Just Like Heaven (12 page)

She kept up her work, carefully cleaning his wound, then paused to stretch her neck from side to side. She looked down at the cloth in her hands. It was still disgusting, but she wasn't bothered by it any longer.

“There, you see,” she said to him. “It must mean I am getting better at this.”

She thought she was doing better, too. She was trying to be so very matter-of-fact and practical, but then, out of nowhere, right after she so jauntily declared that she was getting better at “this,” a huge choking sound burst from her throat. It was part gasp, part hideous wheeze, and it surprised her completely.

Marcus could
die
. The reality of this slammed into her with smothering force. He could die, and then she would be truly alone. It wasn't even as if they'd seen much of each other in recent years, except for the past few weeks, of course.

But she'd always known he was there. The world was simply a better place, knowing that he was in it.

And now he might die. She'd be lost without him. How had she not realized that?

“Honoria!”

Honoria turned. It was her mother, bursting through the door.

“I came as quickly as I could,” Lady Winstead said, hurrying across the room. Then she saw Marcus's leg. “Oh, my God.”

Honoria felt another one of those gaspy, wheezing noises blowing up within her. There was something about seeing her mother, about her mother seeing Marcus. It was like the time when she was twelve, and she'd fallen off her horse. She'd thought she was fine; she'd walked all the way home, bruised and achy, her face bleeding where she'd scratched it against a rock.

And then she'd seen her mother, and her mother's expression, and she'd started to bawl.

It was the same thing. She wanted to bawl. Dear God, all she wanted to do was push back and turn away and cry and cry and cry.

But she couldn't. Marcus needed her. He needed her to be calm. And capable. “Mrs. Wetherby is getting hot water,” she told her mother. “She should be back soon.”

“Good. We'll need lots of it. And brandy. And a knife.”

Honoria looked at her mother with surprise. She sounded as if she knew what she was doing. Her mother.

“The doctor is going to want to take off the leg,” Lady Winstead said grimly.

“What
?” Honoria hadn't even considered that.

“And he may be right.”

Honoria's heart stopped beating. Until her mother said, “But not yet.”

Honoria stared at her mother in shock. She could not remember the last time she'd heard her speak with such decisiveness. When Daniel had fled the country, he'd taken a piece of their mother with him. She'd been utterly lost, unable to commit herself to anything or anyone, even her daughter. It was almost as if she could not bring herself to make any decisions, because to do so would mean that she accepted her life as it now was, with her only son gone, possibly forever.

But maybe all she had needed was a reason to wake up. A critical moment.

Maybe she'd needed to be needed.

“Stand back,” Lady Winstead said, pushing up her sleeves.

Honoria stepped aside, trying to ignore the tiny pang of jealousy that flared to life within her. Hadn't
she
needed her mother?

“Honoria?”

She looked at her mother, who was watching her with an expectant expression. “Sorry,” Honoria mumbled, holding out the cloth in her hand. “Do you want this?”

“A clean one, please.”

“Of course.” Honoria rushed to do her mother's bidding, further depleting Marcus's supply of underthings.

Her mother took the cloth, then looked at it with a confused expression. “What is . . .”

“It was all I could find,” Honoria explained. “And I thought time was of the essence.”

“It is,” her mother confirmed. She looked up, her eyes meeting Honoria's with grave directness. “I have seen this before,” she said, her shaky breath the only sign of nerves. “Your father. On his shoulder. It was before you were born.”

“What happened?”

Her mother looked back at Marcus's leg, narrowing her eyes as she examined the wound. “See if you can shed more light on this.” And then, while Honoria went to the windows to pull the curtains fully open, she said, “I don't even know how he cut himself. Just that it became horribly infected.” Very softly, she added, “Almost as bad as this.”

“But he was fine,” Honoria said, returning to her mother's side. This was a story to which she knew the ending. Her father had had two perfectly strong arms until the day he died.

Her mother gave a nod. “We were very lucky. The first doctor wanted to amputate. And I—” Her voice broke, and it was a moment before she continued. “I would have let him do it. I was so concerned for your father's life.” She used the clean cloth to dab at Marcus's leg, trying to get a better look. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft. “I would have done anything they told me to.”

“Why didn't they take his arm?” Honoria asked quietly.

