by Jane Peart
"Oh, Kip, be reasonable. It could never work," she argued, then took on a teasing tone. "Besides, I've already got my next assignment. Soon I'll be off to England to photograph cottages and castles."
He glanced at his watch impatiently, then said, "I've got to go. The meeting is scheduled at ten. But please, Crystal, don't make this some kind of ultimatum. Can't you at least wait until I'm through there, so we can talk some more. I know I can convince you if you'll give me another chance."
The fact that she knew that to be a real possibility gave strength to her closing argument. "No, Kip, don't even try. Let's just part friends. I do wish you well. If winning is what you really want, then I hope you will. Can't you wish me well, too?"
He frowned, drawing his dark brows together. "I think you're making a terrible mistake. . . . "
It was hopeless to make him understand. The mistake had already been made—coming back at all. But it would be an even greater mistake to stay longer.
chapter
26
STANDING IN FRONT of the bureau mirror in his starched evening shirt and white satin vest, Kip struggled with his bow tie. Couldn't seem to get it right. He tugged at it and started over. Why were his fingers all thumbs tonight? He was nervous, blast it! He wasn't used to feeling that uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Why should he, anyway? Wasn't the campaign going well? His volunteers at headquarters told him it was, and Hal Woodridge kept clapping him on the back and telling him he was doing "a terrific job."
But Kip wasn't all that sure. He didn't like this feeling of uncertainty. He wished the whole thing were over and done with. What he disliked most about it was that it had alienated him from his old friends. One of his oldest, in fact—Scott Cameron. But doggone it! Hadn't Scott turned his back on him? Kip could have used the endorsement of the Messenger. Not having it put a question mark in the minds of a lot of folks about his qualifications for the office of senator. Most people in Mayfield trusted that paper, believed every word they read in it.
Not that Scott hadn't been fair. Kip had to give him that. His old friend had covered all his rallies, meetings, speeches to the service clubs, even the one to the Ladies' Historical Preservation Club and Fuchsia Fanciers!
Kip gave his tie afinal yank. Tonight was an important meeting at the Mayfield Club. Woodridge had lined up some of the biggest names in the construction business to attend the dinner, where Kip would be the featured speaker. Hal had promised that these men would contribute heavily to the campaign if he made a good impression. They could sure use the money. Advertising and other campaign expenditures came high.
Kip reached for his gold cuff links and began to insert one in the French cuff of his sleeve when a tap came at his bedroom door. It startled him, and with his nerves already shot, the cuff link slipped out of his fingers and onto the floor. He swore under his breath as the tap came again, followed by Mattie's anxious voice. "Mr. Kip, sir, kin I come in?"
"Sure, Mattie, what is it?"
"It's Luc, Mr. Kip. He doan want to eat his supper. He jest lyin' on his bed. I think he comin' down with somethin'. Doan know jest what, but it ain't like him to be thisaway."
Frowning, Kip turned to face her. She looked worried, and it wasn't like Mattie to worry unnecessarily. Especially about Luc. She had raised eight children of her own and knew all about children's ailments. "What seems to be the matter?"
"Well, he complainin' about bein' sleepy, Mr. Kip. And he mighty flushed and hot-feelin'."
Kip's frown deepened. This recital of symptoms didn't seem all that serious. "Well, I'll look in on him before I leave. You know he spent hours yesterday on Jester, practicing his jumps. Probably just wore himself out. I'm sure all he needs is a good night's sleep. Go ahead and put him to bed." The black woman turned to leave, and Kip called after her, "Thanks, Mattie."
A few minutes later, on his way out, Kip entered Luc's darkened bedroom. Leaning over the little boy, he placed a hand on his forehead. He did feel awfully hot. The child moved restlessly, but he seemed to be sleeping, so Kip merely tucked the blankets more securely around him and left the room.
As he was going down the stairs, he passed Mattie coming up with a tray. On it was a glass and a bottle of some kind of tonic.
"If he wakes up, I'm goin' to give him a little of this," she told him.
