Against the Tide (31 page)

Heaven help me.
Bane’s mind reeled as he left Lydia’s room. The documents he would sell his soul to see were buried in ice and in danger of being ruined.

He strode into another bedroom and hoisted up the sash of a windowpane, leaning outside to test the air. Puddles of melting snow surrounded the house, and rivulets of water dripped from the icicles on the roofline. He ground his teeth in frustration. It was colder in Vermont, and the insulation in the icehouse meant the documents might still be preserved, but not for long.

And despite her denial, Lydia was in the midst of a raging withdrawal from a drug she had been addicted to since childhood. She displayed every symptom Dr. Tilden warned him about: twitchiness, headache, thirst, and weepiness. Soon she would have waves of nausea and days of insomnia.

But he had to get to Vermont. The road leading to the Professor’s house was not on any map, and Bane was one of the few people who could find the house. He bowed his head, listening to the patter of melting ice as it dripped from the roof into the puddles below. With each drop he feared for the survival of those documents in the icehouse. He did not have much time
.

He would have to convince Lydia to accept help from Dr. Tilden and the Fontaines, and that was going to be a delicate task. There was nothing he could say that would convince her she was sick; it was a conclusion she needed to reach on her own.

34

L
ydia fingered the smartly tailored gown she’d put on, feeling like an imposter. Everything in this house spoke of luxury, from the silken bedding to the view of the mighty ocean outside the bedroom window. The heavy brass doorknob was cool in her hand as she twisted it open to enter the hallway. The area outside was as splendid as the bedchamber. The thick rug stretching the length of the hallway absorbed the sound of her footsteps and led her to a staircase curved in an impressive arch as it descended to the main floor.

How annoying that she could not stop her hand from trembling on the banister. It didn’t mean anything. Bane said she had been sleeping for two days. Anyone who had nothing to eat or drink for two days would be a little shaky. Surely something to eat would restore her strength.

True to his word, Bane had been listening and greeted her as she turned the corner from the staircase. “We are painting Easter eggs in the kitchen,” he said quietly into her ear.

The strength of Bane’s hand gave her a jolt of much needed
confidence as he led her toward the kitchen. Her head felt like it would split open with each step, so she tried to glide, moving slowly and cautiously.

The kitchen was lined with cooking ovens and pantry shelves, but in the middle of the floor was a butcher-block work space where Admiral Fontaine and two children were painting eggs. Another woman who looked as starched as Queen Victoria stood beside them.

The moment Lydia stepped into the kitchen, Admiral Fontaine rose from his stool and strode toward her. She had never seen him in anything but a uniform, but today he was wearing a simple white shirt and black trousers. The change in his clothing couldn’t account for why he looked so different. It was the expression on his face. Normally he looked so confident, but not today.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Pallas . . .” he said awkwardly, but he grasped her hands between his and gave them a hearty squeeze. And then he stopped talking. He appeared to want to say something more, but his brow furrowed and he swallowed hard. “I am afraid I am at a loss for words.”

To her stunned disbelief, he was too choked up to continue speaking with her.

Queen Victoria spared him the embarrassment. The woman wore an exquisite gown of ebony silk embroidered with jet beads, and the upsweep of her gray hair was a masterpiece of engineering. “Welcome to my home,” she said smoothly. “I am Victoria Fontaine, and I can’t tell you how grateful we are for all you have done for our family.” It was as Bane said. This woman did not seem to be looking down on her. A tiny ray of confidence began to build inside Lydia. Perhaps it would not be too difficult to quell Bane’s ridiculous concerns about opium addiction.

Before Lydia could respond, Jack sprang off his stool and raced
to greet her. “Do you remember me?” he asked. Spatters of paint were on his grinning face, and he was apparently none the worse for his ordeal if his sparkling eyes were any indication.

“Of course I remember you,” Lydia said. “How could I forget a boy who climbs on roofs and drops through skylights?”

