Only My Love

by Jo Goodman

  Michael leaned back in her chair and massaged her abdomen absently as she considered her last sentence. Her spectacles rested on the tip of her nose and there was a pencil nested in her hair. Her mouth was flat and there was the hint of a furrow between her brows.

  Ethan leaned against the door jamb watching her. His eyes were hooded, his smile secretive.

  Her gaze focused on him suddenly. "Have you been standing there long?"

  "Not long. A few minutes."

  "Why are you smiling?"

  "It's nothing," he said. "I just like to look at you."

  Michael felt her cheeks grow warm. To cover her embarrassment, she took off her glasses, folded the fragile stems and set them down on her papers. "You must be feeling better." Her eyes traveled over the lean, narrow-hipped length of him. His posture was casual, his arms folded across his chest, one leg crossed in front of the other at the ankle. His head was tilted to one side consideringly and a lock of his ebony hair had fallen across his forehead. His eyes were more gray than blue, but warm, like sun-baked slate. "You look better."

  Ethan rubbed his jaw. "I shaved. Took a bath."

  "I thought you were still sleeping. You should have called me."

  "Perhaps when I'm not so weak."

  She shook her head at his logic. "That's why I should have helped you."

  He snorted lightly. Ethan had other ideas of the proper time to share a bath with Michael. "I think I'd like that tea and toast now. Have you had lunch?"

  "I keep some fruit here. I had some of that. But I'll sit with you while you eat." She pushed her chair away from the desk. Ethan straightened in the doorway to let her pass. He managed to steal a swift kiss and the pencil.

  The tea was cold but a little honey made it palatable. The toast was bone dry, nearly tasteless, just the way Ethan insisted he wanted it.

  "You know, I could order something else for you," she said, pointing to the deep maroon sash that alerted the hotel management to the needs of its guests. "I spoke to Mr. Covington about the chicken."

  "He's the chef?"

  "The manager. He says no one else has mentioned being ill."

  "You are the one who said it was the chicken. I think it was the roast beef and the chicken and the potatoes and the cherry cheesecake." Just reviewing the list of what he'd eaten made him a bit nauseated. He dipped one corner of toast in his cup of cold tea and ate it. "And the red and white wine." The soggy toast seemed to settle well in his stomach. "I'm going to practice moderation in the future."

  Before Michael returned to her study to work she arranged a place for Ethan to sit on the balcony outside the bedroom. It was a clear, cloudless day with a breeze that touched the skin warmly. Ethan sat down on the rocker and took the morning edition of the Chronicle when she handed it to him. There was a folded blanket lying over the wrought iron railing for his use if he needed it.

  "I feel like an invalid," he grumbled.

  "You are an invalid." She turned her back on him and just missed being swatted by the newspaper.

  He knew she was smiling. Unfolding the paper, Ethan started to read.

  Michael was finishing up her day's work a few hours later, straightening a pile of papers and notes for a messenger to take back to the Chronicle, when she heard the French doors in the bedroom open and Ethan stumble through the room as if he were drunk. She hurried into the bedroom, following the path of fallen papers into the bathing room. Ethan was on the floor hunched over the wash basin. His pale face was drawn, his flesh taut across his bones. Pain had darkened his eyes.

  This time Michael sent for the doctor.

  "Is it the influenza?" she asked worriedly, careful to keep her voice low. The door to the bedroom was closed but she didn't trust Ethan not to hear her discussion with Scott Turner.

  Dr. Turner's features were carefully schooled, masking some of his uncertainty regarding Ethan's illness. His forehead was touched by the golden fringe of his hair. He pushed it back now and faced Michael with steady blue eyes. "This is the wrong time of year for that," he said. "A few months ago I may have thought that, but now..." He shook his head. "His appendix isn't tender but I can't rule out the possibility of surgery at some later time."

  "Surgery!"

  Scott put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Nothing's definite. I'll want to see him in a few days and we'll talk more then about what's to be done. First, let's try the medicine I've prescribed. I'll stop by the druggist's and have it delivered here. Make certain he gets it three times a day. It should settle his stomach and help him sleep."

