Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (24 page)

Dr. Clyde could only nod. "Does she ever speak to you?" he asked, his voice low.

Roxanna nodded. "Sometimes. It doesn't always make sense." She glanced sideways at the doctor, and noticed how his own eyes were closing. Poor man, she thought. For two months and more now you have watched your patients sicken and die. She touched his hand, drawing back quickly when he gasped and leaped to his feet, startled out of his somnolence.

"Go home, Dr. Clyde," she said softly. "We'll manage here."

Manage what? she asked herself as he rode away, chin tipped down against his chest, swaying as though he already slept. She watched him from the upstairs window, wanting to call him back. What for? she thought. My child is dying and I can only wring out cool cloths and pretend that I am doing something to help her.

"Winn."

She turned back to Lissy, whose eyes were still closed. "What?" she asked, coming closer.

Lissy opened her eyes suddenly, and looked around as though she expected to see someone. "Winn," she repeated, then closed her eyes again to begin her cycle of coughing and then struggling to breathe. Roxanna held up her daughter so she could get an easier breath, breathing along with her until she felt light-headed and even more useless than before.

While Lissy dozed fitfully, Roxanna tiptoed from the room. She peeked in on Helen, but she was sleeping, too, exhausted from watching. Roxanna went downstairs, standing in front of the bookroom door for a long moment, as if wondering why she was there. Finally, she squared her shoulders and went inside. I have put this off too long, she thought as she reached for a sheet of paper and the inkwell. Lissy wants him, too. I hope we will not be too much trouble, but I cannot face this alone.

In the thirty-eight—nearly thirty-nine—years that I have known you, brother, I disremember your ever asking my advice on any subject. Let me savor the moment."

Lord Winn looked up from the contemplation of his mother's favorite silverware pattern and into his sister's eyes.

"You're right, of course, Clarrie," he replied. "But damn it, why hasn't she written me?" He broke off a corner of the cinnamon bun on his plate and regarded it moodily before flicking it out the open window. "French cooks have no clue when it comes to cinnamon buns. Even Lissy would sniff at these. Why doesn't that stubborn woman write?"

Clarice patted her lips with her napkin and continued her perusal of him. "My dear brother, only think how fast this dear little creature has gone from widow to wife, and under what circumstances. She needs time."

“I know, I know," he said impatiently, leaning back in his chair. "But when I was there in March . . ." He paused. This isn't something to confess to a sister, he thought, then hurried on with the narration before he lost his nerve. "Well, she was awfully glad to see me." He smiled at the memory. "Awfully glad, Clarrie." He ran his fingers around the inside of his collar.

His sister reacted as he thought she would by increasing the candlepower of her stare. "Winn, you told me you were there not more than thirty minutes!" she declared.

"It's true," he confessed, feeling the blush travel upward from his navel to his hair follicles.

"And that part of the time you were visiting with Helen and Lissy?" she continued inexorably. "Winn! Really!"

Trust a big sister to make a grown man feel like a boy, and not a bright boy, either, he thought sourly. "Yes, really!" he retorted, out of sorts with Clarice and wondering why he had invited her to Winnfield. "We didn't waste a minute. Clarrie, must you smirk?"

Clarice laughed, and he directed his attention to the silver pattern again, disgusted with himself.

"I had no idea you were such a ladies' man," she murmured, a smile in her eyes.

"No, no!" he protested. "Not
any
lady's man, Clarrie. Just that lady's man. I don't know what it is about Roxie Rand." Well, yes I do know, he thought, but I'll be damned if I need to catalog a sexual primer for my older sister. I've never been so excited by a woman as I am by my own wife. "And you don't need to grin about it, Clarrie," he admonished.

She promptly wiped the smile off her face, but couldn't disguise it so easily in her eyes. "Brother, I am just remembering some comments from you earlier this year. Something about 'never wanting to be trapped in a matrimonial snare again.' Correct me if I am wrong," she concluded.

He could only sigh in exasperation. "Clarrie, cut line, won't you?" he declared. He took a turn about the breakfast room, pausing at the sideboard for a piece of bacon, and waving it at her. "I asked her to let me know how she felt about our relationship. I have heard nothing from that time to this!" He ate the bacon, wishing Clarice would not give him that feather-brained look. "Oh, what?" he snapped in irritation.

To his surprise, she went to him and kissed his cheek. "Winn, you're really dead in love, aren't you?"

