Just Like Heaven (13 page)

His lips, dry and cracked, moved the tiniest bit. “Hon— Hon—”

Oh, thank God.

“Don't speak,” she said. “It's all right.”

“Hurts,” he gasped. “Like the . . . devil.”

“I know. I know. I'm so sorry.”

“Is he conscious?” her mother asked.

“Barely.” Honoria stretched her arm down along the bed so that she could take Marcus's hand. She laced her fingers through his and held tight. “You have a terrible cut on your leg. We're trying to clean it. It's going to hurt. Rather badly, I'm afraid, but it must be done.”

He gave a small nod.

Honoria looked over at Mrs. Wetherby. “Do we have any laudanum? Perhaps we should give him some while he is able to swallow.”

“I believe so,” the housekeeper said. She had not stopped wringing her hands since she'd come back with the hot water and towels, and she looked relieved to have something to do. “I can go look right now. There is only one place it would be.”

“Good idea,” Lady Winstead said. Then she stood and moved toward the head of the bed. “Can you hear me, Marcus?”

His chin moved. Not much, but a bit.

“You're very ill,” she said.

He actually smiled.

“Yes, yes,” Lady Winstead said, smiling in return, “stating the obvious, I know. But you're going to be perfectly fine, I assure you. It's just going to be a little painful at first.”

“Little?”

Honoria felt a wobbly smile touch upon her lips. She couldn't believe that he could joke at such a moment. She was so proud of him. “We'll get you through this, Marcus,” she said, and then, before she had a clue what she was about, she leaned down and kissed his brow.

He turned again to face her, his eyes now almost fully open. His breathing was labored, and his skin was still so terribly heated. But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him there, through the fever, under the pain.

He was still Marcus, and she would not let anything happen to him.

T
hirty minutes later, Marcus's eyes were closed again, his sleep aided considerably by a dose of laudanum. Honoria had adjusted his position so that she could hold his hand, and she had kept up a steady stream of conversation. It didn't seem to matter what she said, but she was not the only one who noticed that the sound of her voice soothed him.

Or at least she hoped it did, because if it didn't, then she was utterly useless. And that was more than she could bear.

“I think we're almost finished,” she told him. She cast a wary glance at her mother, who was still working diligently at his leg. “I think we'd have to be. I can't imagine what there is left to clean.”

But her mother let out a frustrated breath and sat back, pausing to wipe her brow.

“Is there a problem?” Honoria asked.

Her mother shook her head and resumed her work, but after only a moment she pulled away. “I can't see.”

“What? No, that's impossible.” Honoria took a breath, trying to keep calm. “Just put your head closer.”

Lady Winstead shook her head. “That's not the problem. It's just like when I read. I have to hold the book away from my eyes. I just— I can't—” She let out a resigned, impatient sigh. “I just can't see it well enough. Not the small bits.”

“I'll do it,” Honoria said, her voice far more certain than the rest of her.

Her mother looked at her, but not with surprise. “It's not easy.”

“I know.”

“He might scream.”

“He already has done,” Honoria said. But her throat felt close, and her heart was pounding.

“It is harder to hear when you are the one with the scissors,” her mother said softly.

Honoria wanted to say something elegant, something heroic about how much harder it would be if he died and she hadn't done everything she could to save him. But she didn't. She couldn't. She had only so much left within her, and words were no longer the best use of her energy.

“I can do it,” was all she said.

She looked at Marcus, still bound tightly to the bed. Sometime in the past hour he'd gone from burning red to deathly pale. Was that a good sign? She'd asked her mother, but she didn't know, either.

“I can do it,” Honoria said again, even though her mother had already handed her the scissors. Lady Winstead rose from her chair, and Honoria sat down, taking a deep breath.

“One step at a time,” she said to herself, looking closely at the wound before proceeding. Her mother had shown her how to identify which tissue needed to be cut away. All she needed to do was look at one piece and trim it. And then when that was done, she'd find another.

“Cut as close to the healthy tissue as you can,” her mother said.

Honoria nodded, moving her scissors further up the wound. Gritting her teeth, she cut.

Marcus let out a moan, but he didn't wake up.

“Well done,” Lady Winstead said softly.

Honoria nodded, blinking back tears. How could such small words make her feel so emotional?

“There was a bit at the bottom I didn't get to,” her mother said. “I couldn't see the edges well enough.”

“I see it,” Honoria said grimly. She trimmed some of the dead skin, but the area still felt swollen. Taking the tip of the scissors as she'd seen her mother do, she angled them against him and punctured the tissue, allowing the yellow ooze of the infection to escape. Marcus strained against his bonds, and she whispered an apology, but she did not stop. She took a cloth and pressed hard.

“Water, please.”