  She nodded. "He hates being sick; he hates me seeing him this way."

  "I understand completely. Give him a wide berth and don't take to heart too much of what he says while he's like this." Dr. Turner's smile flashed. "That bit of advice is probably worth more than all my other services." His hand dropped away from her shoulder. "How about you? Are you able to take care of him? Perhaps one of your sisters could come by and give some assistance."

  "My sisters aren't available right now," she said without going into details. "Neither is Mother."

  "Perhaps a nurse then?"

  "I can manage, Dr. Turner." She hesitated and her glance was worried. "Unless there's some danger to the baby. Should we be quarantined?"

  "I see no reason to panic the entire hotel with quarantine now." He didn't answer her question about her child because he didn't know the answer. "Let's keep his diet light. Beef or chicken broth, tea, that sort of thing. Toast if he wants it. Fruit now and again. If he keeps that down you can add a few more items. You say you told the manager about the chicken the other night and no one else complained?"

  "No one. Ethan said he'd just overeaten, but you can see that it's more than that."

  "All right, Michael. Don't worry yourself too much over this. It's no help to you or the baby. I'll come around in a few days, before if you need me."

  At least he hadn't told her not to worry at all. She opened the door for him. "Thank you, Dr. Turner. I appreciate you coming here. I know the hospital keeps you busy."

  Ethan called to her then. Slipping back inside the suite, Michael went to see what her husband needed.

  * * *

  Detra was looking demure. Even so she was aware of the eyes that followed her as she carried a tray from the kitchen through the dining room. Her black hair was pulled back in a smooth chignon. No errant strands curled around her ears or forehead. Her dark blue eyes were not enhanced by any makeup; she wore no rouge and only a light dusting of face powder. Her smile was pleasant, not coy or sly. She wore a simple black gown with a white apron that cinched her tiny waist. The tray she carried looked too heavy for her petite frame yet she balanced it expertly on her fingertips and circled the tables with graceful ease.

  At the threshold to the dining room she halted and delivered the tray to the waiting bellboy. He was young, eager to please, and just shy enough to shield his appreciative gaze as Dee approached. He took the tray quickly, happy to assist her. The St. Mark seemed brighter since she was around. She was gay and charming. He'd heard Mr. Covington remark that perhaps Mrs. King was more suited to playing hostess in the dining room than serving in it. It looked as if there was advancement in her future.

  "Thank you, Bryan," Dee said. "It was a little heavy." She rearranged some of the items on the tray, distributing the weight more evenly. "There, that's better, isn't it."

  Bryan nodded. "Where does this go, Mrs. King?"

  "Suite 305. Someone there's not feeling well. The chamomile tea is for the sick one." She pointed to the silver pot on Bryan's left. "That's this one. The other's just tea and lemon. You can keep that straight, can't you?"

  "Of course."

  Dee held her breath when the tray bobbled as Bryan turned sharply on his heel, showing off for her. She envisioned the entire tray of food scattered across the floor. It was not the mess that concerned her, but the difficulty of adding her drugs to another pot of tea. She was constantly being watched, not because she had
done anything suspicious, but because everyone in the kitchen liked the look of her. In any other circumstance the attention would have been flattering. Now Dee wished she had a third eye or a wart on her nose. "Easy does it," she said softly. "Careful with it on the stairs. Remember, the chamomile is on the left."

  Bryan knocked on the door to 305. "Your dinner," he said grandly as the door was opened.

  "Just put it on the table," Michael said. "I'll take my husband's food into him myself."

  "How's Mr. Stone feeling today?" He set the tray down. "Has the doctor seen him again?"

  "He'll be here tomorrow." Michael lifted the lids on the food she had ordered for herself. The fish, parsley potatoes, and buttered medallions of carrots were attractively served, but none of it appealed to her. She wished she'd ordered broth for herself as she had for Ethan. She picked up one of the pots, intending to pour herself some tea.