He nodded, miserable. "I thought I loved Cynthia, but what I felt was only a pale cousin to this. And what's worse, I miss Lissy and Helen, too. This isn't fair!"

Suddenly the room seemed too small to hold him. He wanted to stride out of doors and walk for several miles until he felt more in control of himself. Roxie, I will have to go on my own forced marches if you do not come to the rescue, he thought grimly.

"I seem to remember also that you were pretty adamant about not wanting any children of your own, too," Clarice reminded him. "Did you ever mention that to Roxie?"

He thought a moment, chagrined. "Too many times, I fear," he confessed. "I really should go to Moreland, throw myself at her feet, and tell her I have been an idiot."

Clarice nodded, to his increased irritation. "You were pretty stupid, Winn," she agreed, her eyes merry. "Now don't poker up! Let me have the fun of scolding you, and then tell you that I will do whatever I can to further this relationship. Only ask, Winn."

He nodded then, grateful she was his sister. "Thanks, my dear," he said, flinging himself into his chair again. "I suppose I can go see her this fall, whether I hear from her or not."

"Why wait that long?"

He nodded. "Why, indeed? I'm too old to play games, Clarrie. I jus! wish this were her idea, too, and not mine alone."

Clarice was about to reply when the door opened. "My lord, the mail is here. Shall you read it now, or do you wish it in the bookroom?"

He waved his hand at the butler. "The bookroom, Spurgeon. No. Wait. Bring it here."

The butler set down the correspondence and left the room. Winn glanced at the pile, then looked away. "Bugger it," he muttered.

But Clarice was going through his letters. "Really, Winn, your language," she murmured as she sorted the mail. She let out a triumphant laugh and dangled a letter in front of his face. "Winn, does this handwriting look familiar?"

He pounced on the letter, ripping it open, filled with joy he had not felt since March. "She wrote, Clarrie, she wrote!" he declared in triumph as his eyes scanned the page.

As he read, his eyes eager, his heart pounding, the horror dawned on him slowly. He read the letter again, certain that he had missed a joke somewhere, a phrase that would turn the nightmare on the closely written page into a huge jest. After his third perusal, he stared at Clarice, who was regarding him with an expression that went from delight to fear as she watched his own face.

"Winn, what is it?" she demanded, when he could say nothing.

Wordless, he pushed the letter toward her, and leaped to his feet. He jerked the door open and leaned into the hall. "Spurgeon!" he shouted. "I need you immediately!"

He glanced back at Clarrie, who was on her feet now, her mouth open. "Clarrie, I had no idea," he said, feeling the tears start in his eyes. "Tibbie has been ill for months, Meggie Watson is dead, and Lissy . .. Oh, Clarrie!"

"Maybe it is not that serious," Clarice said, hurrying around the table to clutch his arm.

He took the letter from her. "Roxie would never tease about this. Those children are her life. And here I am at Winnfield. Damn you, Spurgeon! Where are you?"

It took him only a few minutes to pound upstairs and change into riding pants and his old campaigning boots, talking to Clarice as fast as he thought of things. "Can you follow me soon? I'll leave it to you to contact my bailiff and find someone to come along who can take over, at least temporarily. Can you bring along some servants, too? Damn it, where are my saddlebags?"

He stopped in the middle of the room, ready to scream. In a second Clarice was holding him close. His arms went around her and he sobbed into her hair. He could hear her murmuring something, but all he could see was Roxie's face, and then the letter, scarcely legible, written by someone exhausted and incoherent with worry. He cried at his own stupidity, havering around Winnfield like a mooncalf, full of self-pity and ill humor, when his wife needed him so badly.

I have left out so much, he thought as he snatched up the reins and threw himself into the saddle. He looked back at Clarice, a better sister than he ever realized before, who had run after him to the stables.

"Don't worry about anything," she was telling him as Ney danced about, impatient as he was to be off. "I'll write a little note to Fred, and organize things here. Chickering can pack your clothes, and I have a good idea what Roxie will be needing."

Roxie needs me, he thought as he blew a kiss to his sister and galloped from the stable yard, taking the fence cleanly. She needs me.

It became the refrain that kept him in the saddle mile after mile. He stopped at noon for a meal, then was too impatient to eat it, thinking of Lissy near death and Roxie watching at her bedside. He tossed a coin at the tavern keep as he snatched up some bread and beef and forked his leg over Ney again.

