Love According To Lily (9 page)

Pity?

Was it pity, because he knew he was dying and she would be devastated? Or was it simply because he did not return her feelings? He felt sorry for her?

She lowered her gaze. It seemed the disappointments were never going to end. It would always be like this.

Or perhaps they would end soon. That thought made her lift her gaze in a sudden panic. He was still staring at her.

At last he spoke, his voice tired, his expression grim. “Thank you.”

Her spirits, heavy and bleak, sank even lower. She couldn’t bear this. She couldn’t bear to lose him, even though he had never been hers.

“The physician will be here soon to check on you,” James said. “He’s top notch, Whitby. He’ll find out what’s wrong with you.”

“Good,” Whitby whispered, closing his eyes.

Then he opened them again. “You’re certain a drink is out of the question?”

“Yes.”

Whitby nodded and closed his eyes. “This is not going to be pleasant.”

James looked up at Lily, who was still standing at the foot of the bed. She saw the concern in her brother’s eyes, an almost desperate pleading. She had never seen him look that way before, not even when his children were coming into the world. He had been worried, yes, but he had not been without hope. There had been anticipation in his eyes, as if he’d somehow known everything would be all right.

He did not look that way this morning, and it left Lily feeling as if she were dying right along with Whitby.

Drifting in and out of sleep the next morning, Whitby experienced strange dreams and felt as if he were floating. He heard conversations in his mind. He thought he heard Magnus laughing…

But when he woke there was no one in the room but Jenson, poking about, folding shirts that had probably already been folded.

Whitby’s body trembled and his teeth chattered, and no matter how hard he tried to relax and lie still, the shaking would not cease. He didn’t know if it was the fever or the need for brandy, but it didn’t matter. He was ill. It had been just like this for his father.

Each time the tremors took hold of him, Jenson came close and tucked the blankets up under Whitby’s chin and said, “It’s the fever, my lord. Try to sleep.”

So Whitby would drift off again, only to feel delirious once more. Then he would wake and tremble again.

He felt Jenson tucking the sheets around him, and opened his eyes. “What day is it?”

“It’s Sunday, my lord. The party is over and most of the guests have gone.”

“Except for us.”

“Yes, except for us. We’ll leave when you recover.”

Whitby wet his very dry lips. “That’s wishful thinking.”

His valet lowered his voice to a whisper. “I won’t hear talk like that, Eddie.”

Eddie
. The sound of his boyhood name on Jenson’s lips stirred uncomfortable memories of another time—when Whitby was not yet an earl, and his mother and father were alive. Whitby remembered his mother laughing and chasing him through the corridors of the house. He could hear her laughter now. He felt transported.

Strangely, whenever he thought of her, she was wearing her white nightgown and bare feet. Probably because the best moments he’d had with her were late at night, when she would cuddle with him in bed.

And when he went to see her when she was dying, she had been lying on her bed, again in her nightgown. Though there had been blood on it from the labor…

The tremors came upon him again, rather suddenly, and though he tried, he could not will them away. All he could do was endure the discomfort and hope it would quickly pass.

Chapter 11

Later that day, after Dr. Trider had thoroughly examined Whitby, Lily followed him through the house to James’s study. When the door closed behind him, she stood for a moment staring at it, her heart pounding with a desperate need for information. Realizing that the time for shyness was over—for suddenly time seemed to be a great commodity—she knocked on the door.

Sophia opened it, took one look at Lily’s face and stepped aside without question. Lily entered the room where James was sitting at his desk and the doctor was sitting on the other side of it, clutching his black leather bag on his lap.

“Lily would like to hear this as well,” Sophia said. She gestured to the chair beside the doctor.

Feeling anxious and apprehensive, her stomach rolling with sickening dread, Lily sat down. She felt James’s curious eyes on her, but kept her gaze fixed on the doctor.

“Well,” he said, pausing. “I still cannot tell you with total certainty what is afflicting the earl, but knowing that his father died of Hodgkins concerns me.”