Apparently, this was high praise, and Jack seemed to grow two inches taller. “We are painting Easter eggs. Do you want to help us?”

Mrs. Fontaine put a hand on her grandson’s shoulder. “Miss Pallas must be very hungry. And perhaps she is not quite ready for all this excitement?”

The veiled implication was clear to every adult in the room, but Lydia decided to tackle the issue directly. “Of course I would like to help. I’m afraid Bane may have exaggerated my illness, but I am perfectly healthy. Famished too, if that is breakfast on the counter over there.”

Her headache was raging, but food would surely help. Bane strolled to the sideboard and lifted a cover from a warming tray. “The best thing about staying at the Fontaine estate is they feed you like royalty. You’ve got your choice of scrambled eggs, ham, hash browns, bacon, muffins. And what is this glop?”

“That is good old-fashioned oat porridge,” Eric said. “I don’t care how humble, it is what they serve aboard ship and what I like for breakfast.”

Lydia’s stomach started to growl. “I’ll have some of everything.”

Bane looked at her with caution. “Are you sure? How about some milk and perhaps a little of that glop the admiral likes? It might go easier on your stomach.”

She winced at hearing her “stomach” being discussed in polite company but was too hungry to care. “Bane, I’m starving. Have mercy.” She started to tremble again, so she lowered herself onto a stool, sinking gently to avoid rousing the monster inside her
head. She introduced herself to the little girl named Lucy, and let the child show her how she was adding little gold dots to the eggs they had already painted.

“When I was your age I lived on a boat, and there were no eggs at Easter time, so my papa pulled up oyster shells out of the ocean and told us they would work just as well,” Lydia said.

The memory was so vivid she could smell the salt air and hear Papa’s booming laughter on the wind. A surge of longing swelled inside her, and Lydia found herself insanely, desperately longing for Papa’s unabashed bear hugs and his booming laughter. He must have loved her so much to gather those silly oyster shells for her every year. He had failed in providing a decent home for his family, but his generous heart meant he had never stopped trying. Had she ever told him how much she loved him?

Tears flooded her eyes, and a strangled sob escaped her throat. She struggled to contain herself, but it was hopeless as the ragged sounds ripped from her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds. Drawing a ragged breath, she wiped the tears streaming from her eyes with her hand. She mustn’t break down like this in front of the admiral and his family.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say on a shaky breath. “I never cry, but that memory snuck up on me.”

Mrs. Fontaine handed her a napkin and Lydia dabbed her eyes, her face heating with embarrassment. Fine impression she was making on everyone. She sniffled and forced herself to smile. “My parents died when I was very young, and sometimes I still get a little emotional.”

Bane stood frozen with a plate full of food on the opposite side of the kitchen, watching her through pain-filled eyes. Surely he was thinking her weepiness was another symptom of withdrawal, but it was not. It had been years since she had remembered the way
Papa had collected those oyster shells for her, and it had caught her unawares, that was all.

“I’m starving, and that bacon smells amazing,” she said as she pushed herself off the stool. She crossed the room to Bane, and he handed her the plate and a fork.

“Do you want to sit while you eat?” Bane asked. “We can clear a space at the table.”

Lydia shook her head. “I’d prefer to stand,” she said. It was easier to stand when her legs were this antsy. Even though everything looked wonderful, she had a sudden desire for a nice cup of tea with a big spoonful of Mrs. Winslow’s. She forced the thought away and took a small bite of the eggs.

How long had it been since she had had a swallow of Mrs. Winslow’s? She paced alongside the ovens to get her mind off the drug and took a bite of ham with some kind of honey glaze. She needed to pretend this was a normal morning. No tremors, no persistent fantasies of a drug she should not be using. She was going to be every bit as ladylike as Mrs. Fontaine.

The little Fontaine girl went back to painting the eggs with new determination. Lydia tried to watch the girl’s childish hands place a dollop of the glittering paint on the eggshell, but her stomach was not accepting the food very well. She almost felt like she wanted to throw it all up. She set the plate down and forced herself to breathe deeply, willing her stomach to settle. Bane came to stand beside her.

