The light of day suffused the house, dispelling last night's fear. Still the rooms had taken on a foreign quality, oozing Davinoff's presence in the cellar. She saw them through a stranger's eyes as she rushed to the kitchen to collect her boxes and bottles. The house was a comfortable melange of furniture garnered from other houses and thrown together into cozy rooms of human proportions. Tudor, like the main house now so long gone, it was half-timbered with an overhanging first story. It was by no means grand, even graceful, but Sarah had always liked it.
She opened the door to the cellar, balancing the clinking bottle of laudanum, the cup, and a lamp. As she reached the last stair, lamplight suffused the basement room and she could see that Davinoff was awake, shivering under his blankets. Sarah cursed herself for oversleeping. She knelt over him. He was sick, but his eyes were clearer than they had been last night.
"I am so sorry," she said as she turned to her bottles and her measuring cup. "This is my fault." She poured out the required amount. Less. It would always be less. "You'll be better in a moment. Can you sit?" He pushed himself up against the wall with a grunt of effort and reached for the cup with shaking hands.
Sarah hesitated before she reached out to steady his hands with her own and helped him drink. The sting of hot flesh made her realize that he had a fever. She took the cup as he closed his eyes and sank back against the wall. She pulled the blanket up around him, and smoothed it across his thighs. She could feel the shaking subside as the drug took effect.
"Better?" She was rewarded by a small nod. Those islands of tranquillity provided by the drug would narrow as the dose decreased, flooded by the storms that would wrack his body.
She rose. "I… I must do something about your injuries." Escaping up the stairs, she began another scavenger hunt. She thought only about what she needed, not what she must do when she returned to the cellar. Soap… lots of soap and some of Addie's best sheets cut into strips. She laid a fire, put water on to boil, and smiled to herself to think that she was about to use both George's science and Addie's. It was Addie who kept the gardens stocked at the Dower House and Laura Place not only with tomatoes and carrots, but with burnet and chamomile, pennyroyal and valerian. Sarah wished Addie were here to advise her. She racked her brain to recall the uses of each. The garden was winter-empty, but the pantry would be well stocked with dried herbs.
She lit a candle and made her way into the small, windowless pantry. Peering at the shelves lined with glass jars, carefully labeled, she could see yarrow and bergamot. No burnet, but thyme would do if she remembered right. Later she would need chamomile, or there was a jar of dried catnip. She gathered the jars and balanced her candle. At the last moment she saw the cloves of garlic heaped next to the onions and potatoes and remembered the garlic poultice Addie had concocted for an infected cut when she was eight. She grabbed several heads.
Sarah set her treasure trove upon the long table in the kitchen. Davinoff's most immediate needs were for disinfectants; sedatives or nausea-suppressants would come later. As she worked, the smell of crushed herbs heavy in the air, her task ahead seemed ordinary: soaking each herb in water or vinegar to release their properties, making poultices. She was a volunteer, just as she was in the hospital, and he was a patient, not a man. There was a difference, she told herself sternly, a difference that would be strictly observed.
Thus prepared, she made her way back to the cellar. It took several trips to get the herbs, the hot water, the clean cloths and bandages all down the stairs. Davinoff lay in a drugged dream state once again. As she prepared, he watched her for a while, but soon lost interest and turned his face away. That was good, she thought. It was better.
She knelt and began by cutting away his shirt. She made her breathing slow and regular, remembering other patients, other tasks. He was strongly built, his chest lightly covered with curling black hairs. She dipped her cloth in the steaming bowl of water, soaped it, and began her task. He did not flinch when she soaped the sores on his wrists. She bathed him, scrubbed open the infected cuts until they bled, then rinsed and dried him, one part at a time. Soon the water in her basin grew rosy with his blood. Slowly she worked over his body. But she could not quite lose herself in the task at hand. The feel of his flesh under her fingers made her nether parts throb. She got no pleasure from his pain, but she still did not have full control of herself. Her darkest desires were still there, waiting to be unleashed. Sarah's breathing quickened in spite of her best intentions. She chastised herself, but her thoughts strayed wantonly to his muscled thighs. Had she been forever tainted by Sienna?
