A Season to Be Sinful

by Jo Goodman

  “Do you say prayers for your Miss Rose?” Sherry asked. “They could certainly do no harm.” Their silence did not trouble him; their guilty exchange of glances did. “What is it?”

  Midge bent his head and stared at his hands. “Lily,” he said.

  “Midge!” Pinch snapped at him.

  “Midge!” Dash cried.

  “Midge?” Sherry asked softly. “What is this about Lily?”

  Pinch and Dash tried to talk over him, but Sherry wouldn’t let them. Squeezing cool water from a wet cloth, he quelled them with a glance. “Say what you like, Midge.”

  The boy looked neither right nor left at his friends but directly at Sherry. “’Er name is Lily. It is ’er own name, ’er secret name. Not many know it, but God does, and we should use it proper when we talk to ’Im.”

  “Lily.” Sheridan looked from Midge’s earnest face to the young woman’s deeply flushed one. Beads of perspiration were visible above her lip. The impossibly dark hair lay damp against her scalp and forehead. “Lily,” he repeated, and permitted himself a small smile as he wiped her brow and an errant thought crossed his mind.

  “’Ere now, wot’s this?” Pinch demanded, his dark eyes narrowing on Sheridan’s smile. “Wot’s amusin’ about ’er name?”

  “Not a thing, Master Pinch. I was thinking that Shakespeare was in the right of it when he penned, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ ”

  Pinch frowned deeply as he considered the import of what Sheridan was saying.

  Sherry was careful not to allow his smile to deepen. “It means that whether Rose or Lily, she is still the same person.”

  “Oh, I understood that well enough. It was wot you said about ’er smellin’ sweet that didn’t set right wi’ me.”

  Sherry’s sudden bark of laughter caused all three boys to rear back in surprise. In turn, their wide-eyed, open-mouthed expressions made it difficult for him to rein in his amusement. For Sherry, there was no clearer indication of how tired he was than to have to work at tempering his laughter. It required looking down at Lily to sober him. There was nothing about her condition that invited amusement, and her gravely still features and the protective hovering of the boys was a forceful reminder.

  He bent his head to feel her breath on his cheek. At this angle he could once again make out the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

  “Is she all right?” Dash asked. “I mean, she’s not—”

  “She’s sleeping,” Sherry told him. He had no better description for her condition. “If you boys want to remain here, then bring the bedding Ponsonby gave you. You can make pallets on the floor. There is nothing more to be done until Dunnet returns with the medicine.” Sherry hoped they would be sleeping soundly by then and would not have to witness her agony of feeling as he applied it. “Go on. I’m not going to leave her.”

  As proof of that, Sherry moved the basin and decanter from the bed to the nearby table, tucked the covers about her, then eased himself into the rocker at her side.

  The boys ran off to gather their bedding, and Sherry prepared himself to begin another death watch.

  She was floating in a sea of cream and white silk. Her body was weightless. She drifted without direction. Her hair fanned out around her like the radiant red rays of dawn. It rippled and dipped on the undulating tide of the milky sea.

  She let herself be carried away by the slow-moving current. Turning. Bobbling. There was nothing to stop her. Nothing that could stop her. She was insubstantial, a spirit now free of her corporeal self.

  It was curious to her that she could sense this so clearly, still more curious that she could observe it at the same time. It was as if she had two perspectives at once: one from within and one from above.

  Thinking about it disturbed the flow, and for few moments she bumped along unevenly. It ended only when she set her mind at peace again and allowed herself to be carried away. Her brief exposure to the turbulence had placed the fullness of understanding in her mind. There was a direction she was taking. Her journey had a purpose.

  All that was required of her to be on her way was that she not resist.

  Bloody hell.

  Lily sucked in great draughts of air as she tried to catch her breath. She coughed, choked, and thought she would finally retch in an effort to clear her lungs for the air she needed. Her body ached. There was no part of her that did not feel battered or bruised, but it was under her ribs that she felt as if she’d been skewered with the heated end of a poker.

  She drew her knees up and bowed her head. She would happily become a hedgehog and reveal only her prickles, never the soft underside of her belly. Had she ever promised herself that before? She thought she might have. She thought she might have broken her promise.

  She was weak willed, she realized, without the resolve that marked a person of good character. Already she was thinking about the currents of heavy cream and how she would let them carry her away if she could find them again. She would drift toward the light if she could catch that tide a second time.

  The tide she caught was one of pain. There was nothing for it but that she ride it out. Her dry lips parted on the sound of her gasp. She thought there might be tears, but none came. That made her feel better, stronger somehow. She could manage as long as she did not give in to tears. There was some part of her that recognized it as a sea she could drown in.

  Lily’s eyelashes fluttered, then lifted. A sliver of sunlight was revealed by a narrow part in the curtains. Her eyes followed the beam of light to the floor where it brightened a patch of burnished gold fringe on the area rug. She contemplated the light and the fringe and the rug for a long moment before allowing her vision to broaden and absorb far more of her surroundings.