Kip felt a small pang of guilt in relinquishing the responsibility for his child to his hired housekeeper while he attended a festive occasion. Well, it certainly wasn't anything he was looking forward to all that much, not like a party, exactly. This was, as Hal had pointed out, an important fund-raiser—the last big thrust before the election in three weeks. It was something he couldn't pass up. Besides, he'd always heard that children could run a fever one day and the next be as good as new. He was sure that Luc would be fine in the morning.
Kitty stirred as the bright arc of an automobile's headlights flashed into the windows of her bedroom and swept across the walls. Next came the skittering sound of pebbles thrown against the screen. Fully awake now, she sat up, hearing someone call her name.
Recognizing the voice coming from the terrace just below, she flung off the covers and ran barefooted to the window, leaned on the sill, and looked down.
Standing on the driveway below was Kip, dressed in evening clothes. But his tuxedo collar was loosened and his tie was askew. Was this some kind of prank? Was Kip up to his old stunts? At first she even suspected he might have had too much to drink and in that disoriented state had decided to make a midnight call on a whim.
She was about to reprimand him when he saw her and called in an urgent whisper, "Kitty! I need you! Luc is really sick, and I can't get hold of Doc Madison. He's on a delivery case somewhere in the county. Can you come? I don't know what to do. . . . "
There was a desperation in his tone that at once dispelled any notion that this was one of Kip's practical jokes. "I'll be right there."
Moving quietly so as not to awaken Lynette and Bryanne in the adjoining room, Kitty made a wild grab for her clothes. She dressed quickly, then carrying her shoes, she went down the stairs in her stocking feet. She would not take time to leave a note but would call from Montclair in the morning to let her mother know the situation.
Breaking all speed limits, they covered the few miles from Cameron Hall to Montclair in record time. Kip was hunched forward, clutching the steering wheel as if by the very thrust of his body he could make the car go faster. Kitty clung to the door handle, biting her lip and praying. She had no idea what she would find at Montclair. But Kip, usually so cool-headed, seemed almost frenzied. With a squeal of wheels, they swerved around the last curve and into the gates leading up to Montclair. With a neck-whipping jolt, Kip slammed to a stop in front of the house, scattering gravel as he braked.
After one look at Luc, Kitty's heart sank. Even before taking his temperature, her hand on his brow told her it was dangerously high. Gently she removed the covers and ran her practiced hands over his small body. With alarm, she noted that the joints of his knees, ankles, and elbows were burning hot and swollen.
Her throat went dry with panic. She had to swallow hard before she found her voice. "I'm not a doctor. We'll have to wait for Dr. Madison to make the diagnosis. But until he gets here, we'll make Luc as comfortable as possible and try to get his fever down." To Mattie, she added, "I'll need some compresses. Old sheets cut into squares and folded will do. And, Kip, start boiling some water."
If this was the dread disease that Kitty feared, she would start the only treatment thought to be effective in preventing paralysis and permanent crippling—alternate cold and hot compresses on the swelling joints.
The days had no meaning. One ended, another began, and Kip barely stirred from his son's bedside. Dr. Madison had confirmed Kitty's private diagnosis of Luc's illness. It was every parent's nightmare, one for which no preventive or cure had yet been discovered. With no weapon to fight it, the medical profession was helpless against this scourge of childhood that ofte
n took its victims within a few hours after it struck, or left them hopelessly crippled for the rest of their lives.
Kitty and Mattie, by turns, entered and left the silent sickroom on those beautiful early summer days—the kind of days when Luc should have been out in the fragrant meadows, riding Jester, running, playing. Each time the adults looked at the fevered child or turned his hot, little body, the terrible thought that he might never again do any of these things came like a blow to their hearts.
Mattie, with her deep faith, prayed audibly as she bathed Luc's burning skin or applied the compresses to his swollen joints. "Oh, sweet Jesus, have mercy! Lord, you heal the sick, please touch this little chile . . . and we'll give you all the glory! Hallelujah!" Sometimes she would hum softly under her breath, singing the words of praise and pleading, "Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in his wonderful face. . . ."