He is a patient, she cried to her disobedient body. Assess the situation. His ribs were likely cracked, based on the terrible bruising about his torso, but as long as they were not pushed in, they would probably heal by themselves. Breathing was surely a torment for him, though. She had seen such patients cry with every gasp. He showed little sign of the pain. His addiction probably protected him for now. She worked upon his ankles. They were easy.
At last she could put off no longer dealing with the lacerations on his thighs, visible through his torn breeches. She would have to put her embarrassment aside. As he became ill in withdrawal, she would have to do everything for him. Which did not allow for breeches. With less control than she pretended, she took up her sewing scissors and cut them away. She had seen men at the hospital, old and young, she told herself. But that was not what came to mind. Sienna threatened to overwhelm her. She refused to look at the curling hair at his groin, the part that made him man, so she washed him too vigorously, blood oozing over his thighs and hips. Would there was a way to avoid touching him, but again and again as her flesh met his, her fingertips were scorched. She felt the heat even through the cloth she used to scrub him.
"I must do this." She murmured the mantra to herself as she patted him dry. "Open the wounds, clean out the infection. I will wash him many times, you know. Many times."
Finally she rocked back on her heels and drew her sleeve across her brow. With sudden self-consciousness she glanced up to his face, but his head was still turned away. Thank God. Without giving herself time to think, she laid on the poultices of garlic she had made and bound them securely with her strips of sheets. When it was done, she drew up the coverlet gratefully. To her surprise, she found his heavy eyes staring out at her.
"Thank you," he murmured. Sarah felt the flush spreading over her face and neck. He knew all along what she was doing. Had he turned away to save her embarrassment? If so, she thought—furious at herself, furious at him—it hadn't worked.
"I will get you food," she said and retreated up the stairs.
A search of the kitchen was sobering. There was a beef in the icehouse left from last week that would have to be used shortly and a ham that would last longer. Potatoes and yams, carrots and onions were in abundant evidence. She found flour and dried oats, and there were apples and some dried fruit from the summer garden, a round of cheese from last week. There would not be much variety, but she could make do for two weeks if she was careful. That would be enough. She realized she had not eaten since yesterday's tea time and suddenly was famished. Standing, she ate some cheese and dried apricots while she fixed a bowl of oats cooked into gruel for Davinoff. She would add other food when she was sure he could keep it down.
Sarah was entirely herself by the time she returned to the cellar. She helped Davinoff sit and offered him the bowl. "I know you won't like it," she said, not looking at him, "but it will lie easy on your stomach. I expect you have not been eating very much."
"Not what I need," he murmured, as he took it.
Men always wanted beef, Sarah thought irritably, beef and wine. No matter what the circumstances or how bad it was for them. "Well, this is better for you than what you think you need, believe me," she replied and rose to watch him eat. He was a trifle unsteady, but she thought he would manage. Later, that would be impossible.
Sarah busied herself in the afternoon with closing up the draperies
in all the rooms, so no light escaped. The Dower House was fairly isolated from the people who still lived and worked on the estate. Now that the main house was gone, all activity was down in the village or in the lane that ran through the cottages of her tenants. Unlike Corina, Sarah went to great pains to see that these cottages were kept well. She had put in new drainage only two years ago, and had each cottage painted and repaired. Most of the money from her first crops had gone to improving the estate. Only this year had there been enough to spare for retiring the last mortgage.
Just when she decided she was safe from prying eyes, she was startled by a rap upon the front door. Her stomach turned over. Who could know she was here? The sharp rapping came again and continued. What should she do? She might as well know the worst.
She opened the door a crack and peered out. There was a callused and bored-looking carter there with a huge trunk. She sighed in relief. Of course. Davinoff's trunk. She bade the man leave it in the hall and swept him out the door. Then she went to the window and watched him drive his cart away to be certain he was really gone.