“Is it hereditary, doctor?” Sophia asked.

Dr. Trider rubbed his forehead, the tension visible in his eyes. “There have been cases recently where heredity was adduced as a possible cause, but we just don’t know enough about the illness to say with certainty. Mind you, it’s still possible the earl could be suffering from something else.”

“So it’s possible he’s not dying,” Lily said.

Sophia reached for her hand, and Lily suspected Sophia did not want her to get her hopes up.

“If it is Hodgkins,” James interjected, “is there a cure? Didn’t I read about an operation a few years ago?”

“There have been very few successful operations. Hodgkins is a type of lymphoma, and lymphomas are generalized, involving blood and bone marrow.” The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid the prognosis is not good—
if
it is Hodgkins. May I remind you, we don’t know for sure that that is what ails the earl.”

“If it is, how much time would Lord Whitby have?” James asked.

The doctor considered it. “From the cases I’ve seen, it can be anywhere from three months to a year or even more, in chronic cases. It depends on how rapidly the disease progresses.”

“Have you told Whitby all this?” Lily asked.

Just then, another knock sounded at the door, and Sophia went to answer it. Lily turned in her chair at the same moment that Sophia spread her arms wide and said, “Annabelle, thank goodness.” She embraced Whitby’s sister, who held her tightly in return. “We are just getting the prognosis from the doctor. Come in.”

Lily—who had of course heard of Annabelle, but had never actually met her—watched her enter the room. She had honey-colored hair like Whitby’s, but the resemblance was coincidental, for Annabelle Lawson was an adopted sister. She had been the daughter of Whitby’s mother’s dearest friend, and had been taken in at infancy.

She wore a dark blue traveling gown and her eyes were blue, her nose tiny and slightly turned up. She possessed an uncommon beauty, though she did not seem aware of it. She did not carry herself with the confidence of a woman who knew she was beautiful. Miss Lawson seemed shy, and Lily was drawn to her immediately.

She was also very curious about why Whitby was so worried about her.

James rose and pulled a chair from the side of the room to bring it around next to Lily. “Annabelle,” he said, “this is my sister, Lily.”

Annabelle shook Lily’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, and have wanted to meet you since I was a girl.”

More than a little taken aback, Lily smiled at Annabelle. She had heard a lot about Lily? From whom? Whitby?

James returned to his own chair and sat down. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the desktop. “The doctor was just telling us what he thinks could be wrong with Whitby, though he can’t be sure yet.”

Dr. Trider repeated his prognosis for Annabelle, who raised a handkerchief to her eyes and began to cry. Lily leaned close and rubbed Annabelle’s back.

“We’re hoping for the best,” Lily said.

Sophia took a step forward. “Yes, of course we are, Annabelle. Don’t lose hope yet. He’s young and strong.”

She collected herself and lowered her handkerchief. “Thank you for everything you’re doing. You know, James, he has always considered you his best friend in the world.”

James nodded.

“When can I see him?” Annabelle asked.

“Right now,” James replied. “Perhaps Lily, you could show Annabelle to the Van Dekker room.”

“Of course,” Lily replied, hiding the fact that she was glad to be able to see Whitby again, even if it was only for a moment.

Lily rose and led Annabelle out of the study and through the long, wide corridors of the house.

When they reached Whitby’s room, they entered to find him sleeping, and Jenson was sleeping as well, his head tipped back on the chair, his mouth open, a noisy snore pulsing from his throat.

Annabelle and Lily shared a glance, then Lily walked around the bed to gently shake the older man on the shoulder.

“What, what?” he asked, startling awake. He took one look at Lily and quickly scrambled out of the chair to stand. “I do beg your pardon, my lady. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s all right, Jenson,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I slept like that myself a few times through the night.” She gestured toward Annabelle, who stood just inside the bedchamber door. “Look who is here.”

Jenson’s face relaxed. “Miss Lawson. Thank goodness. He’s been asking for you.”

