Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series)

by Heisinger, Sonja

  To her immediate joy, Lucius’ eyes fluttered open.

  “Evelyn.”

  The way he said her name caused her stomach to tie in a knot. He spoke with a mixture of agony and confusion. There was no trace of pretension, or self-importance. He was sick, and in pain, and he was utterly helpless. Like a child. In such a state, how could their previous differences bear any importance? All the complications of an imperfect human relationship were stripped to the bare essentials of life and death. There was no room for anything else; not vanity, not blame, not selfishness.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she replied, exuding a tenderness she had never used with him before. “I’m with you.”

  He grimaced, his jaw tight.

  “Didn’t want to miss it, did you?” he asked.

  “Miss what?”

  “God smiting me for the death of your father.”

  Evelyn bit her lip. She should have never made him believe she found him guilty, should have never entertained the thought. Lucius had been seventeen when her father died. He was foolish, yes. And immature. But that was a long time ago now, and what was done was done. Nothing about that night should be allowed to interfere with this one.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him with an insincere chuckle. She did not mean to make light of what had happened, but Lucius need not dwell on the past. If he was going to be strong enough to get well, Lucius needed hope for the future. “You said yourself it was no fault of yours.”

  But he was persistent.

  “And when have you ever believed anything I’ve said?” he wondered.

  She rolled her eyes, her tenderness waning. Only Lucius could manage to be cantankerous in a situation like this.

  “Stop talking,” she commanded him. “You need to rest.”

  Lucius did not want to rest. Not now. At the end of all things, rest was inevitable. Until then, the challenge was learning how to live. And Lucius wanted to live. He wanted to live so badly. But he had not known Evelyn wanted him to live as well. Just to be sure of her intentions, he thought he might ask.

  “What are you doing here, Evelyn?”

  “What do you think I am doing here, Lucius?” she countered, immediately defensive. She tried to speak as though caring for him was not entirely out of the ordinary. “I am trying to help you, of course.”

  Lucius shook his head, refusing the idea.

  “You’re contaminating yourself,” he told her.

  She gritted her teeth, for she knew he spoke the truth.

  “If I am contaminated,” she began with a stubborn little tilt of her chin, “it happened back in the stateroom. There is really nothing I can do about it now.”

  Lucius found it ironic that earlier that evening, he had balked at the idea of sharing the same space with Evelyn, lest she be tempted to kill him. Now the two of them were banished from the stateroom, and she was trying to save his life.

  If his ailments were not so dreadfully painful, he might endeavor to fall ill more often.

  A spasm of pain seized him then, and he groaned, his back arching upwards.

  Frightened by her renewed sense of helplessness, Evelyn hovered over his writhing body. At once, she was overwhelmed with compassion, and she was immediately sorry for everything she had ever done to hurt him. Whatever their differences, whatever offenses he had brought against her in the past, he did not deserve this present anguish. No one did.

  “What do I do?” she asked. “What is wrong? Oh God, Lucius. Tell me how I can help you.”

  “Everything hurts,” he managed through clenched teeth.

  Evelyn fumbled for ideas, then grabbed a cloth and pressed it against Lucius’ damp forehead.

  “Does this help?”

  Lucius shook his head and closed his eyes.

  Of course it did not help. It was a silly rag. What good were oils and towels against a murderous disease?

  At a loss for any answers, Evelyn began to cry.

  As Lucius’ spasm passed, he reopened his tired eyes and saw her tears in the subtle light. Remorse came upon him, as he knew his pain was not worth her sorrow. He did not deserve her tears, but misfortune had the ability to inspire pity where it was not due.

  She must leave him, lest she believe she cared for him more than she really did. He would not have her lie to herself.

  “I do not want you here,” he told her.

  The words stung, and Evelyn was quiet a moment. It was true. She had nothing of consequence to offer him. She possessed no skills, no medicines, no remedies. And Lucius knew it. But even so, she had risked much to be with him, not the least of which was her emotional stability, her sanity. This hall was like the very dungeon of hell: dark, rank, and thick with the fear of death.

