Beloved (25 page)

There was nothing more she could do but wait.

In spite of the agony of his body, Richard’s mind was at peace. He was lost in his memories, slowly reliving all his time with Christina, from their earliest childhood. The memories slid by with a tantalizing slowness that allowed him to re-experience every minute of those lost happy hours.

He’d never stopped missing her, never in the three long years since Marco’s death. Never, in all the time that had passed since their one night together, had Richard been able to understand why Christina hadn’t come with him when he left Arles.

Arabella stayed with Richard through the night. His fever seemed to rise with every passing hour. By dawn, his breathing had become labored. She wiped his body down with wine, hoping to at least cool his skin and thereby ease the terrible strain on his body. When that failed to give him any relief, she removed the dressing from his wound.

The swelling in the lower portion of the lesion had increased dramatically. It was obvious that the tissue was terribly infected. Arabella began to think she would have to reopen the wound, and hoping to avoiding such a drastic measure, she started to prepare a poultice of wormwood and mistletoe. When at last she applied the heated compress to his body, Richard groaned and twisted away from the painful pressure, then lay still.

Arabella waited.

As the infection in his body drove his fever even higher, Richard’s dreams of Christina became more disturbing. Her frightened, tear-stained face floated through his mind, but somehow she always seemed to remain just beyond his reach. She was miserable, she begged him for comfort and protection but he was powerless to help her.

Richard’s agitation increased, and Arabella removed the poultice. The knot of infection had not decreased, but had instead grown larger and harder to the touch. She knew that there was only one solution. She called for Tomas and Alfredo to come and help her while she removed the trocar from Sophia’s bag. She hated to reopen the wound, but she knew that his only hope of recov-ery now lay in draining the poison from his body.

Richard began to struggle against the unseen hands that, in his delirium, seemed to be keeping him from his beloved Christina.

The men held him as Arabella inserted the sharp end of the instrument between the newly mended edges of flesh. When it was in place she deftly pressed the center of the shaft, which forced the sharpened smaller tube into the middle of the abscess. The caseous pus oozed from the trocar as the pressure was relieved in the swollen tissue.

That instant of stabbing pain sent a blinding flash of crimson through Richard’s consciousness. Then his body relaxed and he lay still.

Arabella redressed the wound, leaving a thin strip of rag in the incision so it would continue to drain. She hoped she hadn’t waited too long—she knew well the severe damage that could be done to both body and mind by prolonged fever.

“Thank you,” she said wearily to Tomas and Alfredo. “That’s all we can do for now.”

“Signora,” Alfredo said, laying a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Let me stay with him tonight. You’re exhausted. I swear I will call you the moment there is any change at all.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” she said, smiling at his concern. “The next twelve hours are crucial. I must stay.”

As she closed the door behind them, her gaze fell on Richard’s traveling case that had been left near the fireplace. She picked up the worn leather bag and put it on the blanket chest while she unbuckled the straps.

The bag wasn’t full. She tossed the few pieces of soiled clothing on the floor by the door. In the bottom, she found a small bundle of letters. They were yellowed with age and tied with a faded blue ribbon. As she took them from the bag she caught the faint scent of bergamot and knew they must be from Christina. Arabella stood holding them, tempted beyond propriety to untie the slender ribbon and read them. Would those letters be the key to understanding the young woman who—very foolishly to Arabella’s way of thinking—had given up a man as unusual as Richard? Finally, she overcame her curiosity and placed them in the armoire among his things.

The last item in the bag was a small, but weighty pouch of butter-soft burgundy leather. She could tell the bulk was not that of coins, the contents seemed oval and flat. She loosened the cord and slid the tiny portrait out into her hand. She returned to sit by the bed, staring at the likeness.

No wonder he loves her so, Arabella thought, as she studied the perfectly detailed miniature. The delicacy of the work bore mute testimony to the skill of the artist and no doubt to the accuracy of the representation. It was also obvious to Arabella that the quality of the piece meant Christina’s family must be wealthy, perhaps even as wealthy as Richard’s.