“I think the milk would have been a better choice,” he whispered in her ear.

Anything
would have been a better choice. Her entire body was hot, and perspiration prickled across her skin. Her stomach roiled, and she covered her mouth, knowing she didn’t have long. Her helpless gaze found Bane’s, and he firmly guided her to the oversized kitchen sink. She barely reached it before she lost the battle.
The food came up in two mighty heaves, but then her stomach continued to protest, vomiting up all the water she had drunk. She could sense Bane behind her, shielding her from the humiliating picture she must make. She was still doubled over and retching when a wave of sobs came upon her. Her whole body shook with sobs that sounded like a wounded animal even to her own ears. She wished Papa were here. She was bawling so hard she couldn’t even stand; all she could do was cling to the basin like a lifeline. She could hardly even breathe. How humiliating to be bent over a sink in front of these nice people while she vomited and sobbed and shook.

“Come along, Jack,” she heard Admiral Fontaine order. “You too, Lucy. We will finish this later.” Lydia heard a rustling of fabric and shuffling of feet as the family left the kitchen.

Another wave of shame swamped Lydia as she remained doubled up over the sink. “I think there’s something really wrong with me,” she whispered.

Through her tears she could feel Bane’s hands stroke her back. “I know, darling. Don’t worry, I’m going to make sure you get better.” His voice was so soothing, with no trace of censure, just the calm reassurance Bane was so good at.

Another wave of nausea overtook her, but she had nothing left to throw up. She clung to the enamel sink as the heaving continued and threatened to tear her in half. The very worst part was the knowledge that Bane was right. She was addicted to opium, and this was her punishment for allowing it to happen.

Bane handed her a damp towel, and she used it to wipe her mouth. He helped her stand, and she looked around the kitchen, assuring herself they were alone. “I am so embarrassed. So ashamed.” She had difficulty even forming the words through the shaking of her breath.

Bane smoothed a few tendrils of her hair back from her forehead. “While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of telling Eric and his mother how determined you were to save Jack, even as you battled against your illness. I told them of your history at the orphanage and how you had been spoonfed that poison from the time you were a child. They know that even after Jack was rescued, you stayed in that madman’s house so that you could strike a blow against the Professor. Lydia, they stand in awe of you.
I
stand in awe of you. Who else could have outwitted the Professor and, at the same time, walked through the fires of withdrawal?”

The words soothed her embarrassment, but the shakiness was back in her legs, and pacing was the only thing that seemed to help. Her success in finding the Professor’s new base of operations would come to nothing if the documents were ruined before Bane could rescue the pages from the ice. “Those papers are still in the icehouse.”

“I know.”

“I want you to go get them.” There was no shakiness in her voice now, only grim determination. “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life in this ridiculous battle with the Professor. I want him out of your life so you have no more excuses for leaving me. If you walk away from me, I don’t want it to be because of that man.”

There was a curious mixture of hope and concern on Bane’s face as he began speaking. “I want to find those papers and put the Professor in jail for the rest of his life.” He folded her hands between his own. “There are very few things in this world of which I am certain, but I know I will love you until my dying day. I want to build a life with you where we can be free to pursue whatever grand adventure your heart desires. But Lydia, I can’t be married to a drug addict.”

She blanched. His words sliced through her, but she did not
allow herself to look away. She had been lying to herself about her condition for years, but she could never fool Bane. If she wanted Bane in her life, she needed to tackle this problem with no more lies to herself or others. “I will do whatever it takes to get better.”

“Will you meet with Dr. Tilden?” he asked gently. “He will be back soon.”

She would do anything to escape the misery that was coursing through every vein and nerve ending of her body. “Yes. Yes,” she managed to say through trembling lips. “Bane, I’ll do whatever it takes.” His arms locked around her, and she leaned into his warmth, finding the first comfort she’d had since she had opened her eyes that morning.