  Below the bank of windows a niche was carved out for an upholstered bench. Its blue-gray damask covering matched the curtains there and the ones drawn back at the head of her bed. The fabric was embossed with a swirling pattern of willow leaves that the light breeze from an open window seemed to set in motion.

  The room’s wainscoting was a darker shade of walnut than its appointments. The top of the vanity was neatly arranged with several small crystal perfume bottles, an intricately tiled wooden box, and a vase filled with a spray of freshly cut lilacs. An oil painting of a grand country estate in summer, vibrant with its verdant hillside and halcyon sky, had been placed above the mantelpiece, a position of some honor in the room.

  There was an escritoire situated against the wall near the windows. Books and figurines were kept in the glass case above the desk. From the middle shelf, a porcelain doll peered out, her head cocked at an angle so that her painted expression made her seem at once wise and amused.

  Lily returned the doll’s stare and foolishly wondered if she had a name. Perhaps she had once, but she probably had not been called by it for a very long time. The thought made her unaccountably sad, and she recognized the ache at the back of her eyes for what it was. She blinked, pressing tears back, and settled her gaze on the scattering of paper and quills on the desktop. A few crumpled sheets of vellum lay on the floor, the evidence of a writer’s frustrated attempts at expression.

  The pair of wing chairs in front of the fireplace had been pushed together so they faced each other and their cushions formed a small bed. Midge was sleeping deeply there in spite of the awkwardness of his repose. One leg dangled over the arm of the chair. An elbow jutted in the air. His neck was bent at an angle not so different from the doll’s.

  Pinch and Dash shared a pallet on the floor beside him. They were sprawled across the covers, not under them—one on his back, the other facedown—and the tangle of limbs and blankets made it almost impossible to put parts to the right boy.

  “They shined up nicely, don’t you think?”

  Lily nodded slowly. Since waking she had avoided looking too closely beside her. She was aware of the rocking chair, the moment it ceased to move, the moment its occupant left it behind to sit on
the edge of the bed. She ignored his weight reshaping the mattress and the way he turned to balance himself, angling his knee and hip closer, but she found it impossible to disregard his presence when he spoke to her. She remembered that voice, the quiet cadence of it, the husky undertone that tripped lightly down her spine like a delicious shiver.

  She remembered, too, when it had been fierce, not angry, but insistent. The cursing had been his, not hers, but somehow he had given sound to what she had been thinking.

  Bloody hell.

  Lily turned her head and stared at him, as wary as she was curious. He did not so much return her regard as present himself for her inspection. She took full advantage, letting her gaze wander over his thick, dark head of hair, a disheveled thatch now from repeatedly plowing his fingers through it. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, a near match for his hair. Above them rested nicely spaced eyebrows, one lifted a fraction higher than the other to affect . . . what? she wondered. What was it she observed there? Amusement? Satisfaction? Interest? Contemplation?

  Her eyes dropped to his nose. He turned slightly, purposely, she thought, so she could see its curve in profile. He held the pose just so, as though his likeness had been struck on a coin. He seemed to be well aware the aquiline appendage had that sort of stature. The light self-mockery in the gesture made her think well of him, though it simply hurt too much to smile.

  He had no such difficulty, she noticed. It was no broad smile, but his mouth was lifted sufficiently at the corners to draw attention to it. She studied the placement of his lips, equidistant of his nose and chin, generous enough in their line to be called sensual.

  It was a handsome face that he revealed unselfconsciously to her, the features bold but not aggressive. His shoulders were broad rather than heavy, and he sat with a certain casualness of posture that she decided he did not indulge in often. It was not that it was out of character, she thought, but that it was an aspect of his character not often expressed.

  A flight of fancy on her part, Lily knew, to draw such a conclusion on so little evidence. Here, then, was an aspect of her own self revealed, the slightly whimsical, romantic side that was not out of character but nevertheless was ruthlessly suppressed. Lest he see it for himself, she turned her head away and let her cheek rest once again on the pillow.

  She regarded the children again. None of them had been disturbed by her movement or his. Their faces were scrubbed free of dirt; their hair shone. They wore clean white nightshirts that swallowed them in a cloud of soft cotton. Their features were untroubled, even serene. It was an expression she’d hoped to see on their faces and had despaired that it could ever be so.

  “I did not know they could sleep so soundly,” she said. Getting the words out was harder than she expected. Her throat felt as if it were filled with gravel.

  Sherry reached for the tumbler of water on the bedside table. “Drink this.” He slipped one hand under her hair and gently helped her raise her head. He pressed the glass against her bottom lip and tipped it so she could sip. “They’ve finally exhausted themselves.”

  The same could be said of him, she realized, though he had not yet surrendered to it. There were faint shadows under his nearly black eyes and darker ones along his jaw because he had neglected to shave.

  Sherry set the glass down and eased her back onto the pillow. “I was not certain you would come around again.”

  “Again?”

  “We spoke before. Do you remember?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, urging the memory to come forward.

  “No matter,” Sherry said. “It will come in time. In any event, more than a sennight has passed since then.”