  "Oh, no," Bryan said. "I mean, not if that's for you. Mrs. King was very particular to say that it's the lemon and honey tea for you, and the chamomile for the one that's sick. The chamomile is what you've got in your hand."

  Michael had forgotten she'd ordered both. She shrugged. "It's all right. I like chamomile as well." She started to pour, then stopped. "Perhaps I shouldn't. There might not be enough for a second cup for Ethan." Putting the pot back down, Michael poured from the other. "Thank you, Bryan. I'll ring if there's anything else."

  When he was gone, Michael carried the tray into the bedroom. Ethan was lying on his side with the blankets pulled close about him. He managed a smile when he saw her. She set the tray down and helped him sit up, punching up the pillows to make them more supportive at his back.

  "Beef or chicken?" he asked.

  "Beef broth."

  Ethan sighed. He was heartily sick of drinking his food but the thought of anything more substantial was just as disagreeable. He watched her tear a few small chunks of bread off a fragrant loaf and drop them into his broth. When they were soaked through she handed him the small bowl and a spoon.

  "There's tea for you, too. I ordered chamomile. I thought you'd like it for a change. It's supposed to be very soothing."

  He made a face. "I hate chamomile tea."

  "There's tea and lemon."

  "Just let me get this broth down first," he said.

  Michael sat back in the rocker. She watched him pretend it wasn't difficult to eat, yet she saw him grow tired simply lifting the spoon to his mouth. Whatever the illness, it continued to sap at Ethan's reserve of strength. He was gaunt and pale, bruised beneath his eyes. In the first few days he'd forced himself out of bed, taking what exercise he could. Now he needed her support to move from the bed to the bathing room. "Would you like me to shave you after you eat?" she asked.

  "No," he said tersely.

  "It might make you feel a little—"

  "I don't want a shave. I don't want a paper or a book or a clean nightshirt. I don't want you measuring me for my funeral suit. I don't want—" He stopped, seeing Michael's stricken look. "I'm sorry," he said lowly. "I didn't mean... I'm sorry."

  She didn't say anything.

  Ethan put down the broth. "I'll take that chamomile tea now," he said in the way of a peace offering.

  Michael poured a cup for him, and because she knew now he wouldn't take a second cup, one for herself as well. "Dr. Turner will be here tomorrow," she said, "but he'd come today if I sent for him."

  A muscle worked in Ethan's jaw as he suppressed the pain of another contraction. He shifted, trying to hide it from Michael, and changed the subject completely. "Tell me what you did today."

  "I worked on a story about Madame Demorest. She has her headquarters near here on Broadway so I had the messenger running back and forth with questions for her."

  "She's some forward thinking female I take it."

  "Forward thinking," she repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I'd say that describes her. She heads a business that covers the entire country. Her fashion patterns are sent to dressmakers all over and she publishes The Demorest Monthly Magazine. She's quite outspoken on her views."

  "Now there's a surprise. I suppose she supports temperance."

  "Adamantly."

  Ethan shook his head, raising his teacup in mocking salute. "So do I."

  "I think you'll be very interested in what she has to say," Michael said primly. "I'm going to let you read the article before it goes to press."

  "I'll commit every word to memory." The tea was as unpleasant as he remembered though he promised himself he would drink it for Michael's sake. She gave every indication of enjoying hers. "I'd like you to get my gun, Michael. I want to show you how to use it."

  This change in conversation startled her. "I don't think that's necessary, Ethan."

  "Humor me," he said. He could barely hold his cup steady any longer, he knew better than to assume he could still hold a gun. He would have to teach Michael how to protect herself.

  When she returned with the gun she laid it gingerly on his lap. "I really don't like guns," she told him.

  "I seem to recall you pointing one at me not so long ago."

  "Yes, but I hadn't the least idea how to make it work."

  "I know. You didn't have the hammer drawn."

  "And that's important?"

  He emptied the chambers of his Colt and put the cartridges aside. "Very," he said. "Now let me show you what to do."