Snatches of her letter came back at him as he rode into the afternoon of a beautiful summer day. "If you can spare the time," and "Truly I do not wish to trouble you," harrowed him as Ney pounded along the Great North Road. All she can see is what a great lot of trouble she has been, he thought. She cannot fathom how much I love her and her daughters. I would do anything for you, my love, he thought. Pray God I do not have to bury your daughter for you. I do not know that even together we could bear that. I know I could never face it alone.

He reached the North Riding as the sun was low in the sky. His mind was on Roxie, but as Ney trotted along, Lord Winn wondered where the field laborers were. There should have been many of them on the roads at this hour, returning to their homes, but there were so few. This influenza has taken its toll, he reflected. He had seen the flu in Spain, and soldiers too exhausted to level a musket or drag themselves into the saddle. A man could be pronounced well by the impatient surgeons, but still die if he could not rest sufficiently.

He was weary of the saddle himself as Ney climbed steadily into the foothills of the Pennines. Just another mile, he thought. And then there was Moreland, the elms offering slanting shade to the estate's approach as the sun finally set. It was a different sight from the bare branches of March, more welcoming. He spurred Ney for a final effort. Where
was
everyone?

The groom was nowhere in sight as he ducked his head and rode Ney into the stable. Damn the man, he thought as he dismounted and hurried to remove his horse's saddle. Five Pence and the mare he had left for Roxie looked at him with interest. He glanced in their mangers, and cursed to see them empty of grain. The water troughs were dry, too. I will fire that man on the spot, he swore as he grained and watered all three horses. He will never work in this shire again.

The groom rode into the stable as he was preparing to leave for the house. Hot words were on Lord Winn's lips, but he watched from the gathering shadows as the man dragged himself from the saddle and leaned against his horse, scarcely able to stand. He stayed that way a long time, and then Lord Winn cleared his throat.

The groom glanced around as though his neck pained him, then sighed with relief. "Thank God you've come, my lord," he said, not letting go of his horse's mane.

Winn came out of the shadows, observing at close range the perspiration on the man's face, and the paleness of his skin. He took him by the arm. "Are you ill, too?" he asked, his angry words forgotten.

The groom nodded, shivered, and allowed Lord Winn to lead him to a perch on the grain bin. "We've all had it, my lord. Tibbie can just barely manage in the mornings, and I oversee in the afternoons." He protested when Lord Winn took the saddle from his horse, then could only stare dumbly, as though trying to gather strength for a trip up the stairs to his quarters.

"How long have you been doing this?" Winn asked as he stabled the groom's horse.

"Not long. Two weeks? Before that, Lady Winn was in the saddle all day, even after Felicity took sick. I don't know when she slept." He paused, too tired to say more.

Winn helped the groom to his quarters, promising to send someone with food later. The man only shook his head and closed his eyes.

His mind deep with disquiet, Lord Winn ran into the house. It was dark, as though no one lived there. "Roxie?" he called, his voice tentative.

There was no answer. He hurried to the stairs, and could make out a little light on the first landing. He took the stairs two at a time, dreading what awaited him. A single candle flickered in a sconce at the top of the stairs, casting weird shadows on the slowly moving lace curtains. He hurried down the hall, calling Roxie's name.

And then Helen was standing in the hallway by the only room with a light in it.

"Helen," was all he said. With a sob she ran down the hall, her arms out, to fall into his welcoming embrace. He knelt and hugged her close, breathing in the dearness of her, grateful down to the depths of his soul that she was on her feet and appeared healthy.

Finally she pulled away from him a little and ran her hand over his face, as though she could not believe he was real. "You came," she said simply, and his heart turned over.

She took his hand then and led him to the room with the open door. "Mama," she said from the doorway. "Mama."

Roxanna was sitting in a chair by the bed, her head bowed forward as if in sleep. She jerked awake at Helen's quiet words and looked around wildly as he came forward and gripped her by the shoulders. She closed her eyes again, as though in prayer, then rested her cheek against his hand. "Thank you for coming," she whispered. "I am so tired."

He knelt beside her and took her hand. "Roxie, I left the moment I received your letter."

She opened her eyes, but her vision rested on the quiet form in the bed. "I didn't mean to trouble you . . ." she began, then shook her head and was silent.

"Who ever said you were trouble?" he whispered as he looked at Felicity, lying so unnaturally still.

She squeezed his hand and started to reply, but Lissy moved then, and she dropped his hand and reached for her daughter, touching her forehead. As he watched, she dipped a cloth in water, wrung it out, and carefully ran it over Lissy's bare little body, so still again under the sheet.