by Diane Farr
What a crazy thought. Perhaps she was going mad, too.
“Do you feel better?” he asked, still in that quiet, compassionate voice that had been her undoing.
“No,” said Celia shortly.
“I’ve heard it said that tears can ease the heart.”
“So have I.” She took another deep, shaky breath, and expelled it slowly. “Just an old wives’ tale, I sup-sup-suppose. Doesn’t help a bit. Tears are com-completely useless.”
“Ah. Well. At least you have stopped.”
“One must stop, eventually,” said Celia dully. Her ribs hurt from sobbing. She was exhausted. She wished with all her heart she could lie down somewhere and go to sleep.
How she longed for sleep. Sleep, deep and dreamless sleep, sounded lovely. No more thoughts. No more memories. No nightmares. Even Manegold’s comforting presence, although infinitely helpful, had yet to bring her a night of unbroken sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept the night through. Not since her visit to Wiltshire, surely. That must have been the last time. The last time for everything.
She straightened her spine, aching, and returned her gaze to the valley. It seemed strange to see it still there, nestled peacefully beneath its blanket of snow. Some irrational corner of her mind had half-expected the storm raging within her to have ripped through the landscape as well. But the world was utterly indifferent to the personal sorrow of its inhabitants. And that was well and good, she thought tiredly, or happiness would not be possible. For anyone.
Her mind was traveling in strange little circles, her thoughts floating in some weary, peaceful place where she was aware of sorrow, but could no longer feel it. She was too tired now to feel it. Maybe that was the much-vaunted benefit of tears. They did not heal, but at least they wore a person out.
Jack’s hand reached over and clasped hers. His hand felt large and strong and comforting. Without thinking, she curled her fingers round it and clung. And then, holding Jack’s hand and gazing sightlessly at the beautiful valley below, Celia felt words forming. It was as if strength flowed from Jack’s warm hand and coursed through her, giving her the power to speak at last.
“I went to visit my old governess,” she began. She spoke haltingly—but dreamily, as if she were telling a story. “In Wiltshire. You see, once Benjy was born, and with Marianne and I nearing marriageable age, it was decided that we could no longer afford a governess. And Mrs. Floyd was of a mind to—retire, I suppose. So she left us, and went to live with her brother in Wiltshire. But she had always been a particular friend of mine. We corresponded regularly. And she frequently begged me to come to Wiltshire and visit her. And finally—this past summer—I was able to go.”
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sighed. “I had not been there a week when…” Could she say it? she wondered numbly. Yes, she could. “A message came. My youngest brother—Benjy—had been taken ill.”
Jack’s hand moved, clasping hers a little tighter. She opened her eyes slowly and looked once more at the valley, as if she could see the words there, written on the snow, and all she need do was read them aloud. The only emotion that touched her was a dim gratitude for this respite from grief.
“That was all the warning I had. That message. I came home immediately,” she said. “Mrs. Floyd came with me. But by the time I arrived…”
Memory—and, with it, pain, sharp and swift—suddenly stabbed through her precious fog of detachment. She took another deep breath to hold the tears at bay. Surely, surely, she had no tears left at the moment. But when she spoke again, a quaver had crept into her voice, and the thread of her story was more difficult to follow. Her mind wanted to jump from point to point, as anguished as her feet would be were she walking on hot coals. Images formed, nightmarish but compelling, impossible to ignore. Words tumbled out. She felt she must speak or suffocate beneath the weight of her memories.
“I knew something was wrong. Something terrible was wrong. No one came out to meet the carriage. Everything was so still. The apothecary’s cob was hitched in the yard. I—I went into the house. I ran. There were—there were bodies in the parlor. I did not stop to look. They were laid out under sheets. In the parlor. I could not look. I could not look. I ran upstairs.” Her teeth were chattering now, but the words poured out. “Mama was still alive. But she could not speak. I think she recognized me. I—I think she could hear me. At first. But she could not answer. Marianne—”
More images. Unbearable.