Davinoff was feverish again when she went downstairs, though there were still several hours until the next dose. It begins, she thought. She put down her tray and knelt beside him. He looked steadily at her, less dulled, perhaps. She pulled out the cups that held her herb pastes.
"Let me rub these into your wounds," she proposed. "They will help you heal." She could see the pain now in his face at each breath. He nodded tightly, and she steeled herself to touch him. The odor of the pastes was strong. Davinoff was sensitive and flinched under her touch. She almost flinched as well, in spite of her resolution. For him it was the beginning of the reaction.
"What is that concoction?" His question surprised her. He had been so quiet up to now.
"This one? It is garlic."
His head sank back against the stone wall and he smiled weakly.
"It's an old folk remedy," she explained.
"Not all the legends about garlic are true," he said.
"Well, this one is," she retorted and smoothed a fingerful of paste into his shallower cuts.
When she was done, she gave him food, which again he managed to eat. Then it was more of the drug, measured carefully now with the vial from George's laboratory calibrated in grains and drams. He got eighteen drams of laudanum. His eyes clouded visibly as the drug took effect. He fell almost immediately into an exhausted sleep.
Sarah decided that her own chamber was too far away. She would not hear him two floors away if he called. So she went upstairs, bathed, and changed, and brought down some books from the small library, several pitchers of water, and a plate of dried fruit with some fresh apples. There were candles; enough for weeks, she thought gloomily as she curled herself in the great, overstuffed chair and prepared to read herself to sleep.
She awoke abruptly in the small hours of the morning to find Davinoff vomiting uncontrollably on the floor beside his pallet. His body was wracked with heaves and he was spitting red. Not unexpected, though she was surprised it had happened so soon. Still, he had already shed fifteen drams from his daily dosage, more than most men ever received at all.
She held his head until the sickness passed. He gasped for breath and held his ribs as she laid him back on his makeshift bed. "I'll do something for that," she whispered, and hurried up the stairs to the kitchen.
She rushed down to the cellar with a pot of the tea she had brewed from dried bergamot, now cold. "This will help the nausea," she said as she held the cup to his lips. She wished she felt as sure as she sounded. He gulped with difficulty. But shortly thereafter the liquid was vomited up as another spasm shook him. Again she held him until the sickness passed and again poured out a cup of the tea. "Once more," she encouraged as she held his head up to the cup. "But slowly, little sips." When it was down, she laid his head back on the bedding. She cleaned the floor and took the soiled quilt away, replacing it with a fresh one from the stack by the door.
Davinoff lay back, exhausted, but when he turned toward her, she saw his eyes were clearer than she had seen them since that day in Henrietta Park. "Why do you do this?" he rasped.
She looked away. There was no answer she could say out loud. "Who else is there?"
She sat with him for the three hours remaining, watching his torture begin. He tossed and shook and gasped for breath. But he said nothing and did not ask for the drug. As the sun was surely rising, she measured out fifteen drams and he drank it gratefully. They both slept.
Sarah woke while Davinoff still dozed fretfully, and she slipped up the stairs for food. She supplied the horse with extra hay for his manger and filled his trough with water, enough for several days. She brought an entire tray of dried fruits, some beef, and the strong cheese from the Cheddar Gorge down to the cellar. She might not want to leave the room again for a while.
During the next four hours, Davinoff alternately shook and sweated with the fever. The nausea came and was banished again, but he was greatly weakened. She sat on the floor and watched his torment. He did not cry out, but sometimes low sounds escaped him. Sarah changed his poultices and examined his wounds. She gave him water when he would take it. When at last six o'clock drew near by the delicate watch on the chain round her neck, she measured out the diminishing drams and waited for the time. If she started cheating on the time, she might start cheating on the amount. She wouldn't let herself do that. She owed him more than that.