  “Do you really hate me so?” she asked presently. “Is my company so loathsome? Is there nothing left from our childhood that might reconcile me to you now?”

  He eyed her narrowly, for it was only now, when he was deathly ill, that he merited anything other than Evelyn’s haughty disdain.

  “I should ask you the same question,” he said.

  Beneath his gaze, Evelyn looked away, her face burning hot with shame.

  “I thought the boy I knew was lost,” she told him. “But then I heard you play that blasted violin.”

  Lucius chuckled, then coughed.

  “That had an effect on you, did it?” he asked. He had to admit, he was slightly pleased.

  “It resurrected memories of happier times,” Evelyn said. “No matter how silly I think you are, Lucius Flynn, you are still the boy I used to play with.”

  “And you are still the spoiled urchin from the cliffs beyond Limerick.”

  “Then appease the little girl you once loved. Fight this. Get well.”

  But Lucius’ body tensed, and he turned away from Evelyn to vomit.

  “It’s useless,” he told her once he had recovered. “My body is purging itself of life. You have no more responsibility to me.”

  “On the contrary, Lucius,” Evelyn argued, struggling to regain any sense of hope. “We had an agreement, remember? I am here to look after your needs, and I daresay your nightshirt needs laundering.”

  Lucius smirked.

  “Ah, that’s right,” he murmured with resignation. “You are bartering for your ticket home.”

  She cast down her eyes, for all that was once home felt very far away. All except this one thing: this once silly boy, this now broken man.

  “I have to cling to something,” she replied softly.

  “Even if it’s me?”

  “As everything and everyone else has been taken from me, yes. You are all I have left.”

  “Then I have committed the utmost crime against my countrywoman. I have enslaved you.”

  “But you and I agreed that one day, I shall regain my freedom.”

  And sail away from me forever, he thought. The words, however, did not reach his lips, for his body was wracked with another fit of agony. He arched forward and cried out involuntarily, as a foul new smell permeated the air.

  Lucius had messed his pants.

  “Oh God!” he cried as the spasm passed. “Evelyn, I do not want you here for this!”

  Once more, Evelyn was consumed with dread.

  “What can I do for you, Lucius?” she asked again. “You must tell me what to do!”

  “Leave me!”

  A sense of worthlessness caused her to steel herself against the desire to obey.

  “I will not!” she declared. “Now stop demanding it of me and tell me something that shall be of use to you.”

  Lucius took a deep breath. With every passing moment, he felt more drained, more exhausted. It was becoming difficult to speak; he was growing weak, and despite what he wanted, he needed to rest.

  “I should like to sleep, if I can,” he told her.

  Sleep. That was something Evelyn could facilitate.

  “All right,” she told him. “Close your eyes. I shall be here if you need anything.”


  He did so, and as he slipped into a state of feverish unconsciousness, Evelyn became acutely aware of the sensation that she was utterly, irrevocably alone. There were no others who would brave this hall, no others who would join her in this dark, stinking place. Even if she survived this sickness, she did not know when she could ever return to the land of the living, for who knew when this pestilence would pass? She was surrounded by afflicted men, and as Lucius grew silent, the painful sounds of their agony filled her ears and overwhelmed her thoughts. She must somehow block them out, must somehow isolate her mind so as not to be cast into despair.

  She arranged herself upon the floor, careful to avoid the bodily refuse of the nearby infirm. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the good and lovely things that had once existed outside this haunting world: a piano, a bundle of bluebells, a white horse against a backdrop of green, the gray stones of Brennan House, the smell of the sea on a cold Irish morning. She recalled the whinny of a stallion, the breeze as it whistled through blades of glass, her father’s voice as it resounded through the walls of the parlor, and Lucius’ violin as it wept only hours before, assuaging the fear of this present woe.

