In The Face Of Death (12 page)

“Tecumseh . . .” Madelaine said gently, searching for a phrase to end his self-condemnation.

He fixed her with his gaze, determined to admit all his faults. “You were so cool and self-possessed all through the calamity, that I—”

“I may have appeared that way to you, but I was far from feeling so, believe me,” she said, hoping to turn him away from his continued abasement. “You have no reason to cast me in such an angelic role. I am still unnerved by what happened.”

“No one would have known it,” he said with feeling that was partly disbelief, and partly pride. “If that’s true, you conducted yourself like a good officer, Madelaine.” This was the highest praise he could give her.

“If that’s true and it’s useful, then it pleases me.” She tried to smile and nearly succeeded. “Well, I will consider myself fortunate that I have some poise, and I will tell you I am grateful to you for holding it in high regard. Let me get you a cup of coffee, or something to eat.”

“No,” he insisted. “I am not yet finished, and I am not hungry.” He put his hands together so that he would not be tempted to reach out to her. “It was inexcusable of me not to offer you any succor I could provide; it haunts me every hour that I failed you. You cannot blame me more than I blame myself.”

“Doubtless,” she said dryly.

“My only excuse is that I was filled with anxiety about my own children, and have kept close to them these past several days, so that I can guard them from all harm. Don’t tell me that their dangers are nothing like the misfortune that befell the Thomas’ baby. I know that. I
know
that, but knowing means nothing when one fears for his children. That fear is all-encompassing, and knowledge has no weight against it.” He stopped abruptly, then said more formally, “I am sorry I deserted you. I should have been here to uphold you. I regret that I did not give you the consolation I might have been able to provide.” He faltered, struggling to finish. “I . . . I was tremendously proud of you for all you did, and how well you did it.”

It would have been easy to give him a facile answer, Madelaine realized; it would also shut him away from her as no barred door would do. She considered her response carefully. “I know it is hard for you to say these things to me.”

“As it should be,” he agreed with self-disgust.

“The more so because you have taken all the responsibility upon yourself, as if you were the only person who might have aided me,” said Madelaine, her understanding of him making this a precarious revelation.

“But I am . . . your lover,” he protested. “You yourself say there is a bond between us.”

“And so there is,” she said, “Which is why I do not hold you in the contempt you dread and hope I might. My sensibilities are not so delicate that I must have constant reassurance for my—”

His supplication gave way to aggravation. “For heaven’s sake, Madame, get angry with me. Denounce me for my desertion. Rail at me for not coming to you before now. Tell me what a poltroon you think me.”

“But I don’t wish to do any of those things,” she said reasonably as she attempted to move nearer to him without upsetting him. “I think you are what you say you are; a father who is worried about the mortality of his family. I think you have taken the Thomas’ loss very much to heart and it has made you apprehensive and fretful on your children’s behalf.”

He nodded, the first dawning of hope in his steel-colored eyes. “There is some truth in that.”

“The more so because you have castigated yourself for things I had not held against you. The accusations you made against yourself are of your own creation, not mine. I do not hold you to the account you hold yourself. And just as well, given the catalogue of offenses you have conjured for yourself.” She went and stood next to him, not quite touching him. “You have assumed I would not recognize your desire to protect your family, and would expect you to devote yourself to me.”

“As I should have done,” he interjected harshly.

“You may think so; I do not.” She put her hand on his shoulder, noticing again how wet he was, then looked up into his face. “Tecumseh, listen to me: I will not deny that I would have liked you with me, for I would have. I was . . . distressed by Missus Thomas’ loss, and it upset me that it should happen at my house, and I could do nothing to prevent it, or to spare her any—”

“Robert Lowrey said you saved her life,” Sherman told her. “Without your care, she would surely have bled to death.”

“Possibly,” said Madelaine, her doubts returning full force. “I had little or no opportunity to consult Doctor Lowrey, and so tried to do what I could without guidance or instruction of any kind.” This was less than the truth, for Saint-Germain had long since tutored her on the use of the medicaments in the urns, jars and bottles he had provided her three decades ago; she had not been put to this test before but was better prepared for it than most qualified nurses.

“Not without guidance, according to Lowrey: whatever you gave her saved her life.” He favored her with gruff approval. “At the time, I wanted to say how wonderful you are, and how proud I am of you. But that would have revealed far too much. It would be poor recompense to tarnish your reputation while crediting you with uncommon bravery.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on his shoulder. “I am taking a chance coming here now. Your housekeeper might—”

“My housekeeper has the day off, and will not be back until later this evening. I have told her she does not need to look in on me; she may go directly to her apartment and retire. My man-of-all-work is dining with his cousin’s family.” She smiled at him.

He did not return the smile. “You mean they have left you alone? With all you have been through?” he demanded. “What kind of servants do you have, Madame, that they will leave you by yourself?”

Now Madelaine grew impatient. “What nonsense you talk, Tecumseh,” she said with asperity. “You would think I am a hot-house flower, incapable of fending for myself, when you should realize I have managed on my own for decades.”

