Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (14 page)

She rose and moved frantically about the room, gathering cloths, oils, and a basin for water.

“What are you doing, Duchess?” Brock asked.

“He should not be unattended.”

“He is not your responsibility!”

“I cannot leave him like this.”

Brock grabbed her arm.

“Would he do the same for you?”

Evelyn was quiet, for she did not know the answer to that question.

Seeing her falter, Brock rushed to dissuade her from leaving.

“There’s no hope for him, Evelyn,” he told her. “You knew that the moment he-”

She did not want to listen. She
could
not listen.

“He will die if I do nothing!” she cried.

She did not expect him to understand. Indeed, she barely understood herself. But she would not be helpless, not this time. Not as she was helpless the night her father died.

“My dear Evelyn,” Adele said softly, “you must do what you feel is best.”

Finally, an advocate!

“No!” Brock argued. “It is not worth your life, Evelyn.”

“Nor is it worth his!” she cried in return. “I will not stand by while he dies! I must do something.”

Before she could be persuaded otherwise, Evelyn launched herself through the door and into the hall.

Chapter Twelve

Her kerchief did little to prevent her senses from being assaulted by what she saw and smelled.

The hall was lit by a faint lamp, which hung several doors down. The light cast a strange glow upon the scene, causing the scattered bodies to appear as creeping, ghoulish shadows. They lay still until their nerves seized in pain, their arms and legs going rigid with convulsions.

Puddles of their fetid drainage had formed upon the floorboards, the sight of which nearly caused Evelyn to topple backwards into the stateroom.

A nightmare. She had walked into a nightmare.

She might have retreated had she not caught sight of Lucius, who lay still, vomit caked in his hair and nightshirt. He was shivering, his face shining with sweat.

She steeled herself against her own instinct to turn away, and instead crept towards him, arguing with herself that helping Lucius meant more to her than leaving him to die. She had to convince herself of this, lest she should choose her own life over his.

Besides, she was exposed to the sickness now. There was no going back.

As Evelyn had never cared for a sick person in her life, she had to draw from memories of her own illnesses, when the best doctors and nurses had been hired to restore her health.

She crouched beside Lucius and uncapped one of her oils, which she passed beneath his nose.

“Lucius, can you hear me? Breathe it in, Lucius. Come on, there’s a good lad.”

To her immediate joy, Lucius’ eyes fluttered open.

“Evelyn.”

The way he said her name caused her stomach to tie in a knot. He spoke with a mixture of agony and confusion. There was no trace of pretension, or self-importance. He was sick, and in pain, and he was utterly helpless. Like a child. In such a state, how could their previous differences bear any importance? All the complications of an imperfect human relationship were stripped to the bare essentials of life and death. There was no room for anything else; not vanity, not blame, not selfishness.

“Yes, I’m here,” she replied, exuding a tenderness she had never used with him before. “I’m with you.”

He grimaced, his jaw tight.

“Didn’t want to miss it, did you?” he asked.

“Miss what?”

“God smiting me for the death of your father.”

Evelyn bit her lip. She should have never made him believe she found him guilty, should have never entertained the thought. Lucius had been seventeen when her father died. He was foolish, yes. And immature. But that was a long time ago now, and what was done was done. Nothing about that night should be allowed to interfere with this one.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him with an insincere chuckle. She did not mean to make light of what had happened, but Lucius need not dwell on the past. If he was going to be strong enough to get well, Lucius needed hope for the future. “You said yourself it was no fault of yours.”

But he was persistent.

“And when have you ever believed anything I’ve said?” he wondered.

She rolled her eyes, her tenderness waning. Only Lucius could manage to be cantankerous in a situation like this.

“Stop talking,” she commanded him. “You need to rest.”

Lucius did not want to rest. Not now. At the end of all things, rest was inevitable. Until then, the challenge was learning how to live. And Lucius wanted to live. He wanted to live so badly. But he had not known Evelyn wanted him to live as well. Just to be sure of her intentions, he thought he might ask.