“Marianne was unconscious. Barely breathing.” Celia swallowed hard and closed her eyes against the pain. She forced the words past her chattering teeth. “They were the only ones left alive. Mama, and Marianne. Marianne died that afternoon…Mama died the next day.”
“Good God,” whispered Jack. His voice was full of horror. Celia tensed against the waves of sympathy emanating from her companion; if she gave in to his sympathy, she would collapse. She pulled her hand from his and clenched her hands tightly together in her lap. She opened her eyes again, but would not, could not, look at Jack. Compassion would cause her to crumble yet again, and she felt driven to finish her story. If she did not, she would have to revisit it in future. If she could get the terrible words out, just this once, she might never have to say them again.
“They th-think it was the f-fish.” A strange little smile shivered briefly across her features. How absurd it was, in a way. Life and death hingeing on such a simple matter. Such an everyday occurrence: dinner. She took another gulp of clear and frosty air and continued the tale, more steadily now. “But no one knows, really. Mrs. Miller—she’s a woman in the village who would come to us three or four days a week, you know, helping Mama with this and that. Mrs. Miller had arrived one morning and discovered the house in an uproar. Benjy had been taken ill in the night. He couldn’t see properly. Could barely lift his head. He was having trouble speaking… so they sent for the apothecary. It was he who thought it must be the fish. He believed—he—he told them they might lose Benjy. That was when they sent for me.” Celia stared at her feet. “The message I received didn’t mention it, but by that time, Papa and Jane had also started to feel unwell.”
Remembering, remembering how they couldn’t breathe, how her dear ones could not breathe, she found she had to concentrate on her own breathing again. In. Out. The iron bands that had tightened round her ribs loosened a bit, and she went doggedly on. “Benjy faded very quickly. By the time he died, everyone was ill. Jane went next. Then George. Then Fanny. Then Papa. They told me—they told me Papa died just an hour before I arrived.” She took another deep breath. Almost done. Almost done now. “I already told you, I think, that Marianne and Mama were still alive. They were still alive when I came home. But not for long.”
There. She had said it. She had told the story. She hadn’t told it clearly, perhaps, but she had told it. There was much more she had not told…of their dear, joyous, lives, and of their deaths, and of the unending nightmare her own life had been in the aftermath. But she had told the worst of it.
And she had told it to Jack, of all people. That was strange.
She turned her head, then, to look at him. Her neck almost creaked as it turned, it felt so stiff. It would be horrible beyond belief to discover that the tension of the moment had pushed him back into his own illness. But he sat, still and watchful, his long body turned to face her. He looked pale, and his blue eyes had darkened with emotion, but he appeared perfectly grave and sane.
“If you’re not going to use that handkerchief,” he said hoarsely, “I would like to have it back.”
She glanced down in surprise at her hands. She was clutching his handkerchief, and had wadded the fine linen folds into a crumpled mess. “Oh, dear,” she said, handing it to him. “I’m afraid I’ve shredded it a bit.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He took it and blew his nose fiercely. “Thank you. I shall be a man again in a moment.”
She gave a rusty chuckle. “You’ve been a man all along. And an excessively
kind one.”
“Well, there’s no doubt I’m a tender-hearted chap,” he agreed, stuffing the ruined handkerchief into his coat pocket. “But that story would crack a heart of stone. And to think, after going through all that, you fell into my mother’s clutches. Why, it’s enough to make a frog weep.”
Jack was trying to distract her with his humor, she realized, and felt her heart warm towards him. Mad or sane, he had to be the kindest man she had ever met.
The glow of her gratitude enabled her to actually smile at him. She tried to match the lightness of his tone. “Your mother’s clutches haven’t been so very bad. Why, look where I am! I might have ended up in a workhouse, you know, or hired out as a governess or something. And since I’ve never been bookish, I don’t know which fate would have been worse! I don’t imagine I would have been hired by one of the better households. My only talent is for sketching.”
