The Light in the Darkness (19 page)

Jennifer’s eyes were still on the door. Catherine smiled at her. “He
does
need a meal and a bath, you know. He hasn’t left you for three days, Jennifer.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Catherine confirmed. “He was out riding when I found you unconscious in the parlor, but he has been by your side since he returned.” At Jennifer’s skeptical look, she added, “No one was more surprised than I. He
insisted
on taking care of you. He was the one who sponged you off and kept you cool. He made you drink water, even in the worst of your delirium, and forced medicine down your throat. If not for his care, you might well have died. And who knows, perhaps he was right about not summoning the doctor.”

Jennifer was grateful that she had not been bled, but she was unable to say so. She found that she was already too exhausted to talk. Catherine understood her expression. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you when you wake up again, and then you can have some broth.”

But Jennifer was already asleep.

Grey strode back into the chamber less than an hour later, freshly shaven and wearing clean clothing. He glanced at Jennifer, then turned to his sister. “Did she have anything to eat?”

Catherine shook her head. “She was too tired. Perhaps the next time she wakes up.”

“She needs to eat.”

“She needs to sleep more,” Catherine countered. She watched Grey as he walked across the chamber and stood staring down at the frail figure in the bed, his forehead wrinkled with concern. The anxiety that had been in his eyes for three days was still evident, and she felt a sisterly need to offer consolation.

“Grey …” she began.

Her brother turned to look at her, his slashing brows lifted questioningly.

“She’ll be all right.”

She watched as it slowly dawned on him that he had shown far too much concern over the past days for a woman he professed to care nothing about. The expression of anxiety on his face faded to be replaced by the indifference he usually wore. Perhaps, she mused, he really cared nothing for Jennifer at all.

But if that were the case, then why had he been by her side for three days?

“Of course she’ll be all right,” he replied carelessly. “Little
doubt of that now, I suppose. No need for me to remain up here now. You’ll let me know if there’s any change?”

“Of course,” Catherine said quietly, sorry that her reassuring comment had caused her brother to withdraw back into his self-absorption. The last three days had been a welcome reminder that Grey was in fact capable of human emotion.

Grey nodded to her curtly and disappeared out the door. She heard his footsteps as they echoed down the stairway. Grey, she realized, was going to his study to have a drink.

For the first time it occurred to her that Grey hadn’t had a drink in three days. She smiled. There could be no doubt. His indifference had indeed only been a mask.

To her disappointment, Jennifer did not see Grey again for another two days. She drank broth on the first day, then solid food, and grew stronger, but she wished desperately that Grey would come to visit her. She clung to the memory of Grey, bedraggled and unshaven, sleeping in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed. She clung to Catherine’s words:
He hasn’t left you for three days.
He had cared for her like a child. Surely she must mean
something
to him.

But if she did, then why did he not come to visit her?

She was contemplating this question morosely when the door creaked open and Grey walked quietly into the chamber. She turned her head. “Ah,” he said. “You’re awake.”

Jennifer nodded, conscious of a foolish rush of joy at the sight of him. She could barely restrain her smile.

“Are you feeling better?” he inquired, settling down in the chair next to her bed.

“Much, thank you.”

There was an awkward silence. Then, feeling that something should be said, Jennifer ventured, “Catherine told me you took care of me while I was ill. It was—very kind of you.”

“It was no difficulty” Grey replied politely, as if she had thanked him for a common courtesy, such as holding a door open for her. “Sickrooms are no novelty to me. I nursed Catherine through fevers several times while she was growing up. My mother did not have the constitution or the patience to take care of sick children.”

“My mother took care of me while I was sick,” Jennifer said absently.

“Yes, I know. You spoke of her while you were ill.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” Grey paused. “You begged her not to leave you. Jennifer, perhaps this is none of my business, but how did your parents die?”

Jennifer’s eyes jumped to his, and he saw a flash of panic fill them. She tried to hide her reaction by shrugging and giving him a rueful smile. “I don’t really remember them.”