“What are you doing here, Evelyn?”

“What do you think I am doing here, Lucius?” she countered, immediately defensive. She tried to speak as though caring for him was not entirely out of the ordinary. “I am trying to help you, of course.”

Lucius shook his head, refusing the idea.

“You’re contaminating yourself,” he told her.

She gritted her teeth, for she knew he spoke the truth.

“If I am contaminated,” she began with a stubborn little tilt of her chin, “it happened back in the stateroom. There is really nothing I can do about it now.”

Lucius found it ironic that earlier that evening, he had balked at the idea of sharing the same space with Evelyn, lest she be tempted to kill him. Now the two of them were banished from the stateroom, and she was trying to save his life.

If his ailments were not so dreadfully painful, he might endeavor to fall ill more often.

A spasm of pain seized him then, and he groaned, his back arching upwards.

Frightened by her renewed sense of helplessness, Evelyn hovered over his writhing body. At once, she was overwhelmed with compassion, and she was immediately sorry for everything she had ever done to hurt him. Whatever their differences, whatever offenses he had brought against her in the past, he did not deserve this present anguish. No one did.

“What do I do?” she asked. “What is wrong? Oh God, Lucius. Tell me how I can help you.”

“Everything hurts,” he managed through clenched teeth.

Evelyn fumbled for ideas, then grabbed a cloth and pressed it against Lucius’ damp forehead.

“Does this help?”

Lucius shook his head and closed his eyes.

Of course it did not help. It was a silly rag. What good were oils and towels against a murderous disease?

At a loss for any answers, Evelyn began to cry.

As Lucius’ spasm passed, he reopened his tired eyes and saw her tears in the subtle light. Remorse came upon him, as he knew his pain was not worth her sorrow. He did not deserve her tears, but misfortune had the ability to inspire pity where it was not due.

She must leave him, lest she believe she cared for him more than she really did. He would not have her lie to herself.

“I do not want you here,” he told her.

The words stung, and Evelyn was quiet a moment. It was true. She had nothing of consequence to offer him. She possessed no skills, no medicines, no remedies. And Lucius knew it. But even so, she had risked much to be with him, not the least of which was her emotional stability, her sanity. This hall was like the very dungeon of hell: dark, rank, and thick with the fear of death.

“Do you really hate me so?” she asked presently. “Is my company so loathsome? Is there nothing left from our childhood that might reconcile me to you now?”

He eyed her narrowly, for it was only now, when he was deathly ill, that he merited anything other than Evelyn’s haughty disdain.

“I should ask you the same question,” he said.

Beneath his gaze, Evelyn looked away, her face burning hot with shame.

“I thought the boy I knew was lost,” she told him. “But then I heard you play that blasted violin.”

Lucius chuckled, then coughed.

“That had an effect on you, did it?” he asked. He had to admit, he was slightly pleased.

“It resurrected memories of happier times,” Evelyn said. “No matter how silly I think you are, Lucius Flynn, you are still the boy I used to play with.”

“And you are still the spoiled urchin from the cliffs beyond Limerick.”

“Then appease the little girl you once loved. Fight this. Get well.”

But Lucius’ body tensed, and he turned away from Evelyn to vomit.

“It’s useless,” he told her once he had recovered. “My body is purging itself of life. You have no more responsibility to me.”

“On the contrary, Lucius,” Evelyn argued, struggling to regain any sense of hope. “We had an agreement, remember? I am here to look after your needs, and I daresay your nightshirt needs laundering.”

Lucius smirked.

“Ah, that’s right,” he murmured with resignation. “You are bartering for your ticket home.”

She cast down her eyes, for all that was once home felt very far away. All except this one thing: this once silly boy, this now broken man.

“I have to cling to something,” she replied softly.

“Even if it’s me?”

“As everything and everyone else has been taken from me, yes. You are all I have left.”

“Then I have committed the utmost crime against my countrywoman. I have enslaved you.”

“But you and I agreed that one day, I shall regain my freedom.”