“Really? I don’t believe I have any talents at all. The only marked propensity I have is for making friends, and that tends to be more of a nuisance than anything else.”
“I think that’s a lovely gift,” said Celia softly. She could certainly vouch for the fact that he had it. She could not recall feeling so drawn to anyone in her life as she felt to cousin Jack.
“My family wouldn’t agree with you.”
He was smiling, but Celia wondered if poor Jack was, indeed, an easy touch for unscrupulous persons. There must be any number of villains who would take advantage of a fellow whose heart was as soft as his head.
Celia remembered Augusta’s crossness at seeing her brother again after an absence of many months, and her ill-natured observation that his affliction grew worse every year, and a wave of protectiveness surged through her. Jack might very well improve, rather than worsen over time, had he the benefit of decent care and regular exercise! Why, it was really astonishing to see the improvement in him this morning, simply by removing him from the oppressive atmosphere of Delacourt—and his wretched family—and letting him tramp about in the fresh air. She hoped his man Hadley was a sensible and easy-going person, and that he was not being quacked too much by high-priced London physicians. She wished there were something she could do for him.
He rose and stretched out his hand to her. “I think we should move along before we freeze solid, don’t you?”
“By all means.” She allowed him to pull her to her feet, but paused, looking at the view one last time.
The tolling of church bells floated briefly across the valley. The sound tugged at her heartstrings, as sweet and ethereal as the promise of heaven. As familiar and comforting as home.
“Listen,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “How beautiful they sound. I haven’t heard church bells since I arrived at Delacourt.”
“You can’t hear them in the palace,” he said softly.
“No.” It seemed a metaphor for her entire experience of the place. Celia opened her eyes and sighed. “This really is a lovely spot,” she said wistfully. “I hate to leave it, even if it is a bit cold.”
“I shall bring you back here one shining day in April. I promise you, everything will look completely different in a few months.”
Something in his voice made her look up at him. He was looking not at the view, but at her. Why, he meant something else entirely. He meant that things would look different to her. Surprised and touched, she gave him a shaky smile. “I suppose it will, one day.”
“I have frequently observed,” he said seriously, “that a harsh winter is almost always followed by a particularly glorious spring.”
Celia felt tears sting the back of her eyelids. “I do hope you are right,” she whispered. “One is so glad to reach the end of—of a harsh winter.”
He nodded, then took her hand again. “But in the meantime,” he told her bracingly, “we have Christmas to warm our hearts. Excellent placement, isn’t it? In the midst of winter’s darkest days, just when one needs it most! I say we go hang some greenery and get on with it.”
Celia managed a little laugh. “Very well, sir! I trust your sledge is where you left it.”
“Oh, no one would dare abscond with our hard-gleaned trimmings,” he assured her, helping her down the steep path.
Her heart lightened with relief at his return to friendly raillery. “If the sledge has gone missing, we will simply follow the tracks until we find the thieves.”
“And woe betide them! Evergreen poaching carries the stiffest penalties in these parts. Anyone caught decking their halls with ill-gotten holly is—is—”
“Yes?” prompted Celia.
“Is made to change places with the Yule log.”
“No! How horrid. You shock me, cousin.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I am here to protect you. You’ve been crashing about the woods all morning without a license. You wouldn’t care to be slowly consumed by fire while the rest of us make merry.”
“No, indeed.” They had reached the sledge, which was, of course, exactly where he had left it. Celia fell into step beside Jack as he threw the rope over his shoulder and began hauling the sledge back toward the edge of the wood. “What a mercy it is that you did the actual cutting of the branches today,” she commented. “I’d no idea I was in danger of poaching.”
“I wondered why you hadn’t thanked me.”
Celia, idly enjoying this nonsensical conversation, was brought up short by the realization that Jack might be serious. Her smile faded and she looked up at him anxiously. Perhaps one ought not to joke with a lunatic. She knew little of these things. What if she caused him to go off into a fit of some kind? But, really, he seemed so normal—
Jack glanced down at her. “What’s the matter?” he asked, seeming a bit surprised by her scrutiny.