In spite of everything, Arabella felt sorry for Christina. How could she have given Richard up? How could she possibly have chosen to marry another man?

Shaking her head in dismay, Arabella set the small oval frame on the bedside table. She carefully turned it toward Richard so it might be the first thing he’d see when he awakened.

Her attention returned to her patient. His breathing was extremely shallow. Lifting the damp cloth from his forehead, she laid her hand in its place. Discouraged by the heat of his skin, she wet the cloth and replaced it. Unconsciously, her fingers sought the comfort of the smooth wooden beads of her rosary in the pocket of her apron.

She sat in the dark, praying for more than an hour before she finally rose to light the candles, casting a soft, warm glow over the room.

“
Signore?
” she whispered as she touched his cheek. “Richard?”

Dimly, through the fog of his unconscious mind, Richard sensed someone calling him. He didn’t know where he was, but he was surrounded by a warm, comforting light and he was reluctant to leave it. And then, suddenly, he realized that the voice calling him must be Christina’s.

With a supreme effort he stirred and began to pull away from the light. At first, he could barely force his body to respond, but each time she pronounced his name, his determination increased. He felt as if he were moving through a thick fog, held back by a powerful, unseen force. The only sound he was conscious of was Christina calling his name.

And then the fog seemed to clear and he found himself on the deck of the
Le Bonheur
, staring at the
quais
at Arles. Christina stood there, sobbing. He called out to her and slowly she looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. He called again, but she could only hold out her arms to him, pleading for him to take her with him.

The ship seemed to be drifting farther and farther from the dock. Richard looked around frantically for someone who could help him stop the ship. The deck was deserted.

“Please, Richard, please…” she called.

And then Richard saw Guy standing behind her, his hands firmly holding her shoulders, the grim look of satisfaction on his face slowly becoming a smile, and then, smug laughter.

“Richard?”

The voice belonged to Arabella, but Richard heard only his beloved Christina.

The tempo of his breathing increased as he became more agitated. “Chrissa?” he whispered weakly.

Again, he heard her call his name. In an agony of frustration, he mustered what little strength he had left and tried to rise, calling her name as loudly as he was able. And then he felt her arms around his neck and her lips against his cheek as the soft scent of bergamot filled his nostrils.

“Richard,
Chéri, je suis içi
.”

The voice came clearly to him through the haze of illusion and he fell back against the pillows, his body relaxed. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her close to him, but he could barely lift his right hand to touch her hair.

Arabella continued to whisper softly to him in French. She knew he believed her to be Christina, but she knew, too, that in that very deception lay her only hope of calming him. And so she continued to whisper to him, assuring him that she was there, that she loved him, and that he must rest.

Finally, he quieted but this time, to sleep. Arabella straightened the linen sheet across his body and returned the cool cloth to his head.

Taking his hand in hers, she closed her eyes and began to pray. She couldn’t stop the tears as she began a litany of all the reasons that she had to be grateful to Richard. They were the same as her reasons for loving him.

It was nearly three hours before Richard awakened, but he had no sense of how much time had passed. He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the darkness and by his blurred vision. He was conscious of a dull throbbing in the left side of his body. He was also aware of a warm hand clutching his. He looked down and saw the cascade of brown curls against the linen that covered him.

Instantly, the realization that it was Arabella struck him like a blow. He closed his eyes again, momentarily unwilling to accept the fact that he was in his own room on Corsica and that the warm hand holding his was not Christina’s.

He remembered his ship being attacked. He recalled the fighting and being wounded, but his last memory was of the ship and the decimated remains of the crew, limping their way back to Corsica.

Gingerly, he tried moving his left arm, sensing both the pain and the general weakness. It was obvious that he must have collapsed and been delivered home by some of the crew. How long he had been there, he had no way of knowing.