  These were things worth imagining.

  The minutes slipped into hours, and the hours slipped into morning, which remained as still as night, for none but the infirm were yet induced to leave their staterooms. More had become ill, and none had yet recovered. As the newly afflicted joined the chorus of the dying, other voices embraced the silence of eternal sleep. Thus the morning slipped into afternoon, and the afternoon slipped into the second evening, and Evelyn did not see another soul that was not tormented by the cholera.

  She was hungry. She was thirsty. But unlike the men around her, she was still well.

  She examined herself periodically. Was that a fit of nausea? No, just a stab of hunger. Was that a spasm? No, her back only ached for want of an altered position. Her head hurt, but only on account of mild dehydration, and she felt she had no right to complain of such minute ailments in comparison to the anguish around her.

  She wondered where Josephine had gone. At the time when the maid fled the cabin, the cholera had only taken victims in steerage. Perhaps that was where she remained, and God only knew if she was still well. If she proved not to be immune, if she had fallen ill, none of her party would know, and she could very well die.

  Evelyn forced herself not to think of it. Adele seemed to believe the girl was invincible, and Evelyn must take comfort in the stronger woman’s faith.

  She did not know the hour, but it was late in the second night when Lucius stirred. He vomited with such force as to be thrust into a sitting position, but very little came from his mouth, for he had little left to purge. What did remain was escaping through the lower half of his body.

  When he sank back against the floorboards, Evelyn noticed the dark, pooling cracks along his lips.

  “Lucius,” she whispered, “your lips are bleeding.”

  Lucius’ tongue felt like cotton, and he could not swallow without the distinct sensation that his throat was ripping.

  “My mouth is dry,” he told her, surprised at the effort required to speak. Again he yearned for sleep.

  “You must drink something,” Evelyn insisted.

  “I cannot. It will only come back up.”

  Evelyn shook her head.

  “You must. You are losing too much fluid.”

  She looked around for the basin she had brought from the stateroom. She cursed herself, for it was empty. In her urgency, she had not thought of filling it before coming to Lucius’ aid.

  “I need to find you something to drink,” she told him. “I will return shortly.”

  Before he could protest, she rose to leave and felt a slight weight at the bottom of her nightdress.

  It was soiled with Lucius’ refuse.

  Her nerves thoroughly devastated, she nearly ran from him. But the hall was poorly lit, and she tripped over several of the infirm, many of whom seemed not to notice. She muttered apologies, her body trembling with the need to flee this sordid nightmare.

  She felt as though she could not move fast enough, as though her feet were dragging, as though her legs had turned to rubber. Yet her heart beat rapidly, her breath came fast and ragged, and the doors on either side of the hall began to pass in a blur. Her body adjusted to the challenges of flying in the dark, and soon she was not tripping or apologizing, but running as though the cholera itself was on her heels. And maybe it was.

  She hurried to the nearest source of water, her chest tight and exploding for want of air. She held out her basin and lifted the pump, but when the handle came down, no water came out.

  “What?” she cried. “No!”

  There must be water. There must!

  Nearby, a shadow moved. Evelyn screamed and dropped the basin.

  “They’ve rationed it,” the shadow spoke. It was a man, who sat against the wall and peered at her from under heavy eyelids. “They only allot so much an evening. With all the madness afoot, we run dry hours ago.”

  He lifted a flagon to his lips and took a sip.

  Evelyn recovered at the sight of him drinking and reached out a desperate hand.

  “What is that you have there?” she asked.

  The man swallowed.

  “Oh, this?”

  He was playing stupid, and Evelyn had to restrain herself from causing him some vicious form of bodily harm.

  “Your drink,” she clarified, the words forced through her teeth.

  The man examined his flagon as if he had not the faintest clue what was in it.

  “Ain’t nothin’ but a spot o’ wine,” he seemed to decide.

  Evelyn did not know if wine could help Lucius, but she did not wish to waste any time figuring it out.

