Whiskey Island (34 page)

If she had expected sympathy or even an apology, she didn’t get either. “And so
you
support your little family? Do you have children?”

“No, sir.”

He cocked a brow. “A lovely woman like yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps you tried hard not to have them.”

Her temper was rising. “We have not yet been blessed, sir, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you never will be now.”

She didn’t know why it mattered to her, but she couldn’t let this bully of a man think she was barren, or that her husband didn’t love her enough to get her with child. She spoke before the impulse cooled.

“We will have children, sir. I lost a babe at the time of my husband’s accident. It’s only a matter of time until we have another.”

He was silent a moment, examining her from head to toe. She was reminded of a man examining a horse he might purchase. “My wife and I don’t have children.”

She hadn’t expected this. “No, sir.”

“Julia believes she’s too fragile to bear a child. Unfortunately, she neglected to tell me this before we married.”

“I—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “She is hoping that a tour of Europe will strengthen her, prepare her better for her duties as my wife. Do you think it might?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“She’ll be leaving when the weather warms.” He moved closer, as if to see Lena better, and she had to steel herself not to move away. “She might be gone a long time.”

“I know you’ll miss her and be glad when she returns.”

“Will I? Oh, yes, that’s right. A man mourns his wife’s extended absence and writes her silly little letters telling her so. It’s expected.”

She pretended she didn’t understand. “Yes, sir, and Mrs. Simeon will surely miss you, as well.”

“I think not, Lena. She cries when I come to her bed. She finds my attentions distasteful. Do you cry, I wonder?”

She knew then exactly what he wanted from her, although she had hoped until this moment that she’d misunderstood. She wanted to spit in his face or run away, yet she knew, from everything the other servants had told her, that any show of spirit would cost her this job.

She tried desperately to change the subject back to her cooking. “Sir, would you like me to check with you before I add herbs to your supper again? I’ll be happy to do things the way you’re used to if—”

“I imagine you think I’ve no right to be discussing these things with you. Yet why do I pay you if not to use you in any way I see fit?”

She drew a long breath, fighting back a wave of anger. “I believe you hired me to
cook
for you, sir. I might make things worse if I gave you advice instead, and then you’d truly be angry with me, wouldn’t you now?”

“And so you’ll only discuss potatoes and parsley?”

“It’s safer, sir. For both of us.” She forced a polite smile.

He continued to move closer, until there was little air between them. She could smell liquor—not whiskey, which she was used to, but something sharper and bitter. She was nauseated by it.

“You see, Lena, I think this is something we should discuss. Not because either of us needs advice, but because we have this in common. I, with a wife who despises the sight of my body, you, with a husband who’s badly injured. Do you despise the sight of his body, I wonder?”

The only man she despised was standing just in front of her. Lena didn’t answer, afraid what she might say.

He spoke instead. “Life goes on, doesn’t it, dear? A man is injured, and suddenly his life veers off in another direction. You’re left to make things right for both of you, with no compensations for all your hard work. Not even, I’m guessing, a little joy at the night’s end.”

She could feel her job slipping away, along with her temper. She could see her mother and the Tierneys waiting for money that never came, see the doctor refusing to visit Terence because there was no payment to be had. If she insulted James Simeon, there would be no other jobs for her on Euclid Avenue. He might not be admired by his peers—and more and more she heard that this was true—but the rich rallied around their own when the poor were the enemy.

“I see you can hold your tongue,” he said at last. “It’s a trait I respect. A trait that I require of my household staff, in fact.”

She met his eyes and waited.

He stretched out his hand and touched her hair. As always, she had swept it back from her forehead and pinned it in a knot at the back of her head. He loosened a strand just in front of her ear and twirled it around his fingertip.

“You’re quite lovely, Lena, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Are we finished, sir?”

“Not quite. I want you to think about something.”

She waited. He smiled, taking his time winding her hair, until the roots tugged uncomfortably.

“I am a man who can be grateful,” he said at last. “And I am a man who wants only the best. I never choose my possessions lightly.”

