by Martha Keyes
“Is he always this determined?” Lawrence asked, watching John pour cream into the tea with a look of intense focus.
“I'm afraid so,” Miss Renwick answered.
Lawrence smiled. “It must be exhausting. I imagine you will be relieved to hand him off to someone else when you arrive in Attleborough.”
John spilled a teaspoon of cream on the floor, and Lawrence put out a hand to stop Miss Renwick from going to attend to the mess.
She closed her eyes as if to summon patience for her brother. “The challenge will be to find a new nursemaid for John once we arrive, given his habit of driving them away. His care will fall to me until we can find someone suitable. I hope that the new surroundings will capture his fancy enough to keep away the sullens, for he is quite pleasant as long as he is happy and busy.”
“I can well imagine,” Lawrence replied. “Where were you before? Was it not to your father’s taste?”
Miss Renwick swallowed and wet her lips. “Not exactly. We lived in Kent, but once my mother passed two years ago, it became too painful to my father to continue there.”
Lawrence clenched his fist, wishing he could hit himself for bringing up a topic bound to be painful. “I am so sorry, Miss Renwick.”
She smiled softly. “Thank you. I think it is for the best, our moving.”
Lawrence found himself in agreement. The thought of being deprived of the Renwick’s company and acquaintance had they stayed in Kent was not one he wished to dwell on. How had he come to feel so attached to them in such a short time?
Miss Renwick’s hand shot out to his, pointing his attention toward John who was holding out a teaspoon full of his concoction toward Anne. She sniffed at it and then lapped up with her tongue what she could.
Lawrence nodded his approval. “Naturally he must confirm that it is indeed a mortal brew before forcing you to swallow it.”
Anne sat back on her hind legs and waited patiently for more. John’s bottom lip jutted out, and he shook his head before pouring an entirely new cup, clearly dissatisfied with what he had created.
“It seems,” Lawrence said, leaning over and whispering, “that your death sentence has been mercifully delayed.”
Miss Renwick heaved a feigned sigh of relief. “What a comfort! There is so much I have yet to do and see in the world.”
“More London Seasons?” he teased.
“Or a first, perhaps,” Miss Renwick replied, her voice soft.
He turned toward her, an arrested expression on his face. “You’ve not had a Season?”
She shook her head, but her eyes stayed on John.
“Then I must find a way to stop your poisoning,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood. His brows came together. “I was sure you were out.”
The smile he had been hoping for appeared on Miss Renwick’s face. “I believe I should take offense at your words, Mr. Debenham—the implication being that I appear too old not to be out.”
He drew back, horrified at her inference, but she only laughed at his reaction. “You are right, however. I should have been out many Seasons ago.” She paused a moment. “I was needed at home, though, during my mother’s illness.”
And then she would have been in mourning after her mother’s death. “For John?” he asked, the softness of his voice matching hers.
Her smile widened as she watched John stir the tea in front of him, his brow wrinkled in focus. “Yes, for him, for my mother, and for my father.”
Lawrence stifled the impulse to shudder. What would he have done if his own future had been put on hold for his family? For his parents? “You have sacrificed much of yourself for your family, then.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I have also found a great deal of joy and fulfillment in helping bear my father’s burden and in ensuring that John is taken care of.” She looked at him with her brows raised. “That wasn't always true, though. I found early on in my mother’s illness that I was beginning to resent my family and my mother’s situation for what I felt deprived of.
“I fought it for a period and was miserable; I was convinced that I was oppressed. It was only with time that I realized that changing my thoughts could change how happy I was. I discovered that it served me better to think of my duties as opportunities rather than burdens. I had to do these things no matter what, true. But I could choose to do them happily or grudgingly.
“So I began to do things before being asked. And slowly, I found myself treasuring the moments of caring for my mother, enjoying more of my time with John—though sometimes I wish to box his ears soundly.” She glanced over at John with a warm smile. “I am very fond of John. Our time here has reminded me of that forcefully.”