Sitting on the other side of Luc's bed, Kitty tried to catch Kip's eye to offer what little consolation she could. But his eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from lack of sleep, were fastened on his son. Kip's face was haggard and gaunt, with several days' stubble of beard and etched with deep lines. By day, his usually ruddy complexion was pale; by lamplight, it had a ghastly cast.
When she gently urged him to rest, he merely shook his head. His chin rested on hands that were clasped tightly as if in an attitude of prayer, and Kitty wondered if he were praying. She hoped so.
She was convinced that nothing but prayer could save Luc now, for although she was doing everything she knew to do medically, nothing seemed to be working. In cases like this, there was little that doctors could do to make a difference.
During the war, Kitty had seen men die, but she had never seen a child die. Now, with the possibility of this child's dying, Kitty's heart sank. What would Kip do if that happened? In the past ten years, he had lost his mother, his wife, and many comrades-in-arms with whom he had lived and flown into battle. As far as Kitty knew, Kip had never discussed these losses with anyone. He had mourned but never fully grieved, and she knew that was a vital part of healing.
Kitty remembered how proud and happy Kip had been to bring Luc home to Virginia. She knew he loved the boy . . . perhaps had not realized how much until he faced the possibility of losing him.
Kip seems so terribly alone, Kitty thought. His own father was thousands of miles away, in Scotland. He no longer had Luc's mother to help him through this crisis, to help bear the heavy burden. Compassion wrenched Kitty's heart, and she prayed, Dear Heavenly Father, be Kip's Father, give him courage to endure whatever he has to endure. Comfort him. . . . However inadequate her prayer, she kept on praying as she went about skillfully performing her nursing duties.
Kip felt a rising tide of panic, reminiscent of the first time he had spotted a German plane speeding toward him, its mounted machine guns trained on him. He had been afraid he might die that day, and all the things he loved about life had come rushing through his mind in a torrent. On the brink of losing them, he had all at once appreciated the things once taken for granted.
He gazed at Luc, his tangles of dark hair fanned out against the pillow, the closed eyelids flickering, the movements of his little hands painfully spastic, the small mouth partly open, emitting low moans every so often.
Oh, God, please don't let him die! Kip begged from the depths of his soul. I don't deserve any favors, I know that. . . but if You let Luc live, I promise to be a better father . . . a better man! I haven't been what I should be, but oh my God, please listen. Don't take Luc away from me. . . .
Kip wasn't sure it was a prayer. Certainly it wasn't a proper prayer. But it was sincere. He had never meant anything more in his life. Luc was everything to him, and if Luc died, nothing else mattered.
The hours dragged. Mattie came to tell him of urgent phone calls from the campaign office, but her messages barely penetrated Kip's consciousness.
"Mr. Woodridge has phoned, I doan know how many times, Mr. Kip. He say it's mighty important you return his call, sir." She placed a cup of coffee on the table beside Luc's bed. She hesitated, then tried again. "Mr. Montrose, he say people are waitin' for you down at headquarters. . . . "
With great effort Kip turned to her, staring blankly, almost as if he didn't recognize her.
"Kip, what Mattie is trying to tell you is that you're scheduled at several events. . . . The campaign . . . " Kitty said.
Suddenly it registered. Kip blinked, then said harshly, "To blazes with the campaign! What could I possibly care about that, now? Tell Woodridge he can go . . . " He halted abruptly, shuddering. "Sorry, Mattie, Kitty." Then he reached for the coffee, downed it in two gulps, and stood up. "Yes, of course. I'll have to do something about it." With that, he walked out of the room.
The two women looked at each other. In a few minutes they heard Kip's voice raised on the phone in the hall.
When he came back into Luc's bedroom, he slumped down again in his chair. He glanced over at Kitty. "It's finished. I've withdrawn from the race. I can't think of anything but Luc."
chapter
27
AFTER THE PHONE CALL, Scott Cameron left his office and drove home, deep in thought. This was a shocking turn of events, and he had no idea how it would play out. Automatically he winced. Had he become so callous as to be more concerned about an election than a little boy's serious illness ? No, he assured himself, not really. But it was, after all, a political reality. I f Kip Montrose dropped out of the race, what did that mean for Frank Maynard? The campaign was too important not only to Frank, but to the whole district, not to consider all the ramifications of this unexpected circumstance.