She knew she was supposed to feel flattered that he wanted her in his bed. She
knew
she was supposed to feel happy that he’d promised to show his gratitude. She wondered what a woman in her position might expect from him. Higher wages? Useless gifts? Expert medical attention for her wounded husband?

The last made her want to weep.

“Have you nothing to say, Lena?”

“May I go now, sir?”

He sighed. After a brief hesitation he removed his finger from her hair, leaving one malformed ringlet bouncing in front of her ear. “You may go.”

“Thank you…sir.”

She stepped to the side and started across the kitchen, untying her apron with fumbling fingers as she moved away, but he stopped her by pinning a hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll think about what I’ve said?”

She would think about it until her dying day, think about it and ask forgiveness for wanting at this moment to kill him. “Good night, Mr. Simeon.”

She’d expected anger, but he laughed instead. “A girl with spirit. Not a bad trait. You’ll pass it on to your children, I wager. It will benefit your sons and bedevil your daughters.” He laughed again, the pitch higher, wilder, and she shuddered.

His laughter still rang in her ears when she was a mile away on the streetcar.

Terence could bounce about now with a crutch under his good arm and his useless leg dragging behind him. He could get to and from the sitting room, even as far as the kitchen, but there was little point. What was waiting in either place? A job he could do? Wages to be earned? His wife’s respect?

Every movement pained him. The leg had not healed as it should. Each ounce of weight he rested on it was like a knife point gouging his flesh. He didn’t mind the pain as much as he minded the uselessness of it. He would bear pain, and gladly, if the result were a real life once again.

Katie no longer came to help him, and he was glad she didn’t. Her company and inexhaustible supply of platitudes had wearied and angered him. Now if he grew hungry he could make his way to the kitchen like a crow hopping on wet grass to retrieve whatever dish Lena had left for his dinner. He seldom made the effort. His appetite was nonexistent, and it was enough of a trial just to relieve himself.

This evening he sat by the fireplace without enthusiasm, waiting for Lena to return from work. Rowan had already come and gone. He was seldom at home these days, as if he couldn’t bear the gloom that had descended on the once happy household. Rowan asked each day if there was something he could do for Terence, and tried to assist him. But Rowan, like Katie, had learned how little Terence wanted anyone’s help, and Terence was glad when the offers diminished.

Now he didn’t look up when he heard footsteps on the path to the door, and he didn’t look up when the door opened. Instead of Lena, he was surprised to hear a man’s voice.

“Mr. Tierney?”

This time he did look up, to find Daniel Conner, the stoop-shouldered, weary-eyed doctor who had treated him in the hospital, standing in the doorway with Father McSweeney.

Terence was suddenly ashamed he hadn’t washed that day or changed into the clean linen Lena had left for him. At the time, it had seemed too much trouble.

“I didn’t know you planned to come,” he said gruffly.

“I stopped by to see the good Father, and we thought we might come together.”

Terence wanted to tell them both to be gone but couldn’t bring himself to do it. His respect for the priest hadn’t ended with his injury, and he could hardly blame the old doctor for the accident and its consequences.

“May we come in?”

Terence gave a curt nod. The two men entered and closed the door behind them.

“How are you getting on, Terence?” the doctor asked.

“How does it look? I got as far as this chair. I doubt I’ll ever get farther.”

“I know you’ve had a bad time of it.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“Terence, show some respect,” Father McSweeney said. “Dr. Conner is a busy man, but he found time to visit you after a hard day.”

“I’ll trade the doctor my days for his any time he’s willing.”

“No more of that,” the priest insisted.

Terence closed his eyes and waited.

“Have you had any more luck moving your arm, Mr. Tierney?”

“No.”

“Have you tried?”

Terence opened his eyes. “And what should I be doing about it, exactly? Either it moves or it doesn’t.”

“Show me.”

Terence stared at him incredulously.

Dr. Conner stood over him now and rolled up Terence’s sleeve. “Try to move it. Let me see.”

Terence knew that whether he tried or not, the result would appear the same. But he made the attempt, just to prove his point. The arm was withering. He wanted this to end quickly, so he could cover it again.

