Velvet Lightning (5 page)

The drive curved up close to the big three-storied stone house, and the horse stopped automatically. There was another buggy waiting near the front door, and as Tyrone stepped down an elderly man carrying a small black bag came out of the house.

Frowning a little, Tyrone met him halfway to the house. “Dr. Scott,” he said, and immediately asked, “Is he—?”

“No, no.” Behind rimless spectacles Charles Scott’s faded blue eyes were still sharp, still intelligent. “He’s much the same. Weakening, of course, but I warned you about that. He tires easily, and he'll sleep a great deal from now on.” Dr. Scott’s voice was surprisingly deep.

After a moment Tyrone said bleakly, “And the end?”

Dr. Scott looked at him intently. “Not long now. As little as a week—perhaps as long as a month. He won't suffer, lad. Likely as not, he’ll go to sleep and simply not wake up. To be perfectly truthful, I’m amazed he lasted this long. You’ve done a fine job of making his last years happy ones.”

Tyrone didn't respond but merely stood and gazed broodingly at his front door.

Dr. Scott, who had retired to Port Elizabeth years before only to find himself still in demand for special cases, studied the younger man thoughtfully. A curious man, Captain Tyrone, he thought, and an interesting one. For the most part, he was cynical and hard, a sardonic observer of those around him. Yet Scott had the odd idea that Tyrone was a man who wanted to believe in something, that he had once found something and was fighting even now to preserve it despite its inexorable ending, that there was, somewhere inside him, a core of idealism.

To Dr. Scott’s mind, nothing else could explain what Tyrone had done. Nothing else would explain his commitment and caution, his astonishingly selfless care of a man who had no claim upon him. He had disrupted his own life without comment or complaint and had built a secret and safe haven for the man.

“Should I send for you if he becomes worse?” Tyrone asked abruptly, his voice as always without emotion when discussing Dr. Scott’s patient with him.

The doctor shook his head. “No need. We’ve passed the violent stage long ago. If he should grow agitated, give him laudanum; I’ve left a new bottle with the nurse.” He hesitated, then added impersonally, “I’ve offered her a position with me once he's gone. The island needs a nurse.”

Tyrone looked intently at him. “Fine.” His voice was even.

Dr. Scott nodded. He went on to his buggy and climbed in, then drove away. He felt he was leaving an enigma behind.

Tyrone had taken one step toward the house, when another man came around the corner. He was middle- aged, stout, placid, and laconic, with mild brown eyes and graying hair.

“Captain. Will you be needing the buggy again today, sir?”

“No. Have it ready for me tomorrow afternoon, if you will, Reuben.”

“Yes, sir.” Reuben, half of the couple that took care of Tyrone’s house and grounds, touched his forehead in a half-forgotten military salute and went to lead the horse around to the stables.

Reuben’s wife, Sarah, was known to be plagued by stiffening in her joints, and was often visited by Dr. Scott. No one in town was surprised or curious about his visits. In fact, many had spoken kindly of Tyrone's having sent for the doctor from time to time. Such a nice man, to care like that. And nice to have allowed Sarah’s sister to stay as well; no one in town knew that the “sister” was actually a nurse and no kin to Sarah.

Tyrone went inside. The house had been built on noble lines, with large rooms and high ceilings. The furnishings were sparse but all good pieces, which gave the house a spare, clean look. Tyrone liked space around him, openness. There was evidence that this was more a home to him than the apartment he kept in New York: artwork from Europe and the Far East, rugs and tapestries, books everywhere.

He didn’t pause downstairs but went directly up the curving staircase to the second floor, where his bedroom was located, bypassed it, and climbed on up to the third floor. This part of the house was quiet, most of the rooms shut off and furniture under dust covers. At the end of the long hallway, however, were several rooms that were regularly used. The doors of two of them were open. A third door was also open and Tyrone entered.

He saw first the nurse, Mrs. Tully, a widow of undetermined years with gray hair and a kind face. She was sitting by the window with her knitting, and looked up with a smile when he came in. “Captain.”

“How is he?” Tyrone asked, keeping his voice low and glancing toward a room off to the right of this pleasant sitting room.

“Well enough,” she answered placidly. “A bit excited over your having come home. He’s got the gifts you left for him this morning. I told him you’d be sure to come and see him.”

Nodding his thanks, Tyrone went quietly into the other room. He saw a clutter of picture books and toys scattered over the rug. Only toy soldiers were missing from the myriad collection; the man didn’t like soldiers, they upset him. A fire was burning in the hearth because the man was always cold now. There were comfortable overstuffed chairs, a divan, a scarred old oak desk covered with drawings in charcoal. The man, sitting among the clutter on the floor, lurched to his feet, a big grin on his face.

“Marc!”

“Good evening,” Tyrone said cheerfully.

“Tully said you’d come and see me. And the presents! You always bring good presents.”

He was a tall, shambling man, dressed warmly in a fisherman’s sweater and heavy trousers. Thick lace-up boots were on his exceptionally large feet. His hands were knobby and awkward, hands now holding an exquisitely detailed wooden coach-and- four.

“Will you read to me?” he asked eagerly.

“Of course I will. Pick out a book.” Tyrone looked at him with a sadness that was no longer understood or even noticed by the man. He accepted the storybook held out to him and settled into a chair with it, preparing to read aloud an old and much-favored story.

Gravely and patiently he began to read. He spoke in a slow rhythm because the man had difficulty in understanding now. There had come a point in the not too distant past when the man had seen and realized what he was losing, what he would become; it had been mercifully brief.

Unusual, Dr. Scott had said clinically.

Tragic, Tyrone had replied without emotion.

