided, but because she’d thought him handsome. It didn’t seem right for her to have such a thought—it was too soon.

Feeling as inconstant as the faithless May Queen, she silently chastised herself. And yet she could not help but abandon the sight of her scuffed shoes in favor of the man who still watched her intently from across the fire.

Her cheeks warmed, and a feeling of awareness skittered across her skin. This time, she allowed herself to stare back as the voices around her receded to a faint hum in the background. He was the exact opposite of Christopher, she realized—like the negative of a photograph. Fair where Christopher had been dark. Thin rather than stocky, blond instead of brunet.

But it was his eyes that she found so unsettling. Even across the distance that separated them, she could see something familiar in them, an expression she recognized far too well. He’d seen horrific things—pain and fear and death—just as she had. She could not say how she knew this, but she did.

Inhaling sharply, she dropped her gaze once more. Who was this man, and why was he watching her? Why was he making her think of things best forgotten?

When she looked up again, he was gone. The two men who had stood on either side of him had closed ranks, filling the space the tall, blond man had occupied only moments before. She turned, searching the crowd for him. But it was no use; he had simply disappeared into the night.

Dear God, I am losing my mind.
Panic rose in her breast, and her windpipe felt far too tight, too constricted. She needed to get home, back to Orchard House, before she fell apart entirely. It was the press of the crowd, she assured herself, coupled with the heat of the fire.

“…went to get the car,” a voice beside her was saying, and she realized with a start that Mrs. Talbot was speaking to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning toward the woman. “You were saying?”

Her neighbor reached for her shoulder, as if to steady her. “I asked if you were ready to go, that’s all. You look pale—are you feeling unwell?”

Emmaline swallowed hard before speaking. “I think the heat of the fire has made me a bit lightheaded, that’s all.”

“Come, then. We’ll meet Mr. Talbot by the road.”

Emmaline nodded, falling into step beside her. “Did…did you see that tall, blond gentleman? The one standing directly across from us during the bonfire?”

“The one in the gray sack suit, carrying a bowler?”

Emmaline’s gaze snapped up to meet Mrs. Talbot’s. “Yes. That’s the one. Who was he?”

Mrs. Talbot shook her head. “I haven’t any idea. I’ve never seen him before. He must be a visitor. A tourist, perhaps. Why do you ask?”

“He just…looked familiar, that’s all,” she said, the lie slipping easily from her tongue.

“Yes, he was looking at you rather queerly, wasn’t he? Perhaps you’ve met before.”

“Perhaps,” Emmaline agreed. It was entirely possible, after all. Throughout the war, she’d nursed countless men, their faces nothing but a blur to her. They’d been dirty, most of them. Dirty and bloody and bandaged, and generally unrecognizable after months spent in trenches. But perhaps he remembered
her.

It was an unsettling thought.

“There’s Mr. Talbot,” his wife said, hurrying toward the enormous black motorcar, its brass fittings glinting in the moonlight. “Come, let’s get you home.”

Emmaline just nodded as she climbed inside and settled against the tufted leather seat behind Mrs. Talbot. It was early still and the moon was bright; perhaps she’d take a stroll once she was home, check on the roses, and see that she’d latched the gate securely before she turned in.

What she would
not
do, she assured herself, was continue to think about the handsome stranger.

3

THERE WAS AN AUTOMOBILE COMING UP THE drive. Emmaline set the teakettle back on the stove and wiped her hands on her apron before hurrying to the front door. She wasn’t expecting Mrs. Talbot—she’d said she was going into Chipping Norton to visit a friend today—and Mr. Talbot would have no reason to come without her.

Perhaps it was someone she’d met the at the Beltane festival? Unlikely, she decided, as teatime was not a proper hour for paying calls. She opened the door in time to see a red roadster pull up beneath the porte cochere. The driver cut the engine and stepped out, removing his hat and wiping his brow with the back of one hand.

“May I help you?” Emmaline called out, just before the shock of recognition washed over.

The man from the bonfire.
Standing right there, in her drive.

He spun toward her. “It’s you,” he said, his eyes widening with unmasked surprise.

Emmaline shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

For a moment, he stood there entirely immobile, simply
staring at her. “I don’t believe so,” he said at last, hurrying up the stairs and extending a hand in her direction. “I’m Jack Wainscott.”

“Emmaline Gage,” she answered, taking his outstretched hand in her own. His felt warm—
too
warm.

He released her, reaching up to rub one temple. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Perhaps it’s the heat, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit odd. Anyway, I hope you’ll excuse my intrusion, but Mathilde Collins, the previous owner of Or chard House, was my father’s cousin. Or rather, was married to my father’s cousin.”

“Indeed?” Emmaline was taken aback. She supposed this man must be some sort of relation to her late husband, though Christopher had never mentioned any Wainscotts to her. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“Yes,” he continued, looking suddenly pale, “I’m getting to that. Orchard House should have come to my father upon old Mr. Collins’s death. An entailment, you see. The Collinses had no sons, and my father was the closest living male relative. Make no mistake, my father isn’t a generous man by any means, but my mother convinced him to let Mrs. Collins live out her days here. But now that she’s gone, my father sent me here to check on the property—to claim it, I suppose. It was only when I arrived in Haverham that I learned that someone had taken up residence here.”

Emmaline stepped backward, pressing herself against the front door. “But Mathilde Collins left the property to my husband. My late husband,” she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper. Was she going to lose Orchard House, so soon after acquiring it? Now that she’d settled in, now that it felt like home?