Annabelle walked to him. “I’m so glad you’ve been here with him. How is he now?”

“He’s seen better days,” Jenson replied. “Low spirits, I’m afraid, and nursing a lot of regrets and worries. But I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s why I came.”

Annabelle slowly moved to the bedside and touched Whitby’s cheek. “He’s still so hot. Is there nothing we can do?”

Neither Jenson nor Lily answered the question— for there was no answer. At least not anything Annabelle would want to hear.

Lily suddenly felt like she was intruding. “I should leave you,” she said, but Annabelle stopped her.

“No, don’t go. Stay and tell me what happened and how he fell ill. I haven’t seen him for weeks, you see, as he was in London, and I never go to London.” She stroked his cheek. “He looks so thin.”

Jenson backed away and retired into the dressing room, leaving them alone to talk. Annabelle sat in the chair by the bed, while Lily sat on the upholstered bench at the foot of it, facing her. She explained how Whitby had looked when he’d arrived, how he’d been fatigued and not his usual self, and how he’d been drinking more than he ever had before.

That seemed to garner a rueful look from Annabelle. Perhaps she was thinking of Whitby’s father—her adoptive father—who everyone knew had drank a great deal before he died.

James had told Lily years ago that the man had wanted to numb his pain. Lily had been too young to understand it at the time, but she’d held onto it, like she held onto everything that concerned Whitby. Every memory. Every experience. Now that she was older, she understood it better. She understood that some people preferred to travel through life forgetting certain things.

“It was good of you to stay with him last night,” Annabelle said, interrupting Lily’s thoughts. “He always said you were a wonderful girl.”

“He did?” Lily asked.

“Yes. Years ago when he and James were still in school, Whitby would come home and tell me about the games you invented, and then he would play them with me. I admit, I was frightfully jealous that he would talk about you so much. I always thought you were smarter and more interesting than I was, and for a long time I didn’t
want
to meet you.”

Lily felt her brow furrow with bewilderment. “I can’t believe you thought that.”

Annabelle smiled at her. “I was just a child, missing my brother when he went away, and jealous of his stolen attentions. Then he grew older and stopped coming home with stories of your creative childhood games. He started his own games, I suppose. Games neither of us would likely invent.”

Lily understood what Annabelle was hinting at—games that involved women and whiskey. And of course, Lily and Whitby had grown apart when she’d matured past childhood. The games had stopped then.

She was surprised however, that Whitby had spoken of her so often to Annabelle, that he had continued to keep her in his thoughts after he’d left their house each time.

Whitby stirred, and Annabelle leaned close. “I’m here, Whitby,” she said. “It’s Annabelle.”

He opened his eyes, took one look at her, and said, “Thank God.” He lay there for a moment with his eyes closed, then he opened them again. “I’m so sorry, Annabelle. I should have listened to you.”

Neither Whitby nor Annabelle looked Lily’s way, so she remained where she was, sitting quietly and watching.

“You didn’t know this was going to happen,” Annabelle said.

“No, you’re right. I always thought I was going to live forever, and that I had all the time in the world. I was wrong.”

“We don’t know that for sure. You may very well recover completely as soon as the fever breaks.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Even so, it does not excuse my failure to protect you and the estate, and to prevent a great injustice.”

“You’ll get well, Whitby. You must.”

Lily found herself again listening to a conversation she did not feel a part of, as if she were hearing secrets, while she was invisible to the people telling them. But she had always been invisible to Whitby, hadn’t she? Well, perhaps not always, as she had learned just now.

She made a move to stand and leave them alone, but her movement attracted Whitby’s attention, and he gazed sleepily at her. “Lily, I didn’t know you were here.”

She gazed with longing at his handsome face, relished the sound of her name on his lips, and struggled to find some sensible words in her muddled brain. But she had not slept much the night before, and she was still fighting the wrenching heartache over his illness. It simply wouldn’t give her any peace. No wonder she felt so rattled.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said. “I should go.”

He did not argue.