Forever and Ever (25 page)

***

“I’ll take it in, Maris,” Sophie said, and the maid handed over the covered tray she’d just brought upstairs from the kitchen.

“How is he this morning?” Maris spoke softly out of deference to the invalid, whose door was ajar.

“The same, I think. The doctor’s coming in a few minutes.”

“I thought he looked better yesterday. Not quite so mooly.” It was a Cornish expression Maris had picked up from Jack himself; it meant sickly, as near as Sophie could tell. Peaked.

“Connor says he didn’t sleep well, though. And he couldn’t eat his supper last night.”

The women shook their heads at one another, before Sophie left Maris in the hall and took Jack’s tray into his room.

Connor was with him. He’d helped him bathe earlier, and now he was settling him in the bed, plumping the pillows and smoothing the sheets over his scrawny chest. It still seemed strange to Sophie, even after almost a week, to come into her old room and find a man in the bed. She’d removed the most assertively feminine paraphernalia, but it was still a woman’s room,
her
room, and Jack would forever look out of place among the chintz-covered chairs and ruffled bed curtains.

He saw her over Connor’s shoulder and sent her a welcoming smile—which broke her heart, as all his smiles did, because the awful gauntness of his face made the baring of his white teeth look skeletal. Some people called Jack’s disease “decline,” and the aptness of the name struck her with cruel force on the day he’d arrived at her house. The coach ride from Exeter had exhausted him; Connor had needed Thomas’s help to carry him up the stairs and into his sickroom. He could barely speak—the infection had spread to his larynx—and convulsive coughing had wearied him to the point of collapse. He’d been thin when she’d first seen him last June, but the intervening five months had taken a devastating toll. When he slept, his emaciation and the grayness of his complexion made him look like a corpse.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, setting the tray on the bedside table. “And a fine one it is. The sun’s trying to come out, and the wind isn’t nearly as damp as it was yesterday.” She flushed slightly. What a foolish way to characterize this dreary day, whose only real virtue was that it wasn’t raining. Dryness and sunshine were the cures for what ailed Jack, but they were in short supply in a Devonshire autumn. She had a cold herself, and hadn’t gone to the mine yesterday because of the chilly, daylong drizzle.

“Morning,” Jack answered in a hoarse croak, defying doctor’s orders by speaking at all; he was supposed to be resting his damaged lungs. “What vile brew ’ave the witch stirred up fer me today?”

“Shhh,” Sophie and Connor said automatically, in unison. “I swear I’m going to gag you,” Connor threatened, “if you don’t hold your damned tongue. I never
knew
a man to blather on like you do, Jack.”

“It’s porridge,” Sophie said quickly, before an argument could start. “And a nice cup of beef juice.” Might as well confess it all. “And a raw egg.”

Jack made a choking sound, and would have added a lot more to it if Connor hadn’t silenced him with a warning glare. Sophie could only sympathize with the invalid, whose sickroom diet ranged from unappetizing to disgusting. He even had to swallow cod liver oil three times a day for his digestion. He called Mrs. Bolton “the witch,” although she was only following Dr. Hesselius’s instructions.

Connor put the tray on his brother’s lap. “Do I have to feed you?”

Jack made a surly face and picked up his spoon. Sophie might have felt sorry for him, except that yesterday she’d caught him feeding his lunch of fresh herring to Dash—who had become, not coincidentally, his constant companion.

Connor slipped his arm around her and gave her a good-morning kiss on the cheek. They made idle conversation, trying not to look too much like wardens while they stood over Jack’s bed, monitoring his progress with his breakfast. “Is the oatmeal still hot?” Sophie wondered. “Mrs. B. put a little sugar on it, hoping that would taste good to you. Do you like the beef juice warm or cold? Or warm in the morning and cold in the afternoon.”

Too soon, Jack lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. They had learned not to cajole him after a certain point; if he ate more than he could tolerate, he simply vomited it up, and felt worse than ever afterward. At least he’d gotten his raw egg down, Sophie noted, setting the tray aside.

She heard heavy, measured footsteps coming up the stairs. “There’s the doctor,” she guessed, and Jack gave a comical groan and rolled his eyes.

As usual, Dr. Hesselius looked tired. He had a busy practice and a young, flirty wife, and between them they seemed to be wearing him down. But his manner was calm and unfailingly kind, and he listened more than he talked, a singular trait that made him popular with his patients.