And sail away from me forever,
he thought. The words, however, did not reach his lips, for his body was wracked with another fit of agony. He arched forward and cried out involuntarily, as a foul new smell permeated the air.

Lucius had messed his pants.

“Oh God!” he cried as the spasm passed. “Evelyn, I do not want you here for this!”

Once more, Evelyn was consumed with dread.

“What can I do for you, Lucius?” she asked again. “You must tell me what to do!”

“Leave me!”

A sense of worthlessness caused her to steel herself against the desire to obey.

“I will not!” she declared. “Now stop demanding it of me and tell me something that shall be of use to you.”

Lucius took a deep breath. With every passing moment, he felt more drained, more exhausted. It was becoming difficult to speak; he was growing weak, and despite what he wanted, he
needed
to rest.

“I should like to sleep, if I can,” he told her.

Sleep. That was something Evelyn could facilitate.

“All right,” she told him. “Close your eyes. I shall be here if you need anything.”

He did so, and as he slipped into a state of feverish unconsciousness, Evelyn became acutely aware of the sensation that she was utterly, irrevocably alone. There were no others who would brave this hall, no others who would join her in this dark, stinking place. Even if she survived this sickness, she did not know when she could ever return to the land of the living, for who knew when this pestilence would pass? She was surrounded by afflicted men, and as Lucius grew silent, the painful sounds of their agony filled her ears and overwhelmed her thoughts. She must somehow block them out, must somehow isolate her mind so as not to be cast into despair.

She arranged herself upon the floor, careful to avoid the bodily refuse of the nearby infirm. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the good and lovely things that had once existed outside this haunting world: a piano, a bundle of bluebells, a white horse against a backdrop of green, the gray stones of Brennan House, the smell of the sea on a cold Irish morning. She recalled the whinny of a stallion, the breeze as it whistled through blades of glass, her father’s voice as it resounded through the walls of the parlor, and Lucius’ violin as it wept only hours before, assuaging the fear of this present woe. 

These were things worth imagining.

The minutes slipped into hours, and the hours slipped into morning, which remained as still as night, for none but the infirm were yet induced to leave their staterooms. More had become ill, and none had yet recovered. As the newly afflicted joined the chorus of the dying, other voices embraced the silence of eternal sleep. Thus the morning slipped into afternoon, and the afternoon slipped into the second evening, and Evelyn did not see another soul that was not tormented by the cholera.

She was hungry. She was thirsty. But unlike the men around her, she was still well.

She examined herself periodically. Was that a fit of nausea? No, just a stab of hunger. Was that a spasm? No, her back only ached for want of an altered position. Her head hurt, but only on account of mild dehydration, and she felt she had no right to complain of such minute ailments in comparison to the anguish around her.

She wondered where Josephine had gone. At the time when the maid fled the cabin, the cholera had only taken victims in steerage. Perhaps that was where she remained, and God only knew if she was still well. If she proved not to be immune, if she had fallen ill, none of her party would know, and she could very well die.

Evelyn forced herself not to think of it. Adele seemed to believe the girl was invincible, and Evelyn must take comfort in the stronger woman’s faith.

She did not know the hour, but it was late in the second night when Lucius stirred. He vomited with such force as to be thrust into a sitting position, but very little came from his mouth, for he had little left to purge. What did remain was escaping through the lower half of his body.

When he sank back against the floorboards, Evelyn noticed the dark, pooling cracks along his lips.

“Lucius,” she whispered, “your lips are bleeding.”

Lucius’ tongue felt like cotton, and he could not swallow without the distinct sensation that his throat was ripping.

“My mouth is dry,” he told her, surprised at the effort required to speak. Again he yearned for sleep. 

“You must drink something,” Evelyn insisted.

“I cannot. It will only come back up.”

Evelyn shook her head.

“You must. You are losing too much fluid.”

She looked around for the basin she had brought from the stateroom. She cursed herself, for it was empty. In her urgency, she had not thought of filling it before coming to Lucius’ aid.