He nodded, his hazel eyes meeting hers. They looked fe
verish, she decided. “I’m afraid the property wasn’t legally hers to give,” he said, swaying slightly on his feet.

“Would you like to come inside and sit down?” she asked. “I’m a nurse, you see, or
was
a nurse. Army Corps,” she added, feeling foolish. She shook her head, hoping to clear it, allowing her nursing instincts, long since abandoned, to return. “Your skin is pale, your face flushed, and I don’t like the look in your eyes.” She reached for his forehead, wincing when the back of her hand made contact with his skin. “Good heavens, sir, you’re burning up!”

Without waiting for his reply, she opened the door and bustled him into the front parlor, leading him toward the sofa. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Jack,” he mumbled. “Major Jack Wainscott, Fifth Army, Third Division.”

Emmaline reached for his arm just as he slumped to the sofa, his eyes rolling up in his head. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, tapping his cheek several times, trying to rouse him.

His eyes snapped open, entirely unfocused. “Major Jack Wainscott,” he repeated, his voice slurring. “Fifth Army, Third—”

“Yes, yes, I know, soldier.” She reached beneath his arms, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed, while we still can.”

Thankfully, there was a bedroom on the first floor, near the kitchen. It had likely been a servant’s room at some point, but it would do just fine. It had a bed, at least, and its proximity to the kitchen would prove useful. She’d cleaned it and made the bed with fresh linens just last week.

A quarter hour later, she had him settled in bed, his jacket and necktie removed, along with his shoes. He was unconscious, feverish and flushed, his entire body trembling. She unbuttoned his shirt, looking for signs of a rash, or of any
sort of wound that might be infected. She saw nothing that would explain his current state.

Reaching for his wrist, she checked his pulse. It was far too rapid and thready. Influenza, perhaps? If so, it seemed a particularly virulent strain, considering how quickly he had deteriorated. After setting a cool cloth on the man’s forehead, she hurried back to the front hall to ring up Mrs. Talbot and ask her to send the doctor at once.

Jack struggled to open his eyes, feeling as if weights were pressing against them. He managed to open them a fraction, and then tried to turn his head. In the dim lighting, he could barely make out the shape of a woman with dark hair standing near the door. Beside her stood a man with gray whiskers and a low, gravelly voice. Their heads were bent together, the two deep in conversation.

No longer able to bear the weight of his eyelids, he allowed them to close, but tried to remain focused on the voices, trying to make out what they were saying. He caught only snippets, a few phrases here and there.

“Influenza…nothing we can do but wait it out…dangerous strain, one we’ve not seen in these parts…highly contagious…suggest we have him moved.”

“I’ve already been exposed…experienced nurse…he must stay here.”

“Quarantine…no visitors…at least a fortnight.”

“Thank you…yes, on the chest of drawers…will call you if there’s any change. Tell Mrs. Talbot…”

Jack swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He ached all over, and he hadn’t any idea how he’d gotten into this unfamiliar bed. Where was he? And who were these people? He was tired, so very tired. He just wanted to sleep. If only someone would bring him a glass of water…

Her patient was not doing well. Emmaline sat by helplessly, watching him toss and turn, his face deathly pale. Every once in a while his glassy eyes would open, staring unseeing at the ceiling, and she would wipe his forehead with a cool cloth while she whispered soothing words to him.

It didn’t matter what she said—he couldn’t hear her. He was entirely delirious, his fever raging out of control. More than once his breathing had grown so labored that she’d feared she was losing him.

When that happened, she stripped him down to his drawers and bathed him with rubbing alcohol, cooling his head with ice packs while she said a little prayer.

By the fourth day, he seemed to stabilize a bit, though he remained in a deep sleep. She sat by his side now, working on a needlepoint sampler while he slept on, his limbs occasionally jerking as if he were dreaming.

“Water,” he croaked, startling her from her work. She tossed down the sampler and hurried to fill a glass, pressing it to his lips. He tried to drink, but most of the water dribbled down his chin, soaking his thin cotton undershirt.

For the briefest of moments, his eyes fluttered open, fully focused this time. “Emmaline?” he murmured.

“Yes, I’m here,” she answered, surprised that he remembered her name. He’d heard it only once, just before he’d collapsed. She bent over him, examining his pupils. They were almost fully dilated, the hazel ring barely visible now despite the lamp beside his bed.

She reached for his hand and clutched it tightly in her own, willing him to fight the fever. If only there was something she could do! She hated to watch this strong, handsome man waste away like this. It didn’t seem fair. He’d beaten death once; he didn’t deserve to go like this. No one did.

“Fight, Mr. Wainscott,” she urged as his eyes fluttered shut again. “You must fight this! I can’t do it for you. You mustn’t give in. I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere, who needs you. Who loves you. Fight for her, whoever she is.”

His legs twitched, and Emmaline dropped her chin to her chest in despair. His breathing was shallow now, rasping and dangerously fast. She laid a hand on his burning cheek, caressing it, willing him once more to fight.

Almost immediately, his breathing improved. “That’s it, Mr. Wainscott,” she murmured. He seemed to enjoy her touch—it appeared to calm him, somehow. She moved closer, perching on the side of his bed.

“You just need to know that someone is here, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. Smiling down at his prone form, she ran her fingers through his damp hair, marveling at its softness as she combed it back from his forehead.