“How are you, Jack?” he asked in a voice that was neither perky nor funereal, only caring.

“He’s not sleeping, barely eating, and he talks too much,” Connor answered testily. But Sophie wasn’t fooled. Her husband had a habit of absentmindedly rubbing his chest when he was with his brother, or away from him but worrying about him, and she’d come to believe it was because his heart hurt.

She touched his arm. “I’ll be across the hall,” she said quietly, excusing herself so the doctor could examine Jack in private. Connor squeezed her hand and let her go.

She went to wait in her old nursery instead of the bedroom. Her pregnancy was still a secret, so she hadn’t been able to do much in preparation for the baby’s arrival. The wait was killing her. She had such plans! She wanted new wallpaper, and new paint on the woodwork—bright yellow; Honoria would die—and flowered curtains and a matching cushion for the window seat, fresh white paint on the ceiling, a nice thick rug, and a new mattress for the crib, toys and rattles, a rocking chair that didn’t squeak, a bigger bureau for diapers and clothes . . .

She hugged herself, fairly tingling with impatience and excitement. How could she wait six more months for the baby? She was scared to death of it, and at the same time she wanted it now, this instant. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. It hardly seemed natural to want a child so passionately. Connor wanted it, too, she’d come to believe, but his desire for it was calm, within bounds—nothing like hers. Would she be a good mother? Oh, how could she not be, when she was longing for the child this much? She wiped her eyes, unsurprised by the rush of tears; they’d become so commonplace lately, she hardly noticed them. Raw emotion was perfectly normal, Dr. Hesselius said, which was reassuring. Connor had been glad to hear it, too; it meant his wife probably wasn’t a madwoman.

“There you are.” His smile, gentle, tolerantly amused, said he knew everything she was thinking. She’d have gone to him then and kissed him—except Dr. Hesselius was behind him in the doorway.

“How’s Jack?” she asked.

“I’m encouraged,” the doctor said, coming into the room and speaking quietly. The odor of tobacco smoke hovered around him at all times, and the bowls of at least two pipes could always be seen peeking out over his waistcoat pocket. “His lungs sound better today, for the first time. He says his throat isn’t as painful, and that’s a good sign.”

“But what about his cough? That’s no better, and he’s still bringing up blood.”

Dr. Hesselius reached for her wrist and pulled out his watch, monitoring her pulse while he spoke. “The hemoptysis isn’t as alarming in consumption as some of the other symptoms. It’s distressing to you to hear it, and uncomfortable for the patient, of course, but fatal hemorrhage from coughing in phthisis is virtually unheard of.”

She glanced at Connor, who looked solemn but not fearful, and decided to be cheered by this news.

“And how are you feeling, Sophie? No more faintness, no more light-headedness?”

“No, that’s all gone.”

“Appetite’s all right?”

“Appetite’s fine.”

Connor snorted. “Appetite knows no bounds.”

She made a face at him while the doctor chuckled. They trailed out into the hall. “Your pulse is a little elevated; just a trifle, nothing to worry about. Do you have a cold?”

“Sniffles,” she admitted. “It’s really nothing.”

“Mm hm. I want you to stay home for the next couple of days. You don’t have to stay in bed, just take things slowly and quietly.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Yes, all right, but this morning I really have to go to Guelder.”

“Why?” demanded Connor.

“Because it’s payday. I was out yesterday—”

“Nevertheless, I really do think—”

“Can’t somebody else pay the men?” Connor interrupted the doctor. “Jenks or Penney? Why does it have to be you?”

“It doesn’t have to be me,” she said with exasperated affection. “But nobody can get into the safe because I’ve got the key to my desk drawer—which has the key to the safe in it, which means—”

“Which means
I’ll
go to the mine,” he announced in the flat, stubborn, don’t-argue-with-me-because-you-cannot-win tone of voice he used when he meant business. “Where’s the key?”

“In my purse,” she said primly. “Which is downstairs on the hall table.”

“I’ll see you out on my way, Doctor.” And without another word, he put his hand on Dr. Hesselius’s shoulder and escorted him down the stairs. Leaning in Jack’s doorway, Sophie whispered, “He’s going to make the most
infuriating
MP.”