More, more what, more pain? Death? That seemed closer than ever. Could she just reduce the addiction to a tolerable amount? Sarah sighed. He would not want any addiction. Not the Davinoff she knew. Never once had he asked for the drug. Not like all those pleading faces, clutching hands, shrieking mouths at the hospital. She could not undo Corina's evil. But she could do her best to help this man find the way back to his former self. Sarah watched him writhing on his pallet. Corina's mad revenge had not yet run its course. The worst is yet to come, she thought. We've still half the way to go. She glanced at her watch and found that six had come and gone. Rising wearily, she went to him.
"It's time," she said and held his head to drink. His eyes seemed not to register who she was. But he drank as she pressed the cup to his lips. The drug would give him peace for only a few hours. It was time for something else as well. She went upstairs and took the shackles from the cart. Refusing to think, she returned and hooked them to the ring in the wall, using a length of chain that had bound a trunk. Not like Corina, she said softly to herself. Not the way Corina tied him up.
She leaned over him to grasp his right hand and lock him into the heavy metal bands. She felt him stiffen and looked down, startled, to see him staring at her intently. His eyes jerked from her neck to her face. She was so close she could feel his breath, hot and ragged. His scent wafted up about her, a sweet muskiness that intoxicated her, not like her father, not like the Tuscan boy, not like any man she knew. The need in his eyes held her as surely as she still held his wrist. She knew that look. She had once seen one like it in Sienna. She should break the hold his eyes had on her, but somehow she did not. Her breasts brushed against his chest as she sighed into him. Yes, she told him silently. Slowly he raised his head from the pallet. She lowered her mouth to his, her lips parted in anticipation of his kiss.
It was he who broke the spell. With a growl, he wrenched away and snapped his head to the wall. "No!" His anguished cry echoed in the stone cellar. "I will not lose control."
Sarah started back, shaking with shame, and dropped his wrist as though it burned.
"You must not know," she heard him whisper.
She rose hastily and turned away, palms pressed to her hot cheeks. What had she been doing here? The man was ill, for pity's sake, and she had wanted him. Were her impulses so mean, so uncontrollable? Chains clanked against the wall. She turned to see Davinoff clamping the manacles awkwardly about his own wrists.
His head lolled against the stones. "I did not mean to frighten you." His eyes were closed. O
nly the rasping whisper indicated that he was conscious. But it too was fading. "I need you."
Sarah stood there, eyes closed tightly, and tried to will away her shame. It would not be banished. Lord, her baser nature asserted itself at every turn. Yet… had he not wanted her as well? She had felt it in his eyes, in that one moment before he turned away. A tiny ribbon of excitement wound itself about her shame. She shook her head violently. Withdrawing, ill, he was not himself. How many times had she seen patients fix their feeling on those who cared for them? It was a result of dependency, not a true regard. He said it himself. "I need you." Her excitement faded through disappointment to resignation.
The time dragged on. Sarah was lost in reminiscences of her father when Davinoff's eyes snapped open. She felt more than saw it, knew instantly that a change had come over him.
"Davinoff," she whispered. "Are you all right?" As she rose to go to him, he pulled himself up to a sitting position by his chains. The corner where he sat was lost in shadows. Sarah turned up the lamp. His body gleamed with sweat and his breathing was shallow and rapid. His face was pale, his eyes intense as she had never seen them. He looked, well… mad. And he looked strong again. Sarah stared at him, wishing this were over. She stood by her chair, wondering how long she would stand there, how long he would stare blankly, and what terrors he was fighting.
It was this thought that finally brought her back to herself.
Every nerve in his body was rebelling. He was in pain. He might be hallucinating. It was to be expected. "Davinoff," she called again. "What can I do for you?" She went toward him slowly, stood over him, and saw that he was trembling. She reached out a tentative hand.
Abruptly his gaze snapped up and she saw a vortex of pain and courage and old, secret knowledge. Even at the abbey, she had never seen his eyes like this. She caught her breath and stepped back. From clenched teeth a strange voice echoed. "Don't touch me." It boomed in her mind. She took another step back involuntarily. She, too, was breathing hard.
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