Lawrence chewed the inside of his lip. There was no bitterness in her voice, no resentment. Somehow she seemed to have peace despite a life full of the obligation Lawrence so despised and avoided.
Miss Renwick let out a large sigh and looked over at Lawrence with a grimace tempered by the smile quivering behind it. “I believe my time has come.” She took the teacup which John offered to her on its saucer. “I bid you all adieu.” A crack of thunder sounded outside, and Miss Renwick gave him a significant glance as though it portended her fate.
Lawrence chuckled softly as she sipped the tea, but her words brought a lump to his throat. Tomorrow would indeed be adieu.
* * *
The long summer days meant that the light was only fading to sunset at nine. Miss Renwick had left the drawing room with John a half hour before, telling him to prepare for bedtime. Though she had instantly fallen over after her first sip of tea—a convincing, vacant expression on her face belied only by the slightest tremor at the corner of her mouth—she seemed to have recovered fully since then, a fact which John seemed not to mind, despite his focused efforts at creating a fatal mixture.
Lawrence lingered in the drawing room for a time, awaiting his friends who seemed to be lingering a great while over their port. No doubt they were discussing Lawrence's strange behavior since the Renwicks’ arrival.
He sighed and stood, thinking he would turn in early after such a tiring day. His limbs were exhausted, but he felt surprisingly content. He had felt a great sense of fulfillment as they walked down the village lane, seeing the full and fresh thatching on all the roofs.
He removed his jacket, looking out his window where dusk was setting in. Rain began to pound, and the fading light was punctuated by flashes of bright lightning.
An urgent knock sounded on his door, and he tossed his cravat onto the nearest chair, his brow knitted. Who in the world?
He opened the door, and Miss Renwick stood before him, wringing her hands, her eyes frantic.
“What is it?” he said.
“Have you seen John?” she asked. She swallowed, glancing down the hallway which Lawrence had asked be lit with candles.
He shook his head. “I thought he would be in bed?”
Miss Renwick shook her head. “I believed him to be settling in as well, but he is not in his room, nor is Anne.”
Lawrence tried to push down the tingling fear he began to feel. “Have you checked the Neverland room?”
She nodded. “And the drawing room and dining room. Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower haven't seen him either.” She paused, swallowing again. “I am afraid that he has gone in search of the Colonel. He asked me when I left him at his room if I had seen the toy, and I told him to think on where he last had it.” Thunder sounded, and her lip trembled slightly. She put a hand to it. “The last time I saw him with it was in the village when he went with the children to the stream.”
Lawrence swore softly. The pounding rain and fading light would not help in the search. “Let me get my jacket.” He rushed to his wardrobe, taking out his brown greatcoat which he flung on.
“I am coming with you,” Miss Renwick said, her voice breaking.
Lawrence put his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes frankly. He hated seeing her in such an apprehensive state. “I shan't try
to dissuade you if it's what you wish. But I would strongly advise you to remain here. If he is indeed outdoors, we will need to be prepared here to warm and dry him. Instruct Mrs. O’Keefe to prepare some broth or gruel.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the doorway where they stood. “I must go,” he said, trying to rid his mind of the image of John in the open fields during such lightning strikes.
Chapter 10
Eleanor stood rooted to the spot for a moment after Mr. Debenham left. Her mind kept taking her terrible places, with visions of John’s lifeless form coming through the door in Mr. Debenham’s arms. She had never considered that John would take her careless words as a suggestion to go off on his own and find the Colonel. How she wished she could go back to that conversation and redo it!
She sprang into action. She needed to be ready when Mr. Debenham returned. She didn't know whether to wish for him to find John or not, for it would mean that John was indeed outside at a time when the elements were at their most dangerous. She descended the stairs with rushed footsteps, calling out for Mrs. O’Keefe and tugging the nearest bell pull multiple times.