***

Word that Connor Pendarvis’s brother was staying at Stone House traveled quickly, and a few days later he had a visitor. Sidony Timms arrived in a rainstorm, wet and bedraggled under an ancient umbrella, but with a face blooming with excitement and shy hope. Sophie made her come into the parlor, where a fire was burning, and gave Maris her wet cloak to dry in the kitchen. Sidony wouldn’t take a hot drink, but she sat down on the sofa when Sophie insisted, clasping her small hands in her lap. “I can only stay two minutes, ma’am, truly, and I shouldn’t ought to’ve come a’tall, disturbin’ you in your house and everything, but—I had to come and ask after Jack. I heard ’e’s very bad, and I had to come and find out.”

“It’s true, Sidony. I’m afraid he’s very ill.”

“Worse than before even?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She lowered her head, and her glossy black hair, curly because of the damp, hid her face. She looked like a distraught child, small and huddled on the sofa.

“Would you like to see him? It could only be for a minute.”

Her head came up, and the light returned to her large, dark eyes. “Oh, ma’am. Do you think it’s all right?”

Sophie stood up. “Just for a little while. He’s probably awake; he hardly ever sleeps. And you mustn’t let him talk—it’s bad for his throat, and it tires him out.”

They went upstairs, and Sophie put her head in Jack’s open door. Just as she’d thought, he wasn’t sleeping; he was sitting up against his pillows, staring out the window at the rain. He smiled at her tiredly—but when he saw who was with her, his face took on a look of such gladness and sweet, thankful surprise, Sophie’s heart contracted. Swallowing the silly lump in her throat, she said, “Look who’s here, Jack.”

“Sidony,” he rasped, then put his hand on his throat because it hurt.

“Hullo,” said the girl, hardly moving from the door. “I came to see you.”

Sophie saw that her presence was not only not required, it was unwanted. “Just for a few minutes,” she reminded Sidony, and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Downstairs, she stirred the fire in the grate and stared into the flames, seeing again the way Jack and Sidony had looked at each other. They were in love—anyone with eyes could tell that. Why did it come as a surprise to her? She’d seen Sidony before, the day she’d come here to ask if Sophie knew where Jack had gone. She’d been troubled and heartsick, but Sophie had been too consumed by her own misery and ravaged pride to spare much sympathy for her. Now she felt ashamed: she’d gotten her heart’s desire—the man she loved, his baby on the way—while Sidony had only a desperately ill lover and the promise of grief to come.

She heard her on the stairs, and moved toward the doorway to meet her. The girl saw her and tried to smile—but all at once her face crumpled and she burst into quiet sobs.

Without a thought, Sophie put her arms around her. They stood in the dim hallway, both crying, patting one another’s shoulders for comfort. “He’s so much worse,” Sidony mourned. “I couldn’t stand to look at ’im, I had to come away.”

“The doctor says he’s better, though, Sidony. His lungs sound better through the stethoscope.”

Sidony brought out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Mrs. Pendarvis, would it be all right if I came back sometime? I wouldn’t stay long, just—”

“Yes, of course. Anytime you like.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I think Jack might like it.”

“I know he would. You’re better for him than his medicine,” she declared, and her reward was Sidony’s watery smile.

After that she came every two days, always in the late afternoon between tea and dinner, so as not to disturb the household schedule. She never stayed long. Sophie left them alone together, and to hell with propriety: Sidony truly did brighten Jack’s spirits, as nothing else had; compared to that, social correctness paled to triviality.

Slowly, slowly, he began to improve. The gargles and lozenges Dr. Hesselius prescribed relieved the infection in his throat, and before long he could speak without too much discomfort—although he was still enjoined to keep quiet as much as possible, to rest his lungs. The fever sweats that kept him awake at night decreased in intensity, and he was able to rest. He looked better as a result, not so gray and wasted, and his new diet was making him gain weight. He began spending his afternoons downstairs, on the coueh in the formal parlor because the windows there were west-facing and the fireplace was warmer. Light and fresh air were the elusive antidotes to his disease, and he followed the sun, such as it was in early November, from room to room, hoping its weak, whitish rays would cure him. Maris kept him company when Connor was busy, and Sophie began coming home from Guelder early, at two or so, and played cribbage with him before she went upstairs for a nap. Her pregnancy didn’t show yet; it was still a secret. She imagined the men at the mine thought she couldn’t bear an all-day separation from her new husband, and in that they weren’t too far off.