He lifted his gaze from the book now and then, his voice going on steadily because he knew the story word for word. He no longer had to pay attention. So he looked into guileless eyes that had already begun to wander. He wouldn’t finish reading the story. He never did now.

But Tyrone read on, patiently, to the great shambling childlike wreck of a man.

3

C
atherine Waltrip slipped back into her fathers house without incident. She heard male laughter from the closed study but ignored it. There were no servants to see her as she made her way to the washroom— a woman came in daily but left shortly after noon. Catherine kept house for her father, and even her detractors in town admitted grudgingly that she did it well.

She left the bundled sheets in the washroom and then went into her own room to check her appearance since there was no mirror in the cottage. Perhaps she could . . .

She stopped the thought before it could fully form. No. No mirror for the cottage. She’d been foolish in hanging curtains in the windows, foolish in putting a quilt on the bed. Tyrone hadn’t commented on either. She hadn’t expected him to.

A glance in her mirror showed her that she was neat, calm. On the surface she was the frosty Miss Waltrip that the members of the community of Port Elizabeth knew well. And if she herself was conscious, between her thighs, of the damp reminder of a lover's visit, then no one else could have guessed.

She saw her eyes go cloudy in the mirror and turned away abruptly.

Enough of this.
Enough
.

She went back downstairs, unexpectedly encountering her father in the hall. Lucas Waltrip was a bluff, genial man of great charm. He was her height, which made him a medium-sized man—or would have been if his frame hadn't been padded comfortably. He had iron-gray hair and brilliant blue eyes, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to his daughter ... his daughter, who now looked pointedly at the bottle in his hand.

“Hello, Father,” she said.

He didn’t try to hide the bottle; she had sharp eyes. “Just a drop or two, Catherine,” he wheedled gaily. “Just to wet our throats—”

She plucked the bottle from his hand. “No, Father. Where did this come from?”

His lips firmed in mulish determination, the gaiety instantly gone. “If I want to bring liquor into this house, I'll do it! And if you weren’t so busy poking into my affairs instead of finding yourself a husband like any decent girl, you wouldn’t worry about it.”

Catherine kept her voice soft and calm. “I’ll have dinner ready in an hour, Father, and you can have a glass of that wine you enjoy so much. The game should be over now anyway. It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly, calming somewhat. “You should tell your guests good-bye, then.”

“All right, Catherine.” He sighed suddenly and turned away toward his study, shoulders slumping.

The meekness wouldn’t last, she knew. Something would set him off again, and he’d rampage and roar, and she’d have her hands full until he settled down. She looked at the bottle in her hand, lips twisting, and went away to pour it down the kitchen drain. She remained there to prepare dinner, working quickly and blanking her mind so that she wouldn’t think. It had gotten easier with practice, and she had practiced a great deal.

But something was wrong. Something had changed. Her mind kept returning of its own volition to a secret cottage in the woods, slipping away there before she could stop it. And even the mental visits made her body ache and long, made the breath catch in her throat and her heart pound.

Enough.

She ate at the polished rectangular table with her father, responding to his occasional remarks with little attention. She hardly tasted the food she had prepared.

“
The Raven’s
back, I noticed.”

“Yes, Father. I saw it too.”

“Her, Catherine. You saw her. A ship's always female.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

Tyrone. He was the difference. Something had changed between them. He had changed since his last visit. Even, she realized, before his last visit. He had been a remote man for as long as she’d known him, even to a certain degree in bed. A highly sensual man but able to set aside his own needs instantly if something attracted the interest of his keen mind. Until very recently he hadn’t done that. Until recently his mind hadn’t concerned itself overmuch with the woman in his secret bed. Theirs had been a purely physical relationship, one of simple convenience for them both. Tyrone had found a woman to lie with him without ties or demands, and she—

“I suppose the captain will be staying his usual week,” her father commented casually.

“I suppose.”

“You could do worse than Tyrone, Catherine. He’s a rich man. A cold bastard, but then—” He broke off, looking guilty.

But then, so are you
, she finished in her mind. Not a bastard, of course, but cold. Even her father thought so. “I have no interest in marrying, Father.”

“You need a man, Catherine.” Lucas spoke quickly, trying to smooth away his cruel words of moments before. “Someone to take care of you when I’m gone.” Even he couldn’t quite put conviction into the words; he believed too strongly that his daughter needed no one to take care of her.

She glanced up at him, then returned her attention to her plate. “I’ll be fine,” she said colorlessly.

Lucas grunted and fell silent.

Catherine ate without tasting the food. Tyrone, she thought, had been satisfied with a bed partner, asking nothing more. And she had been satisfied. More than satisfied. It hadn’t been easy for her to set aside the morals her mother had long ago instilled in her, but she had recognized that if she had not accepted Tyrone’s attentions, she would certainly have never known what it was like to lie in a man’s arms and feel his passion. Her own unexpected passion.

Faced with the need he evoked and her own impossible situation, Catherine had chosen, eyes wide open, to make herself a whore.

He didn’t treat her that way, of course. He treated her as a man might, she imagined, treat a mistress. Except that she had made it clear she would accept nothing from him, not money or gifts. For the rest, he respected her insistence on secrecy, taking pains never to mar her reputation. He was never cruel to her, never insulting. He made love to her with sensitivity and skill, never putting his own pleasure above hers.

He had for these past two years been a steady part of her life. He would appear in Port Elizabeth, his ship anchored in the harbor and usually loaded with supplies and merchandise for the town. He would remain for a few days or a week, meeting her several times at the cottage, occasionally in public. And then he would be gone again, usually without good-byes.

“Catherine, Lettia has invited me to a dinner party tomorrow night. I accepted.”