Her mother let out a short puff of a breath, as if expelling a bad memory. “Your father demanded to see another doctor. He told me that if the second agreed with the first, he would do as they asked. But he was not cutting off his arm because one man told him to.”

“The second one said they didn't have to?”

Her mother let out a grim chuckle. “No, he said he almost certainly would have to cut it off. But he told your father they could try cleaning the wound first.
Really
cleaning it.”

“That's what I've been doing,” Honoria said in a rush. “I've got quite a bit of the infection out, I think.”

“It's a good start,” her mother said. “But . . .” She swallowed.

“But what?”

Her mother kept her attention firmly on Marcus's wound, pressing it lightly with the cloth as she examined. She did not look at Honoria when she said in a very low voice, “The doctor said that if your father wasn't screaming, we weren't cleaning it well enough.”

“Do you remember what he did?” Honoria whispered.

Lady Winstead nodded. “Everything,” she said softly.

Honoria waited for more. And then she wished she hadn't.

Her mother finally looked up. “We're going to have to tie him down.”

Chapter Ten

I
t took less than ten minutes to turn Marcus's bedroom into a makeshift operating theater. Mrs. Wetherby returned with hot water and a supply of clean cloths. Two footmen were instructed to tie Marcus tightly to the bed, which they did, despite the horror that showed clearly on their faces.

Her mother asked for scissors. The sharpest, smallest pair they had. “I need to cut away the dead skin,” she told Honoria, tiny lines of determination forming at the corners of her mouth. “I watched the doctor do it with your father.”

“But did
you
do it?” Honoria asked.

Her mother looked her in the eye, then turned away. “No.”

“Oh.” Honoria swallowed. There didn't seem to be anything else that could possibly serve as a reply.

“It's not difficult as long as one can control one's nerves,” her mother said. “One doesn't need to be terribly precise.”

Honoria looked at Marcus, then back at her mother, mouth agape. “Not precise? What do you mean? It's his leg!”

“I realize that,” her mother replied. “But I promise you, it won't hurt him if I cut away too much.”

“Not
hurt
—”

“Well, of course it will hurt.” Lady Winstead looked down at Marcus with an expression of regret. “That's why we had to tie him down. But it will do no permanent damage. It's better to cut away too much than too little. It is absolutely essential that we eliminate all of the infection.”

Honoria nodded. It made sense. It was gruesome, but it made sense.

“I'm going to get started now,” her mother told her. “There is much I can do even without the scissors.”

“Of course.” Honoria watched as Lady Winstead sat at Marcus's side and dipped a cloth in the steaming water. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Honoria asked, feeling rather ineffectual at the foot of the bed.

“Sit on the other side,” her mother answered. “Near his head. Talk to him. He might find comfort in it.”

Honoria wasn't so sure that Marcus found comfort in anything she did, but she knew
she
would find comfort in it. Anything would be better than standing around like an idiot, doing absolutely nothing.

“Hello, Marcus,” she said, pulling the chair close to the bed.

She didn't expect him to answer, and indeed, he did not.

“You're quite sick, you know,” she continued, trying to keep her voice bright and happy, even if her words were not. She swallowed, then continued in the brightest voice she could manage, “But it turns out that my mother is a bit of an expert at this sort of thing. Isn't that remarkable?” She looked over at her mother with a swelling sense of pride. “I must confess, I had no idea she knew such things.” She leaned down and murmured in his ear, “I rather thought she was the sort who would faint at the sight of blood.”

“I heard that,” her mother said.

Honoria gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. But—”

“There is no need to apologize.” Her mother glanced over at her with a wry smile before resuming her work. When she spoke, however, she did not look up. “I have not always been as . . .”

There was a hint of a pause, just enough for Honoria to realize that her mother was not quite sure what to say.

“As resolute as you may have needed me to be,” Lady Winstead finally finished.

Honoria sat very still, sucking in her upper lip as she let her mother's words settle upon her. It was an apology, just as much as if her mother had actually said the words
I'm sorry.

But it was also a request. Her mother did not want to discuss it any further. It had been difficult enough just to say what she did. And so Honoria accepted the apology in exactly the manner her mother hoped she would. She turned back to Marcus and said—

“Anyway, I don't think anyone thought to look at your leg. The cough, you know. The doctor thought that was the cause of the fever.”