She readied the extra pair of clothes from John’s portmanteau, folded two blankets to bring downstairs, and instructed the housekeeper to make broth and have towels and a warm bath ready.
After her preparations, time seemed to tick by agonizingly slowly. She sat on the edge of the settee, glancing at the long-case clock again and again, only to see the hands showing 6:08. It had not been wound for some time, if Mr. Bower had spoken correctly.
The fifth time she glanced up at it, she let out a frustrated sigh and stood, walking swiftly over and looking around for the key. It sat upon the nearby mantle, covered in a coat of dust which she blew off, pulling her head away to avoid the musty cloud which puffed off it.
She wound the clock, approximating the time as best she could based on when the sun had set. Having accomplished that, she sat down again, her anxious hands pulling at a stray thread on her dress.
It had been at least half an hour since Mr. Debenham had left, and each minute seemed to portend a worse fate for John. Eleanor shook her head and shut her eyes, trying to ignore the nightmarish visions her mind insisted on conjuring.
If only they had never gone to the stream! Surely the rains had made the quaint, gurgling waters surge, saturated with dirt and sticks. What if John had tried to cross the bridge again and slipped? What if Mr. Debenham was injured or even struck by lightning as he searched?
Lightning flashed in the windows, briefly illuminating the landscape outside with the sheets of rain slanting at an angle from the wind. Eleanor suppressed a shudder just as a crash sounded, nearly drowned in the noise of thunder.
Eleanor jumped up, recognizing the sound as the front door swinging open. She rushed to the door of the drawing room and into the hall. Mr. Debenham was carrying John whose head lolled back. She sighed as she saw the Colonel, rising up and down on John’s chest.
A lump rose in Eleanor’s throat, and she felt faint. It took a moment for her to realize that the skinny, black creature which slipped into the house was Anne.
“In here,” she called to Mr. Debenham over the din of rain falling on the courtyard’s pebbled drive.
His hair was matted to his forehead, rain dripping down in rivulets all over his face, and his clothes were soaked.
He rushed past her, saying breathlessly, “Call for the doctor.”
Eleanor ignored the way her head felt light, and she tugged on the bell, returning to John who Mr. Debenham had laid on the settee. Eleanor put a pillow under his head and went to retrieve the clothing, blankets, and towels which sat on two chairs against the wall.
“I believe he has injured his arm. I only found him thanks to Anne. Her bark led me to him, on the edge of the stream near the whirlpool. I think Anne must have pulled him to shore from the way he was positioned and by the state of his hair.” He took in a breath.
Eleanor felt a tear trail down her cheek, and motioned for Anne to come over, stroking her wet fur and saying, “Good girl.”
The doctor was sent for, and Eleanor and Mr. Debenham worked to take off the wet clothing which was plastered to John’s body, drying him with towels and then covering him with blankets. His injured arm they let be, and it hung awkwardly on the settee cushion.
Eleanor’s heart raced without slowing as they worked. Every time she looked at John’s unconscious face, she swallowed painfully.
Mr. Debenham reached for her hand, and she looked up at him, her eyes filling as she met his. “He will be all right.” He squeezed her hand, and she smiled weakly, grateful for his reassurance, no matter how difficult she found it to believe.
The doctor arrived and examined John, praising Eleanor and Mr. Debenham for their wise action in warming and drying him. He confirmed that he would need to set the bone and that it was best done while John was still unconscious. He took a vial of laudanum out of his bag, pouring some into John’s mouth.
“Be at peace,” he said to them. “I set many an arm during my days as a surgeon in the war.”
Eleanor watched in apprehension as he prepared to set the bone. Mr. Debenham stood next to her, his jaw set. Nothing could have prepared Eleanor, though, for the agonizing cry John let out when the deed was performed. She bit her lip and grabbed for Mr. Debenham’s hand which he clasped tightly.