“Good,” Conner said. “Again please.”

“Good?” Terence almost laughed. “You’d call that good, would you?”

“Again, please.”

Terence repeated the useless attempt. After all this time, it still surprised him whenever his arm didn’t respond. He still remembered how to make it move. He supposed if the arm had been cut off, he would feel the same.

“I think there’s still a little function,” the doctor said at last. “I see muscles trying to respond. You must try often to move it, Mr. Tierney. As often as you’re humanly able. And you’ll need help exercising it.” He demonstrated, taking Terence’s arm and moving it up and back, in and out, as Terence tried not to gasp in pain. “Have your wife do that as frequently as she can and for as long as you can stand it. Perhaps, with luck, a bit of strength will be restored.”

Terence didn’t believe him. “Don’t you know that the Irish have no luck?”

“Now the leg.”

“I’ll not be dropping my trousers for the good Father’s amusement.”

“Father McSweeney, will you leave us for a moment?”

McSweeney disappeared out the front door and closed it behind him.

“Now, Mr. Tierney.”

Terence managed to lift himself and slide his trousers low to his ankles. The smell of his own unwashed body humiliated him.

“Now, stretch out the leg as far as you’re able.”

He did, too tired to argue.

The doctor was frowning. “That’s as far as it will straighten?”

“It is.”

“Can you lift it off the ground?”

“Perhaps, if you’ll pick me up off the floor after I’ve fainted from the pain.”

“I will,” the doctor said sternly. “Lift it.”

Terence broke into a sweat as the leg lifted off the ground. One inch, two, then a third, before the effort nearly caused his collapse.

The doctor gently pushed his foot back to the ground and ran his hands along the leg to Terence’s lower thigh. “Bad breaks, these,” he admitted. “Too many of them and not healed straight. I did the best I could with what I had. I’m sorry.”

Terence felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, and it surprised him he still could. “I won’t be using it again, will I?”

“Not as you once would have, no. But with time the pain will ease as you stretch those muscles. It should be able to bear more weight and help you balance yourself as you move about. You’ll need a cane, of course. Forever.”

“A cane?”

“I believe that’s what it will come down to if you continue using the leg despite the pain. And you must. Flex your foot and draw up your knee. Walk on the leg as often as you’re able. Later, perhaps, when the healing’s all finished, we can fashion a shoe that will give you some of the lift you need. The legs aren’t even anymore. The injured one will be shorter than the other, but that can be remedied.”

Terence stared at him. A cane. Only a cane. What once might have seemed like a jail term now sounded like freedom.

“I can’t help but notice your attitude,” Dr. Conner said.

Terence looked up at him.

“You’ve been dealt a rough blow,” the doctor continued. “I’ve seen it many times. Your life has changed, and not for the better. You wish you’d died, and perhaps you should have. But you didn’t. You’re alive, Mr. Tierney, and you’ll stay that way for a good long while, unless something else happens.”

“Why are you telling me what I already know?”

“I told you, I’ve seen this many times. I was a surgeon in the war, and I saw the light go out of many a young man’s eyes. I took off arms and legs…. That’s why I saved yours, you know. I suppose I didn’t have it in me to take off another. Not if I wasn’t absolutely sure I had to. I saw men die from the shame and horror of losing their limbs. Simply the shame and horror of it…”

“What are you saying?”

“That your worst enemy in this, Mr. Tierney, is yourself. Father McSweeney tells me you have a wife who loves you. You have a roof over your head. It’s more than many men have, men with two good arms and two good legs.”

“They, at least, have the means of getting what they need! Do you think a terrier with one arm and a cane has a chance of a job, Dr. Conner?”

“Father McSweeney tells me you have a fine mind. Try using that instead of your back.”

“And what could I do with it, exactly? I have no education.”

“That might change. I’ll let your priest take that up with you. But meantime, think over what I’ve said. It’s not unnatural to feel angry after a trial such as you’ve endured, but you must shake it off. For the sake of your own recovery, and the sake of your friends and family. Your life is not over, it’s only changed. Now you must change with it.”