Marcus let out a little cry of pain. Honoria glanced quickly down toward her mother, who was now working with the scissors Mrs. Wetherby had brought. She'd opened them fully and was pointing one end toward Marcus's leg like a scalpel. With one fluid motion, her mother made a long cut, right down the middle of the wound.

“He didn't even flinch,” Honoria said with surprise.

Her mother didn't look up. “That's not the painful part.”

“Oh,” Honoria said, turning back to Marcus. “Well. See, that wasn't so bad.”

He screamed.

Honoria's head snapped back up just in time to see her mother handing a bottle of brandy back to a footman.

“Very well,
that
was bad,” she said to Marcus. “But the good news is it's unlikely to get much worse.”

He screamed again.

Honoria swallowed. Her mother had adjusted the scissors and was now actually trimming away bits of tissue.

“Very well,” she said again, giving his shoulder a little pat. “It might not get better, either. The truth is, I have no idea. But I shall be here with you the whole time. I promise.”

“This is worse than I thought,” her mother said, mostly to herself.

“Can you fix it?” Honoria asked.

“I don't know. I can try. It's just . . .” Lady Winstead paused, letting out a long, low breath through pursed lips. “Can someone wipe my brow?”

Honoria started to rise, but Mrs. Wetherby leapt into action, dabbing Lady Winstead's face with a cool cloth.

“It's so hot in here,” Lady Winstead said.

“We were told to keep the windows shut,” Mrs. Wetherby explained. “The doctor insisted.”

“The same doctor who did not notice this massive injury to his leg?” Lady Winstead asked sharply.

Mrs. Wetherby did not reply. But she did move to the window to open it partway.

Honoria watched her mother intently, barely able to recognize this focused, determined woman. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

Her mother looked up. “I am not going to let this boy die.”

He wasn't a boy any longer, but Honoria was not surprised that her mother still thought of him as such.

Lady Winstead returned to her work and said, in a very low voice, “I owe it to Daniel.”

Honoria went absolutely still. It was the first time she had heard her mother utter his name since he'd left the country in disgrace. “Daniel?” she echoed, her voice even and careful.

Her mother did not look up. “I've lost one son already” was all she said.

Honoria stared at her mother in shock, then down at Marcus, and then back up. She had not realized her mother had thought of him that way. And she wondered if Marcus knew, because . . .

She looked down at him again, trying to choke back her tears as quietly as possible. He'd spent his whole life longing for a family. Had he even realized that he'd had one in hers?

“Do you need to take a break?” her mother asked.

“No,” Honoria answered, shaking her head even though her mother was not looking at her. “No. I'm quite all right.” She took a moment to compose herself, then bent to whisper in Marcus's ear. “Did you hear that? Mama is quite determined. So don't disappoint her.” She stroked his hair, pushing a thick, dark lock off his forehead. “Or me.”

“Aaaargh!”

Honoria flinched, thrown back by his cry. Every now and then her mother would do something that hurt him more than usual, and his entire body bucked against the strips of cloth they'd used to tie him down. It was awful to see, and even worse to feel. It was as if his pain shot through her.

Except it didn't hurt. It just made her feel sick. Sick to her stomach. Sick with herself. It was her fault he'd stepped in that stupid fake mole hole, her fault that he'd twisted his ankle. It was her fault they'd had to cut off his boot, and her fault he was so sick because of it.

And if he died, it would be her fault, too.

She swallowed, trying to quell the choking lump that was forming in her throat, and she leaned a little closer to say, “I'm so sorry. I could never even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

Marcus went quite still, and for a breathless moment Honoria thought he had heard her. But then she realized it was only because her mother had paused in her work. It was her mother who had heard her words, not Marcus. But if her mother was curious, she did not pursue it. She did not ask for the meaning of Honoria's apology, just gave a little nod and went back to work.

“I am thinking that when you are better you should come to London,” Honoria went on, fixing her voice back into a facsimile of good cheer. “If nothing else, you will need a new pair of boots. Maybe something of a looser fit. It's not the style, I know, but perhaps you can set a new trend.”

He flinched.