“I don’t believe you,” Grey said bluntly. “For one thing, you asked for them constantly while you were ill. Also, how old were you when they died? Nine?” When she nodded, he went on, “You have a perfect memory, Jennifer. I can’t believe you could forget what happened only eight or nine years ago.”

Aware that he was watching her closely with alert silver eyes, Jennifer looked down and said coolly, “Nevertheless, it is true.”

“Hmmmm,” Grey mused, and after a moment’s pause he attacked the problem from another angle. “Who was Robert?”

Jennifer glanced up in alarm. In that brief moment of silence, she had thought he was dropping the subject. Realizing that he was determined to pry the answer from her, she said reluctantly, “My brother.”

“Your only sibling?’ She nodded. “Older or younger?”

Her eyes flashed in a rare show of anger. “Younger.”

Grey was not so obtuse he could not sense her reluctance to talk about her family, but that only made him more curious about the subject. “Is he dead, also?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, damn you!” Jennifer exploded. “Leave me alone!”

Grey sighed. As usual, he thought, he had behaved like the very embodiment of tact and sensitivity. In his clumsy attempts to pry the story out of her, he had only succeeded in upsetting her. He knew better than anyone that she should not be upset while recuperating. An apology was in order.

“Jennifer,” he said without any trace of contriteness whatsoever in his voice, “I’m sorry if I caused you distress.”

Jennifer gave him a disbelieving stare. “You are not.”

Grey grinned but did not deny her words. Apologies were very definitely not his strong suit. “I heard you talking about your family while you were ill,” he explained coaxingly, “but I could not piece together what happened to them. I just want to find out more about you.”

“It is a very dull story,” she said defensively. “We … we were poor. You wouldn’t find it interesting.”

“I’m willing to risk the boredom,” he said with a teasing smile.

She sensed that he was not going to give up until she had told him the story. At any rate, if she gave in and told him how her family had died, he would remain at her side until she was finished. And that, she admitted glumly, was what she wanted. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll tell you what I remember.”

Jenny opened her eyes. Her eyelids felt as though they were weighted down with lead, but by sheer willpower she forced them open and stared into the darkness with blurry eyes. The room in which she lay was lit only by a rushlight. She could vaguely make out her mother’s figure, face hidden in her hands, shoulders shaking. Her mother was crying.

“Mother?” Her voice was a dry rasp, barely audible, but her mother turned eagerly, hopefully, and caught at her hand.

“Jenny!” she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. “Ye’re awake,” she said in a thankful whisper. “At last, ye’re awake.”

Jenny stared vacantly around the chamber. The white walls, coated with a plaster made from coarsely ground oyster shells, seemed to flicker in the uncertain glow of the rushlight, and the rough-hewn table where the family ate sat with reassuring solidity before the fireplace. It was the same house she’d lived in all her life, but it seemed different somehow. Peculiarly empty. Alarmingly quiet. At last it dawned on her befuddled mind what was disturbing her.

“Where is Robert?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Her mother glanced away, her lips trembling. Jenny had never seen her strong mother look so helpless and fragile, and she felt a spurt of terror. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Her suspicion was confirmed when her mother spoke again. “Robert—is dead,” she said, too exhausted and grief-stricken to try to couch the hard truth in gentleness. “So is yer father. They died of th’ ague. I thought—ye were goin’ ter die too—” She clutched her daughter’s frail hand and her voice trailed off into pitiful silence.

Jenny stared at her, bewildered and frightened. Princess Anne County, riddled as it was with creeks and marshes, was not a particularly healthy environment. Everyone caught fevers, carried unbeknownst to the colonists by the ubiquitous mosquitoes, and all too many died of them. But her father? And Robert? How could they be dead?

She could hardly believe it. But her mother’s head was bowed in sorrow, and tears were running unchecked down her cheeks. It must be true. She had never seen her mother cry before.

A new fear seized her. “Are ye sick?”