Reaching Cameron Hall, he pulled to a stop at the side of the house. Instead of going inside immediately, he sat there, brow furrowed, elbow on the steering wheel, propping up his chin. There were two possibilities. Either one carried risks. The outcome of either, uncertain. He'd have to call an emergency meeting of Frank's committee, discuss what course of action they should take, decide how to handle the few remaining weeks of the campaign.
As he got out of the car, he saw Jillian coming up from the gazebo at the far end of the lawn. He stood watching her approach, the late afternoon sun sending dancing lights through her rich brown hair. As if suddenly aware of being observed, she turned and saw him.
"Hello," he greeted her, waving his hand and quickening his pace.
"You look awfully serious," she commented.
"It shows, huh? Well, something has come up, and I'm not sure just how it will all work out."
She was all concern. "What is it, Scott? Bad news?"
"Yes, rather. You've heard about the little Montrose boy, haven't you?"
"Of course. Kitty's over there nursing him. He isn't worse, is he?"
"No, at least I don't think so. But I do know that Kip has withdrawn from the race."
Jillian stared at him. "No!" she gasped. "What does this mean for Frank?"
"I'm not sure of anything except that Kip's name will still be on the ballot. The folks who don't know he's dropped out or don't hear before Election Day, may vote for him anyway, so it wouldn't benefit Frank." Scott ducked his head. "That sounds heartless, I know . . . thinking in terms of your candidate's best interest when his opponent is faced with a possible tragedy. But we have to be realistic. Kip's withdrawal does pose an unexpected problem."
"What can you do?"
"First, I need to run my ideas by someone . . . just to hear myself so I can decide whether or not they would fly. Would you be willing to listen?" At Jillian's eager nod, he tucked her arm in his and they fell into step on one of the garden paths leading from the house. "One way is to be sure that everyone who planned to vote for Kip knows he's no longer running, and hope they'll switch their vote to Frank. . . . " He paused.
"There's another alternative . . . to have a last-minute candidate . . . launch a write-in campaign for someone else to split the vote. I think Frank's backers will remain steady, and he may also reap the harvest of voters who don't
want to cast their vote for someone they don't know. In politics, they call that a 'dark horse' candidate."
"But who could you get to run at this late date?"
"Me!"
"But how would that possibly help Frank? What if people think you would be a better candidate?"
"I doubt that would happen," he said. "As a newspaper editor, one collects a lot of enemies." They moved on down the path, and Scott continued. "I'll have to give it some more thought, of course, and put it before Frank's committee. Maybe it's a dumb idea." He shrugged sheepishly.
"And if it isn't . . . and you decide to do it . . . and win?"
"That's such an outside chance that there's hardly any use thinking about it. . . . But if I did, well how would you feel . . ."
"Me?" she gasped. "I'm an English citizen, don't forget. I can't vote in an American election. Besides, I know nothing about politics!"
Just then Lynette came running out onto the terrace, waving her arm and calling, "Uncle Scott, there's a phone call for you! It's Frank. Says it's important."
"Coming!" Scott called back. "Guess I'd better take this. Frank's probably just been informed," he said to Jillian. "Thanks for listening. It's good to bounce an idea off someone who can be objective."
He turned quickly and took the terrace steps two at a time, leaving Jillian to gaze after him. But you're wrong Scott, she thought. I'm not objective. I'm the most interested person you could possibly have found to talk to. I love you! And whatever happens to you is important to me. I think you'd make a wonderful senator . . . better than Frank, better than anybody! I've lost you anyway, but if that happened, if even by an outside chance you won . . . you'd be out of my life forever!
The depression she'd been lighting off ever since their interrupted conversation in the library the week before, descended upon her full force. Slowly she walked up to the house, passing through the hall, where she could hear Scott talking on the phone, and up the stairs to her room.