Someone handed her a cup of water, and she poured it on the wound, trying so very hard not to hear Marcus moaning with pain. The water was hot, very hot, but her mother swore that it was what had saved her father all those years ago. The heat drew out the infection.

Honoria prayed she was right.

She pressed a cloth against him, soaking up the excess water. Marcus made a strange noise again, although not as wrenching as before. But then he began to shake.

“Oh, my God,” she yelped, yanking the cloth away. “What did I do to him?”

Her mother peered down with a puzzled expression. “He almost looks as if he's laughing.”

“Can we give him more laudanum?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“I don't think we should,” Honoria said. “I've heard of people not waking up when they've been given too much.”

“I really think he looks as if he's laughing,” her mother said again.

“He's not laughing,” Honoria said flatly. Good heavens, what on earth could he have to laugh about at such a time? She gave her mother a little nudge to back away, and she poured more hot water on Marcus's leg, working until she was satisfied that she'd cleaned the wound to the best of her ability.

“I think that's all of it,” Honoria said, sitting back. She took a deep breath. She felt hopelessly tense, every muscle in her body pulled tight. She set down the scissors and tried to stretch out her hands, but they felt like claws.

“What if we poured laudanum directly on the wound?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

Lady Winstead blinked. “I have no idea.”

“It couldn't hurt, could it?” Honoria asked. “It's not likely to irritate his skin if it's something that can be swallowed. And if it can do something to dull the pain . . .”

“I have it right here,” Mrs. Wetherby said, holding up the small brown bottle.

Honoria took it and pulled out the cork. “Mother?”

“Just a little,” Lady Winstead replied, not looking at all sure of her decision.

Honoria splashed a little laudanum on Marcus's leg, and he instantly howled with pain.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wetherby moaned. “I'm so sorry. It was my idea.”

“No, no,” Honoria said. “That's the sherry. It's how they make it.” Why she knew this she had no idea, but she was fairly certain that the ominously labeled bottle (it said
POISON
in much bigger letters than
LAUDANUM
) also contained cinnamon and saffron. She dabbed her finger in and took a little taste.

“Honoria!” her mother exclaimed.

“Oh, my God, it's hideous,” Honoria said, rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a fruitless attempt to rid herself of the taste. “But there is definitely sherry in it.”

“I can't believe you took some of that,” Lady Winstead said. “It's dangerous.”

“I was just curious. He made such a face when we gave it to him. And it was clearly painful when we poured it on. Besides, it was only a drop.”

Her mother sighed, looking very much aggrieved. “I wish the doctor would arrive.”

“It will still be some time,” Mrs. Wetherby said. “At least an hour, I should think. And that is if he is at home to receive the summons. If he's out . . .” Her words trailed off.

For several moments no one spoke. The only sound was Marcus's breathing, strangely shallow and labored. Finally, Honoria was unable to take the silence any longer, and she asked, “What do we do now?” She looked down at Marcus's leg. It looked raw and open, still bleeding slightly in places. “Should we put a bandage on it?”

“I don't think so,” her mother said. “We'll only have to take it off when the doctor arrives.”

“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“No,” Honoria said, except she was. Ravenous. She just didn't think she could eat.

“Lady Winstead?” Mrs. Wetherby said quietly.

“Perhaps something small,” she murmured, not taking her worried eyes off Marcus.

“A sandwich, perhaps?” Mrs. Wetherby suggested, “or my goodness, breakfast. Neither one of you has had breakfast. I could ask Cook to prepare eggs and bacon.”

“Whatever is easiest,” Lady Winstead replied. “And please, something for Honoria, too.” She looked at her daughter. “You should try to eat.”

“I know. I just . . .” She didn't finish. She was sure her mother knew exactly what she was feeling.

A hand settled gently on her shoulder. “You should sit, too.”

Honoria sat.

And waited.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

Chapter Eleven

L
audanum was an excellent thing.

Marcus normally eschewed the drug, and indeed he had a feeling he had looked down upon those who used it, but now he was wondering if perhaps he owed them all an apology. Maybe an apology to the entire world. Because clearly he had never been in real pain before. Not like this.

It wasn't so much the poking and snipping. One would think it would be painful to have bits of one's body hacked away like a woodpecker jabbing at a tree trunk, but that actually wasn't so bad. It hurt, but it wasn't anything he couldn't bear.

No, what killed him (or at least felt like it) was when Lady Winstead took out the brandy. Every so often she would dump what had to have been a gallon of the stuff over his open, gaping wound. She could have set him on fire and it wouldn't have hurt so much.

He was never drinking brandy again. Not unless it was the really good stuff. And even then, he would only do so on principle. Because it was the really good stuff.

Which needed to be drunk.

He thought about that for a moment. It had made sense when he'd first considered it. No, it still made sense. Didn't it?