John continued to cry out, reaching for his injured arm, and the doctor asked Mr. Debenham to hold John’s uninjured arm down. Eleanor released Mr. Debenham’s hand and turned her head away, her fist in front of her mouth. She reminded herself that John was at least alive and conscious, a fact she should find great comfort in.
After the doctor attached a wood splint to John’s arm, his cries turned to whimpers, and the doctor finally nodded to Eleanor. She rushed over, kneeling next to the settee and wiping at her tears as she reassured John that she was there with him.
“It was by no means the worst break I have seen,” the doctor said. “He will need this, though—” he handed the laudanum vial to Eleanor “—and I shall return tomorrow to see how he goes on.”
He gave a few final instructions to Mr. Debenham and left.
“He says we may move him to his bed, but we must naturally take the greatest care in doing so.”
John’s eyes were red, the lids hanging heavily. “Nell?” he said in a weak voice.
“Yes, love?” She stroked his wet hair away from his face.
“May I sleep with you tonight?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “Of course.”
Mr. Debenham carried him up to Eleanor’s bed with gentle strength, setting him down under the covers which Eleanor had pulled back.
After seeing that he was settled, Mr. Debenham bent down next to John. “Well, my good man, I shall leave you to rest. I suppose we must hold off on any sword fights until your arm is mended.”
John tried to reject the idea, but it came out weak. “I can fight with my left hand, just like any good pirate.”
Mr. Debenham chuckled and mussed John’s hair. Eleanor smiled at the interaction. Mr. Debenham had been a godsend in so many ways, and it was oddly satisfying to watch their interaction.
Mr. Debenham stood up straight and turned to leave.
“Lawrie?” John’s raspy voice called.
Mr. Debenham turned, his brows raised in a question.
“Can you tell me a story?”
Eleanor took her lips between her teeth. Mr. Debenham looked exhausted, and he was still wet from going out to search for John. With his damp hair, tired eyes, and the clinging white shirt with its collar hanging limply around his neck, Eleanor had never found him more handsome. He had saved John’s life, and his appearance showed it.
He smiled weakly and walked back over to the bed, sitting on the edge, his body turned toward John. Eleanor sat on the other side, holding John’s injured hand lightly in hers, making sure not to disturb the splint. She met eyes with Mr. Debenham
, wishing she could convey the depth and breadth of her gratitude toward him; the way she had so quickly come to rely on his presence.
He didn't smile as he returned her gaze. His eyes held hers steadily for a pregnant moment, and Eleanor felt as though a string had been pulled taut between them, connecting them.
“Will you tell me more tales of Neverland?” John asked.
Mr. Debenham nodded and began a new tale, one of his hands resting on the bed as John listened with drooping lids. Slowly the lids closed, and, in what seemed an unconscious gesture, his hand reached out for Mr. Debenham’s, holding it just as he held Eleanor’s.
Mr. Debenham stopped talking, his expression surprised.
Eleanor met his gaze, a soft smile on her face. “He is so very fond of you,” she said in a soft voice. “You have been so kind to him.”
He shook his head as if to shake away her gratitude. “I have become quite fond of him, as well.” He looked at John whose chest was rising and falling steadily.
Eleanor bit her lip. John’s injury meant they would not be able to continue their journey home the following day, even if the repair was done. She would have to write her father to let him know of the delay.
“I hope,” she said, “to hear from our coachman tomorrow about the repair to the wheel. We have imposed upon you enough, and I think John can make the trip back to the inn with minimal suffering if the carriage is ready.”
Mr. Debenham shook his head again, this time emphatically. “It does not even bear considering. You must stay here until he is well enough to travel, carriage or no.”
She looked into his eyes, trying to decipher his thoughts. Was he simply being civil? The relief she felt at his offer was due, in part, to the knowledge that she wouldn't have to transport John to the village, for they couldn't possibly travel on the wet roads toward home when he was in such a state. They would have to seek accommodations in town, facing yet again the probability that there were none to be had.