  * * *

  Houston was able to move about with a cane. His limp was noticeable yet, but not disfiguring. He held up the ebony walking stick and examined the silver knob. He pressed a small catch, a spring was released, and a four-inch stiletto appeared at the opposite end. "I like this," he told Dee. "I may carry it even when the need's gone."

  "I wish you wouldn't. I didn't know about the blade when it was sold to me. Trust you to find it. Apparently anything can be bought here in the Bowery."

  Houston carefully pushed the blade back inside and rested his weight on the cane again. "Let's go for a ride," he suggested. "I'm tired being cooped up here. I want to see something beside these walls."

  Dee was not completely taken in by the offer. "I know you, Houston. You want to go to the hotel. I don't think it's such a good idea. There's really nothing to be gained by it, nothing you can do. Michael's been holed up in her suite these past ten days. She hasn't been to work at all. I know a doctor's been up there a few times. I've seen him coming and going myself."

  "Ethan?"

  "I told you I haven't seen him. That's just as well, don't you think? I'm not trying to get myself caught. As near as I can tell he stays with Michael all the time. The devoted husband, every bit as in love with her as you suspected."

  Houston was not entirely relieved by Dee's last bit of information, though he managed to ask with credible calm, "If you never see either one of them, how do you know it's working?"

  "Because my drugs always work."

  He was thoughtful, giving attention to his vest and the cut of his jacket in the cracked mirror. "Do they?" he asked casually. "There was that problem with Michael before. She somehow managed to betray all of us because your drugs didn't work."

  Dee's black brows rose a fraction. She wove a loose strand of hair around her finger, twisting, unwinding, and twisting it again. "That was different. It was the matter of the amount. Too much at first, then too little. I told you that."

  Houston glanced in her direction. His eyes fell briefly on her absent, nervous gesture. "You did say that, didn't you?"

  Her hand fell away from her hair. She got off the bed, smoothing her lavender gown across her midriff and hips. The action dried her damp palms. She went to the rain-spotted window and drew back the curtains. "It's a nice enough day for a ride in Central Park. We can go past the hotel if you wish. Sometimes Ethan and Michael sit on the balcony outside their room. I've seen that much with my own eyes."

  "Central Park," he said. "Yes, I'd like seeing that. What about you? Do you have time before you have to go to work?"


  "I don't work today." It was the first day she'd had off since being hired at the St. Mark. Missing one day now and again didn't concern her. There might be a slight lessening of the pain, but the poison was well into Michael's system by now. Detra was a little surprised Michael hadn't lost the baby yet. She had expected that to have happened by now. The only explanation she had for it was that Michael, because of Dee's work schedule, was not receiving the poison at each meal. Instead she got it at one, or at the most, two meals every day. It was better that way, Detra supposed. It made it that much harder for the doctor to find any specific cause for the illness.

  Detra dropped the curtains and turned away from the narrow clapboarded buildings across the street. "Let's go to the park," she said. "You're right about needing to get out of here. The fresh air will do us both a world of good."

  * * *

  "I don't understand, Doctor," Michael said. "I thought I was coming down with the same thing as Ethan, but I recovered the following morning. That was four days ago. You saw me then. You know what I was like. But I'm fine now and he's growing weaker all the time."

  "Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," Ethan called from the bedroom. "Come in where I don't have to strain to hear you."

  Michael sighed, but Scott Turner was impressed by his patient's grit. He followed Michael into the bedroom. "Your wife's telling me that she's recovered from her bout and you're not improving. Is there something you care to add to that?"

  With some effort Ethan pushed himself upright. "No," he said sourly. "That's the truth. I wish to God someone would give me a little of it. What the hell's wrong with me?"

  "Besides being bad-tempered, you mean," Michael said sweetly. "Please, Dr. Turner, don't take everything he says to heart. I'll wait in the sitting room while you examine him. Call me if you need help."

  Scott waited until Michael had closed the door behind her before he sat on the bed. He opened his leather bag, listened to Ethan's heart with his stethoscope, and checked his eyes and general color. "Your wife's full of sass," he said.