  “A sennight. Can it have been so long?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I assure you, I have no reason to lie.” He picked up a damp cloth from the table and used it to erase perspiration from her face. The unnatural flush of fever was gone from her features, and the translucency had returned to her complexion. Her eyes, though, were sharp and intelligent, evincing strength where she’d had none before. “May I examine your injury?”

  Lily’s hand strayed under the covers to the site of her sharpest pain. She laid her palm over the bandage protectively.

  “I have seen it before,” he said. “Nevertheless, if you like, the examination can wait until the arrival of the physician. He usually attends you late in the morning.”

  “Then you are not a physician.”

  Amused, he shook his head. “Lord, no. I haven’t the constitution for it nor any appreciation of the quackery. Dr. Harris has seen to your care. I have merely seen that his care didn’t kill you.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lower lip.

  “A little while ago I thought you would leave us,” Sherry said. He would not press to examine her, though if her reluctance was rooted in modesty, he did not understand it. “It seemed the fever would carry you away.” He raised his hands, palms out. “Then it broke. Snapped like a dry stick.”

  “You cursed,” she said, recalling the voice that had spoken for her. “You said, ‘bloody hell.’ ”

  “I probably did, though I have no recollection of it. I imagine I said a lot of things in the frustration of the moment. You have not been an easy patient, you know. After so long, it seemed rather ungrateful that you would give up.” He indicated the sleeping children. “I should not have liked to face them.”

  “Then you should not have given them hope.”

  Sherry blinked. Her response was not what he had supposed it would be. She was clearly leveling an accusation at him. “You are of a practical nature, then.”

  She shrugged, then winced as the movement caused her to recall all the ways her body ached. “Some things in life are better met if one knows no better.”

  “Ahh,” he said thoughtfully. “You make the case for lowering expectations.”

  “Surely it is a reasonable safeguard against disappointment.”

  “Perhaps,” Sherry said, rising to his feet. He dropped the damp cloth back into the basin, then loosely tied the belt of his robe. “The last time you woke we spoke of a knife you said you didn’t have. Now we touch on matters of philosophy. You have curious conversational gambits.” He watched her eyes widen and waited to see if she would say anything. When she didn’t, he went on, “You are tired. More than that, you are weak. For all that you have done nothing but lie abed since you were injured, I think it will still require rest for you to regain your strength. I will return later to see how you fare, but for now, I am for my own bed.” Under his breath, he added, “Finally.”

  Lily had only a vague memory of the physician’s visit, but she supposed he had truly been to see her since it was dusk now and she had been told he attended her in the morning. She did not think he spoke to her but made a brisk examination, which included some prodding and a bit of pain, then addressed his questions and comments to others present in the room. She was not certain who joined him, except that none of them was Pinch, Dash, or Midge.

  She eased herself into a sitting position, rested for a time against the headboard, then slipped her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet dangled a good three inches above the floor. There was a stool nearby but not close enough for her to reach. She supposed that if she planted her feet and her legs would not support her, the worst that would happen was that she would fall back on the bed. She did not anticipate listing to starboard so quickly and with so much force. She managed to wrap her arms around one of the bedposts and hang on until the world righted again and the wave of nausea passed.

  It was her experience that channel crossings were not so difficult as negotiating her way to the chamber pot.

  When she was finished making water, Lily rested on the stool beside the commode. The dressing room also held a large armoire and a hip bath, both of which she regarded with a sudden surge of yearning that was as powerful as hunger. With difficulty and no little resentment, she squashed it. It was as she had told her host: some things were better met if o
ne didn’t know better.

  Using the commode to brace herself, Lily rose to her feet once more. She caught her reflection in the mirror before she turned away. Someone had washed the blacking from her hair, and now dark copper curls framed her face. The smudges she had made across her eyebrows had also vanished. She had always hated the paste in her hair, but now that it was gone she felt uncomfortably exposed. How long had others been looking at her as she was now? It seemed wrong—a violation of her person—that she’d had no choice in how they saw her.

  Lily wondered what else they had seen. She drew up the hem of her nightgown with her fingertips until it was bunched just below her breasts. Glancing in the mirror, she realized that she was not tall enough to view her injury. The stool she’d been sitting on was too high, but the one by the bed was exactly right. She tottered back to the bed, retrieved the stool, then returned to the dressing room. After setting it firmly on the floor in front of the commode, Lily stepped on it and judged herself to be at the right height. She raised her nightgown again and regarded herself in the mirror.

  Her first thought was that it was surprisingly small for the pain it had caused. It could not be more than two inches in length. The stitches were neat, exact. She remembered Blue had closed it up once, giving her a good cuff on the chin when she had called him all manner of foul names. Well, good for Blue, she thought, but these weren’t his stitches. She’d been sewn up again, though she had not the memory of it. Perhaps she’d been walloped hard before she got around to calling this tailor names.

  She ran a finger along its length. The skin was puckered around the threads, reddened a bit, but she could see for herself that the flesh was knitting. That was good, then. She’d be able to leave soon enough, with her legs firmly under her, instead of her arse.