It was quite likely that he owed his life to Arabella. She was the only one on the southern end of the island with any degree of healing skill. He knew, too, that Christina’s presence could only have been the product of his delirium.

His gaze shifted to Arabella. She’d fallen asleep in the chair, her head resting on the bed beside his arm. He saw the rosary and knew his illness must indeed have been grave. He’d never seen Arabella pray and he’d never known her to attend Mass, so he hadn’t thought of her as being religious. If she’d sought divine intercession on his behalf, he knew he must have been close to death.

He slowly pulled his hand from under hers and reached out to stroke her hair.

His touch awakened her and she sat up with a start. Arabella crossed herself and smiled, then offered him a drink of water. Neither of them said anything.

Soon, he drifted off to sleep again, still holding her hand.

The shock of learning that Richard and Maryse had been lovers was more than Christina could bear and so she put it completely out of her thoughts, retreating into the small world of her home and her marriage. Maryse made several attempts to contact her, but Christina returned all of her letters unopened.

She spent the first Christmas of her married life alone with Guy, and while their private celebration was pleasant enough, Christina missed the warmth of the little group of friends and family that had shared so many wonderful holidays at Beauvu. Christina missed Richard.

She also missed her father. She hadn’t seen him since the day she’d left his home for Guy’s. Her beloved Marco was lost to her forever, but one member of her family remained and she knew it was time to make peace.

In the coming months Christina set about trying to repair the damage done to that relationship, she found Antonio distant and withdrawn. He rarely went to his office at the warehouse and seemed to spend most of his time in the salon at his house, staring blankly at the portraits of his family. Try as she might, Christina could not persuade him to visit her, to visit Louis at Beauvu or to see any of his other old friends. She came to have supper with him twice a week, but she could do little beyond giving him a bright recitation of the news of Arles and of Guy’s work in expanding the business. Antonio was either unwilling or unable to respond.

“You’re sure?” Guy asked, tightening his grip on the shirt of the man before him. “There’s no way he could have survived? Absolutely no chance?”

“I’m positive, Monsieur. If you could have seen the wound…” The man was frightened by the look in Guy’s eyes.

Guy released him. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair.
Can it be true? And if it is, what now?
This could be the turning point in his life and he must be very careful. He pulled a coin from the pocket of his coat and handed it to the man.

“Stay the night. And meet me at the warehouse in the morning. I must have time to think about what you’ve told me.”

Guy left the house and did not return until the next morning. When he came home, he was accompanied by the man who had brought the news. He left him standing in the courtyard and went into the house. Christina was arranging flowers on the table in the entry.

“My dear,” he said as he entered the room, “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

Christina looked up. It must be her father. Guy was beside her then, taking her in his arms and holding her tightly. A moment later she pushed away.

“What is it?”

He looked at her face, the beautiful skin, the incredible eyes. He stroked her hair.

“Guy, what is it?”

“Sweetheart, it’s Richard.”

Christina felt her heart stop.
Is he back? Has he finally returned? Has he come for me, at last?

“Christina, he was hurt…wounded…and I’m afraid…”

“What?”

“He’s dead, Christina. Richard is dead.” Guy held her arms, unwilling to let her go.

She wrenched herself away from him and ran to the other side of the table.
It can’t be true. Why is he telling me this horrible lie?

“It’s not true,” she insisted.

“I just found out yesterday. You must believe me. I was as upset as you are.”

“Guy, stop it—don’t do this!” She closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the sound of his voice.

Guy went to her again, forced her hands from her head and took her by the shoulders.

“I was afraid you’d feel this way. It doesn’t say much for me, does it? You really should believe me. I’m your husband. I love you.”

Christina just looked at him.

“Well, come along then,” Guy said, sighing. “If you won’t take my word for it, there’s someone else here you can ask.” He took her by the hand and impatiently pulled her along behind him, outside into the courtyard where the sailor stood, his hat in his hand.