Her mother shook her head. “No, dear,” she said gently. “Ye were all terribly ill, but I—I was fine. The fever did not affect me.” Though she spoke softly, her voice was bitter, and Jenny could not understand why. At nine, she was too young to understand her mother’s irrational feelings of guilt. Her mother had remained perfectly healthy while watching her family suffer and die before her eyes, and she hated herself for it.

“Darlin’,” her mother said at last, “I want ye ter promise me something. If anything—if anything should ’appen ter me, promise me that ye’ll go ter yer uncle at once. ’E’ll take ye in.
”

Jenny wrinkled her small nose. She had met her uncle but rarely, and had never cared overmuch for him. It was impossible to imagine living with him. “Ye said ye weren’t sick,” she objected. “Nothin’ will ’appen ter ye, will it?”

“Promise me,” her mother insisted implacably, a very stern expression on her gentle features. She had already lost a husband and a son. If she were to die, she was grimly determined that her daughter would survive. “Just in case somethin’ ’appens, ye must be taken care of.”

“I promise,” Jenny said solemnly.

Her mother laid a hand gently on her bright hair. “Such a good daughter ye are,” she murmured. Then she straightened and said briskly, “ ’Tis well that ye’re better, darlin.’ I will go straight ter bed, and when I awaken I must go see ter th’ tobacco.”

Jenny looked puzzled. “Ye’ve never seen ter th’ tobacco before, Mother.”

Her mother bit her lip. “Yer father is gone, darlin’, and we shall need every worker we ’ave. I shall ’ave ter work in the fields alongside th’ slaves if we’re ter eat.” The tobacco was their only source of income, and like many small planters, they barely eked out a living from the plant. It was a harsh crop, requiring attention the year round, and destroying what little land they possessed quickly. She had no idea how she was to manage, but she was determined that she would find a way.

“Can I ’elp?” Jenny’s face brightened at the thought of helping. If only she could do something to contribute, perhaps she could wipe the misery and hopelessness from her mother’s face.

“Shush, darlin’. Ye just rest.”

In the next week, Jenny found that her illness had left her too tired to work in the fields—because of her inexperience, she probably would have been in the way anyway—but she
struggled to sit up long enough to spin and do her other chores, despite the terrible dizziness that lasted well after her fever had left completely.

Her mother struggled every day, along with their two slaves, to do what needed to be done to the tobacco, but it was terribly hard work. Summer was the busiest time of year for the tobacco planter. In June the small plants had been planted in the fields. In July the plants were cut, in order to limit the number of leaves each plant grew and make the leaves that did grow larger. Now, in August, the lower leaves had to be removed. In September the plants would be cut and hung in the curing house to dry, then packed into the enormous casks called hogsheads and shipped to a public warehouse on double-hulled barges. It was an enormous amount of work for three people, one of whom was a woman who had never before worked in the fields.

One afternoon her mother staggered into the house, wearing an expression of mingled terror and fury. Jenny stumbled to her feet hurriedly. “Mother, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“A storm,” her mother answered dully. “There’s goin’ ter be a storm. A bad ‘un.”

Jenny made her way to the window and looked outside. The clouds were black and fierce as they scudded across the sky, and already the trees were beginning to bend in the wind. There could be no doubt—a hurricane was coming. Jenny was old enough to know what this would mean for the tobacco crop. Most likely it would be washed away entirely.

It was a terrible stroke of misfortune. In three more weeks the tobacco would have been safely hanging in the curing house.

As dusk drew nearer she sat in her bed, listening to the shrieking wail of the wind, and the angry force of the rain pelting against the windowpanes. It sounded like thunder.

“Mother?” she whispered faintly at last, frightened and needing the security of her mother’s embrace. But her mother sat motionless, staring blankly at the walls. At last she turned, and the little girl was terrified by the vacant expression on her features.

“It’s all right, love,” she said, though it quite obviously was not. “Into th’ fireplace with ye now.”

Jenny looked at the gaping mouth of the cold fireplace uncomprehendingly.

“Th’ fireplace is th’ only safe place in th’ouse,” her mother explained. “Th’ roof may not stand up against th’ hurricane.”