  “I’ll take it!” she cried.

  The man clutched the flagon to his side, away from view.

  “I wasn’t offerin’ it, miss,” he grumbled.

  “But I will pay you!” Evelyn demanded, her voice shrill with desperation.

  He leaned forward, and the light from the nearest lamp illuminated half his face. He was a dirty, greasy, bloated individual, probably somewhere in his forties, and his expression was one Evelyn recognized all too well.

  “And if I don’t want money?” he muttered suggestively.

  In that moment, Evelyn knew she was capable of murder. But seeing as throttling this low-life would take too much precious time, she settled for placing her hands upon her hips.

  “Now you listen, you selfish, hoarding filth. People are dying! I offer naught but money and the very slight chance that you might redeem your soul with this one measly sacrifice. Do we have a transaction or not?”

  He had the audacity to look offended.

  “Don’t blow your bloomers, Princess. I ain’t touched a woman since we got on this blasted ship. Have mercy on me. I ain’t asking for much.”

  “You disgust me.”

  Evelyn spun on her heel. She could not waste another second arguing with this insufferable creature. She must find Lucius something to drink, even if she had to go looking in the very bowels of the ship.

  She had only taken a step before the man jumped to his feet and followed after her.

  “I’ll give it to you for fifteen!”

  She turned to face him and nearly knocked her head against his.

  “Fifteen dollars!” she exclaimed. “That is ludicrous!”

  “That’s my price. But give us a kiss and I’ll give it to ya for ten.”

  Evelyn snatched the flagon.

  “I will have the purser deliver fifteen dollars to your room, Mr.…”

  “I ain’t got a room, miss.”

  Of course he didn’t.

  “Then you may retrieve it from his office on another day! Good night!”

  The man yelled after her.

  “If you don’t make good on this deal, harlot, I’ll have you put in the brig!”

  “Just you try, you ra
t!” she shouted back.

  As Evelyn stole away, she opened the flagon and smelled the wine. It was sour and there were no more than a few sips remaining.

  “Bloody pig,” she muttered.

  By the time she returned to Lucius, he was again unconscious.

  “Lucius,” she called, setting the flagon upon the floor and fumbling for her oils. She waved one beneath his nose.

  “Wake up, Lucius. I’m back, and I’ve brought you some wine.”

  His lids did not flutter.

  “Lucius!”

  Nothing.

  She waited, watching him, pacing the floor once, then twice. He was utterly wasted, and she did not know what was more essential for him now. Sleep, or drink?

  Perhaps it was better not to wake him. The past twenty-four hours had been murder on his body, and even in the darkness, he looked wretched. Some more rest might do him well, might even prevent him from further bouts of sickness.

  Evelyn decided to wait for him to wake on his own. She had the wine. When he woke, she would have him drink immediately. But until then, she could do nothing but watch over him, and wait until he stirred once more.

  She felt weary, for her adrenaline had begun to wane, and she was beginning to stagger on her feet. When was the last time she had slept? Eaten? Drunk? It did not feel as though any of those pleasant refreshments had taken place in her lifetime. This was her life now. Dismal, dark, and miserable. Her tongue felt cottony from lack of water. Even the wine- sour, spoiled, and ancient- was somewhat appealing. She forced herself to refrain from drinking what she hoped would be Lucius’ elixir.

  Too exhausted now to even cry, she sank against the wall opposite Lucius and prayed that they may yet see the light of a new day.

  She did not know when or how it happened. If she had been in a normal state of mind, nothing in the world could have induced her to sleep there. But somehow, she did, to the lullaby of sick and dying men.

  Some hours passed during her unexpected slumber. The bottom half of her body had fallen asleep, and her neck ached because her head had fallen sideways while she slept.

  Lucius had not moved since she last looked at him, though his body had purged more precious liquids. She was furious that she had fallen asleep, and she was concerned that Lucius might be malnourished beyond repair.