Whatever the case, sometime after Lady Winstead had poured what he dearly hoped was not the good brandy on his leg, they'd got a dose of laudanum down his throat, and really, he had to say—it was lovely. His leg still felt as if it were being slow-roasted on a spit, which most people would consider unpleasant, but after enduring Lady Winstead's “care” without any anesthesia, he was finding it positively pleasant to be stabbed with a knife under the influence of an opiate.

Almost relaxing.

And beyond that, he felt rather unaccountably happy.

He smiled up at Honoria, or rather he smiled up at where he thought she might be; his eyelids had clearly been weighted down with rocks.

Actually, he only
thought
he smiled; his mouth felt rather heavy, too.

But he wanted to smile. He would have done, if he'd been able. Surely that had to be the most important thing.

The jabbing at his leg stopped for a bit, then started up again. Then there was a lovely, short pause, and then—

Damn, that hurt.

But not enough to cry out. Although he might have moaned. He wasn't sure. They'd poured hot water on him. Lots of it. He wondered if they were trying to poach his leg.

Boiled meat. How terribly British of them.

He chuckled. He was funny. Who knew he was so funny?

“Oh, my God!” he heard Honoria yell. “What did I do to him?”

He laughed some more. Because she sounded ridiculous. Almost as if she were speaking through a foghorn.
Oooorrrrrhhhh myyy Grrrrrrrrrd.

He wondered if she could hear it, too.

Wait a moment . . .
Honoria
was asking what she'd done to him? Did that mean
she
was wielding the scissors now? He wasn't sure how he ought to feel about this.

On the other hand . . . boiled meat!

He laughed again, deciding he didn't care. God, he was funny. How was it possible no one had ever told him he was funny before?

“Should we give him more laudanum?” Mrs. Wetherby said.

Oh, yes, please.

But they didn't. Instead they tried to boil him again, with a bit more of the poking and stabbing for good measure. But after only a few more minutes, they were done.

The ladies started talking about laudanum again, which turned out to be incredibly cruel of them, because no one got out a glass or a spoon to feed him. Instead they poured the stuff right on his leg, which—

“Aaaargh!”

—hurt more than the brandy, apparently.

But the ladies must have finally decided they were through torturing him, because after some discussion, they untied his bindings and moved him to the other side of his bed, which wasn't wet from all the hot water they'd been using to boil him.

And then, well . . . He might have slept for a bit. He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he'd seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn't a dream, they were all in very big trouble.

Although really, it wasn't the rabbit that was so dangerous as much as the giant carrot he was swinging about like a mace.

That carrot would feed an entire village.

He liked carrots. Although orange had never really been one of his favorite colors. He'd always found it a little jarring. It seemed to pop up when he didn't expect it, and he preferred his life without surprises.

Blue. Now, there was a proper color. Lovely and soothing. Light blue. Like the sky. On a sunny day.

Or Honoria's eyes. She called them lavender—she had since she was a child—but they weren't, not in his opinion. First of all, they were far too luminous to be lavender. Lavender was a flat color. Almost as gray as it was purple. And far too fussy. It made him think of old ladies in mourning. With turbans on their heads. He'd never understood why lavender was considered the appropriate step up from black in the mourning calendar. Wouldn't brown have been more appropriate? Something more medium-toned?

And why
did
old ladies wear turbans?

This was really very interesting. He didn't think he'd ever thought so hard about color before. Maybe he should have paid more attention when his father had made him take those painting classes so many years ago. But really, what ten-year-old boy wants to spend four months on a bowl of fruit?

He thought about Honoria's eyes again. They really were a bit more blue than lavender. Although they did have that purplish touch to them that made them so uncommon. It was true—no one had eyes quite like hers. Even Daniel's weren't precisely the same. His were darker. Not by much, but Marcus could tell the difference.

Honoria wouldn't agree, though. When she was a child she had frequently gone on about how she and Daniel had the same eyes. Marcus had always thought she was looking for a bond between them, something that connected them in a special way.

She'd just wanted to be a part of things. That was all she'd ever wanted. No wonder she was so eager to be married and out of her silent, empty home. She needed noise. Laughter.

She needed not to be lonely. She needed never to be lonely.

Was she even in the room? It was rather quiet. He tried again to open his eyes. No luck.

He rolled onto his side, happy to be free of those damned bindings. He'd always been a side-sleeper.

Someone touched his shoulder, then pulled up his blankets to cover him. He tried to make a little murmuring sound to show his appreciation, and he guessed he must have been successful because he heard Honoria say, “Are you awake?”

He made the same sound again. It seemed to be the only one he could make work.

“Well, maybe a little bit awake,” she said. “That's better than nothing, I suppose.”

He yawned.