“Or we could remain in the country. Skip the season. I know I told you I was desperate to marry this year, but—” She cast a surreptitious glance at her mother, then leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “My mother seems suddenly quite different. I think I can manage another year in her company. And twenty-two is not so very old for marriage.”

“You're twenty-one,” her mother said, not looking up.

Honoria froze. “How much of what I said did you hear?”

“Just the last bit.”

Honoria had no idea if her mother was telling the truth. But they seemed to have a tacit agreement not to ask questions, so Honoria decided to respond by saying, “I meant that if I don't marry until next year, when I am twenty-two, I shall not mind.”

“It will mean another year with the family quartet,” her mother said with a smile. And not a devious smile. A completely sincere, completely encouraging smile.

Honoria wondered, not for the first time, if her mother might be just a little bit deaf.

“I'm sure your cousins will be glad to have you for another year,” Lady Winstead continued. “When you leave, Harriet will have to take your place, and she's really still a bit young. I don't think she's even sixteen yet.”

“Not until September,” Honoria confirmed. Her cousin Harriet—Sarah's younger sister—was quite possibly the worst musician in the Smythe-Smith family. And that was really saying quite a lot.

“I think she might need a little more practice,” Lady Winstead said with a grimace. “Poor girl. She just can't seem to get the hang of it. It must be difficult for her, with such a musical family.”

Honoria tried not to gape at her. “Well,” she said, perhaps a little desperately, “she does seem to prefer pantomimes.”

“It's hard to believe there is no one to play the violin between you and Harriet,” Lady Winstead remarked. She frowned, squinting down at Marcus's leg, then set back to work.

“Just Daisy,” Honoria replied, referring to yet another cousin, this one from a different branch of the family, “but she's already been drafted into service now that Viola has married.”

“Drafted?” her mother echoed with a tinkle of laughter. “You make it sound as if it's a chore.”

Honoria paused for just a moment, trying not to let her mouth fall open. Or laugh. Or perhaps cry. “Of course not,” she finally managed to say. “I adore the quartets.”

That much was true. She loved practicing with her cousins, even if she had to stuff her ears with wads of cotton ahead of time. It was just the performances that were awful.

Or, as Sarah was wont to put it, horrific.

Ghastly.

Apocalyptic.

(Sarah always did have a bit of a tendency toward hyperbole.)

But for some reason Honoria never did take the embarrassment personally, and she was able to keep a smile on her face the entire time. And when she touched her bow to her instrument, she did so with gusto. Her family was watching, after all, and it meant so much to them.

“Well, anyway,” she said, trying to bring the conversation back to the previous topic, which was now so “previous” that it took her a moment to remember what it was, “I'm sure I won't skip the season. I was just talking. Making conversation.” She swallowed. “Babbling, really.”

“It is better to marry a good man than to rush into a disaster,” her mother said, sounding terribly sage. “Your sisters all found good husbands.”

Honoria agreed, even if her brothers-in-law were not generally the sort of men to whom she might find herself attracted. But they treated their wives with respect, every last one of them.

“They did not all marry in their first season, either,” Lady Winstead added, not looking up from her work.

“True, but I believe they all did by the end of their second.”

“Is that so?” Her mother looked up and blinked. “I suppose you're right. Even Henrietta . . . ? Well, yes, I suppose she did, right at the end.” She turned back to her task. “You'll find someone. I'm not worried.”

Honoria let out a little snort. “I'm glad
you're
not.”

“I'm not sure what happened last year. I truly thought Travers would propose. Or if not him, then Lord Fotheringham.”

Honoria shook her head. “I have no idea. I thought they would, too. Lord Bailey in particular seemed quite keen. But then, all of a sudden . . . nothing. It was as if they lost interest overnight.” She shrugged and looked back down at Marcus. “Maybe it's for the best. What do you think, Marcus? You didn't much like any of them, I think.” She sighed. “Not that that has anything to do with it, but I suppose I value your opinion.” She let out a tiny snort of laughter. “Can you believe I just said that?”

He turned his head.

“Marcus?” Was he awake? She peered down at him more closely, searching his face for some sign of . . . anything.

“What is it?” her mother asked.

“I'm not certain. He moved his head. I mean, of course he's done that before, but this was different.” She squeezed his shoulder, praying that he could feel her through the haze of his fever. “Marcus? Can you hear me?”