She blushed and looked away. “Nothing!” she said hastily.
“You’re looking at me as if you thought I might suddenly sprout wings and fly away.”
Her blush deepened. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. And it’s not the first time.” He stopped, right in the middle of the path. “Out with it! What’s bothering you? Is it the way I acted yesterday?”
Scarlet-faced, Celia bit her lip. “P-partly. But, really, cousin, you mustn’t worry about it! Pray do not. Come along!” She grabbed the edge of his sleeve and tugged encouragingly. “Let’s get the sledge back to the house, shall we? Such a lot of holly and evergreen we’ve gathered! We’ll have a lovely time, hanging the green—”
He looked amazed. “You’re talking to me exactly as if I were three years old.”
“Oh, dear! I—I don’t mean to.” Since Jack had not budged, Celia dropped his sleeve and pressed her hands together beseechingly. “Pray do not be angry,” she said breathlessly.
“I’m not angry. I’m baffled.” He tapped his face to indicate his expression. “This is bafflement,” he explained. “If it disturbs you, you can eradicate it by simply revealing to me what the deuce is going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Celia was mortified. She wished she had had time to consult with someone—Lady Augusta, or Munsil, or someone—to prepare for this conversation. She had often heard it said that madmen were unaware of their own oddness, and believed themselves to be perfectly normal. Here she was, all alone in the wood with one, and she did not even know whether Jack, himself, was aware of his condition. Perhaps that was the best place to begin.
She scanned his features in some trepidation. He did look baffled. And also a bit amused. And handsome—but that was irrelevant, of course.
“I am wondering,” she began hesitantly, “if you are aware—if you think you have been—quite well, these past few years. Or during your youth, for that matter.” She saw his baffled look widen into astonishment, and hurried on. “I mean—were you sickly, as a child? Have you been plagued with physicians and what-not? More than you liked, I mean? More than—normal?”
He stared at her. “Forgive me if I seem a bit surprised. I had thought of many things I expected might be botheri
ng you, but you have chosen something that was not on my list.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Physicians! Because I was the only surviving son, do you mean? Are you thinking I was cosseted and fussed over? Do I seem overly indulged? A bit spoiled, perhaps?”
“Well—not exactly. Not quite. I was thinking—I was thinking—I don’t know what I was thinking,” she finished lamely, blushing for her evasion.
“Ah,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “The answer is that I have been blessed with an amazing degree of good health, was never sickly as a child or a youth, and haven’t the foggiest notion why you should ask such an extraordinary question.”
His tone was pleasant enough, but Celia’s embarrassment increased. “I beg your pardon!” she said hastily. “It’s none of my business, of course.”
“I was, in my youth, fussed over a good deal,” he offered. “But the uproar was always over my behavior. Not my health. I was forever being scolded for this transgression or that, by one parent or the other. I always found it difficult to toe the line, you know, and do the ‘done thing.’” He grinned. “You may have noticed that I still have trouble with that.”
“Yes. I see.” His behavior had caused a constant uproar, had it? Of course. Poor lad. At some point, his parents must have realized that Jack’s consistent failure to ‘toe the line’ arose from something more serious than youthful rebellion.
But—did it?
A rather breathtaking idea occurred to Celia. She studied Jack’s honest, amiable countenance, wondering. Was it possible—was it possible—that Jack was not mad at all?
It was difficult to believe that a madman could converse so naturally and pleasantly, hour after hour. It was even more difficult to believe that a madman would show her so much kindness, and listen so attentively, and joke with her. Weren’t madmen supposed to be feeble-minded? He seemed, if anything, more clever than most people.
From what she knew of his parents and sisters, it suddenly seemed not only possible but probable that what struck the Delacourts as outright lunacy might be just…