“We're still waiting for the doctor,” she said. “I'd hoped he would be here by now.” She was quiet for a few moments, then added in a bright voice, “Your leg looks quite improved. Or at least that's what my mother says. I'll be honest—it still looks dreadful to me. But definitely not as dreadful as it did this morning.”

This morning? Did that mean it was afternoon? He wished he could get his eyes to open.

“She went to her room. My mother, I mean. She said she needed respite from the heat.” Another pause, and then: “It
is
quite hot in here. We opened the window, but only a very little bit. Mrs. Wetherby was afraid you would catch a chill. I know, it's hard to imagine you could get a chill when it's this hot, but she assures me that it's possible.

“I like to sleep in a cold room with a heavy blanket,” she added. “Not that I imagine you care.”

He did care. Well, not so much what she said. He just liked listening to her voice.

“And Mama is always hot lately. It drives me batty. She's hot, then she's cold, then she's hot again, and I swear there is no rhyme or reason to it. But she does seem to be hot more often than cold. Should you ever wish to buy her a gift, I recommend a fan. She is
always
in need of one.”

She touched his shoulder again, then his brow, lightly brushing his hair from his forehead. It felt nice. Soft, and gentle, and caring in a way that was utterly unfamiliar to him. It was a bit like when she'd come over and forced him to drink tea.

He liked being fussed over. Imagine that.

He let out a little sigh. It sounded like a happy one to his ears. He hoped she thought so, too.

“You've been sleeping for quite some time,” Honoria said. “But I think your fever is down. Not all the way, but you seem peaceful. Although did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Really?

“Really,” she said. “Earlier today I could have sworn you said something about a monkfish. And then just a little while ago I think you said something about onions.”

Onions? Not carrots?

“What are you thinking about, I wonder? Food? Monkfish with onions? It wouldn't be what I would want while sick, but to each his own.” She stroked his hair again, and then, to his complete surprise and delight, she lightly kissed his cheek. “You're not so terrible, you know,” she said with a smile.

He couldn't see the smile, but he knew it was there.

“You like to pretend that you are terribly standoffish and brooding, but you're not. Although you do scowl quite a bit.”

Did he? He didn't mean to. Not at her.

“You almost had me fooled, you know. I was really starting to not like you in London. But it was just that I'd forgotten you. Who you used to be, I mean. Who you probably still are.”

He had no idea what she was talking about.

“You don't like to let people see who you really are.”

She was quiet again, and he thought he heard her moving, maybe adjusting her position in her chair. And when she spoke, he heard her smiling again. “I think you're shy.”

Well, for God's sake, he could have told her
that
. He hated making conversation with people he did not know. He always had.

“It's strange to think that of you,” she continued. “One never thinks of a
man
as being shy.”

He couldn't imagine why not.

“You're tall,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “and athletic, and intelligent, and all those things men are supposed to be.”

He did notice she didn't call him handsome.

“Not to mention ridiculously wealthy, oh, and of course, there's that title, too. If you were of a mind to get married, I'm quite certain you could choose anyone you wish.”

Did she think he was ugly?

She poked his shoulder with her finger. “You can't imagine how many people would love to be in your shoes.”

Not right now, they wouldn't.

“But you're shy,” she said, almost wonderingly. He could feel that she'd moved closer; her breath was landing lightly on his cheek. “I think I like that you're shy.”

Really? Because he'd always hated it. All those years in school, watching Daniel talk to everyone and anyone without even a moment's hesitation. Always needing a little bit longer to figure out just how he might fit in. It was why he'd loved spending so much time with the Smythe-Smiths. Their home had always been so chaotic and crazed; he'd slipped almost unnoticed into their life of un-routine and become one of the family.

It was the only family he'd ever known.

She touched his face again, running a finger down the bridge of his nose. “You would be too perfect if you weren't shy,” she said. “Too much of a storybook hero. I'm sure you never read novels, but I've always thought my friends saw you as a character in one of Mrs. Gorely's gothics.”

He knew there was a reason he'd never liked her friends.

“I was never quite sure if you were the hero or the villain, though.”

He decided not to find insult in that statement. He could tell she was smiling slyly as she said it.

“You need to get better,” she whispered. “I don't know where I'll be if you don't.” And then, so softly that he barely heard her: “I think you might be my touchstone.”

He tried to move his lips, tried to say something, because that wasn't the sort of thing one let go without a reply. But his face still felt thick and heavy, and all he could manage were a few gasping noises.

“Marcus? Do you want some water?”

He did, actually.

“Are you even awake?”

Sort of.

“Here,” she said. “Try this.”

He felt something cold touch his lips. A spoon, dribbling lukewarm water into his mouth. It was hard to swallow, though, and she only let him have a few drops.

“I don't think you're awake,” she said. He heard her settle back down in her chair. She sighed. She sounded tired. He hated that.

But he was glad she was here. He had a feeling she might be his touchstone, too.