“Visiting Indians,” he said, determined to make his point.

“Among others,” she responded, refusing to be dragged into another dispute with him.

“Oh, yes; those travels in Egypt,” he grumbled. “Hard going, no doubt.”

“They were,” she said. “Some of the time. The expedition was a small one, and we were four hundred miles up the Nile.” With these few words, she recalled the heat and the endless sand that was everywhere; she remembered the Nile at flood, and the profusion of insects and vermin that came with the water; she saw the faces of Falke and Trowbrige and the Coptic monk Erai Gurzin, and the death of Professor Baundilet.

“What is it?” Sherman asked, reading something of her memories on her face. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s all in the past, all behind me.” She shook off the hold of the memories and made herself pay closer attention to him. “Your hand is like ice,” she said, noticing how chilled he was becoming. “You’re wet to the skin. You may not want any food, but you need to get warm and clean once again.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he claimed.

“It does if you are taken ill because of it; I have had my fill of medical crises, and want none of that from you,” she said briskly, and slipped her hand from under his, but only to seize it and lead him through the gloom of her house to the curtained alcove off the kitchen where her bathtub was kept. “I will start heating the water right now,” she declared as she went to the stove and stirred the embers to life. She pulled two sections of wood from the box near the stove and put them, one on top of the other, on the glowing coals. “This will be hot shortly, the kitchen will be warm, and your bath will be ready in half an hour.” She paused to hold out her hand to him again. “Do this for me, Tecumseh.”

Sherman regarded her tenderly. “A bath. I wish I could stay for it,” he said ruefully, his fingers lacing through hers.

“Do you tell me you will not?” she asked.

“I fear I must,” he said by way of apology.

She closed the stove grate and put her hands on her hips. “And why can’t you? And no farragoes, please, about my reputation. No one saw you come, and only I know you are here.”

He looked somber. “My children are—”

“Your nurse is more than competent to care for them,” said Madelaine, who had met the woman three times and had been impressed each time with her good sense and reliability. “And don’t tell me you have never gone home later than expected.”

“But—” he began, only to be cut short.

“You need to get warm and dry before venturing out in that weather; I will supply you with an oilskin against it. You would tell me the same if I had paid you a visit, and well you know it; you need not bother to say otherwise, no matter how you wish to persuade me.” She looked hard at him, waiting for his answer.

“What would be the point?” Sherman said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did. And neither would I.”

“Good; at least you will admit that much: we make progress,” said Madelaine as she lifted the side of the curtain and took the first of four large pots from the shelf next to the bathtub. She carried this to the pump at the sink and began to work the handle to fill the pot.

“You’re never going to be able to lift that,” said Sherman, reaching out to lift it for her. “Let me carry it for you.”

It was tempting to let him take the pot, but Madelaine kept her hold on the two handles and lifted the eight-gallon pot from the sink to the stove without effort. “Unnecessary; I can do it, thank you. I told you that those of my blood acquire extra strength, and this pot is a minor thing,” she said, unwilling to permit him to claim otherwise, even if it were for no reason other than good manners.

“But it isn’t fitting,” Sherman protested as Madelaine reached for the second pot. “No, Madelaine. No; I can’t allow it. You should not have to do such menial work, not while I am here to help you.”

“Why not?” Madelaine asked, setting the pot in the deep sink and starting to work the pump handle once again. “What is the vice in menial work that you think I should disdain it? Why should anyone feel shame at doing necessary work? Don’t tell me you never filled a pot or carried one before now?”

“Of course I’ve done both,” he blustered. “That’s different.”

“Because you did it?” Madelaine guessed, and shook her head. “Where did you learn such intolerance?”

He glared. “It is what everyone expects of well-bred men and women.”

“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Madelaine asked. “To ask well-bred men and women to become dependant puppets requiring the labor of servants to make their way in the world?”

He did not answer her question, and stood, with an expression of distant blankness, staring at the two windows at the rear of the kitchen. The anemic light filtering into the kitchen banished most of the colors in the room, turning the figures of both Sherman and Madelaine a ghostly, washed-out shade of brownish-gray with pale beige faces. As if to banish this perception, Sherman shook himself and found the nearest of the kitchen lamps, and a box of lucifers to light it with. As the flame rose, the kitchen seemed to warm with the return of colors. “There. That should make your task easier.”

She did not point out that the increasing dusk made little difference to her; she saw in darkness almost as well as she saw in moderate light. Instead she nodded her thanks and carried the second pot to the stove while Sherman took the third from its shelf and set it in the sink under the pump, starting to ply the handle with vigor.

“The wood is catching, that will make everything warmer,” she remarked as she glanced at the tinderbox of the stove.

Sherman continued to fill the third pot with water, then carried it to the stove, setting it in place without splashing a drop. “Since you are determined to do this, I suppose I ought to lend you my assistance.”

“If you like,” said Madelaine, handing him the fourth pot, and saying, “Just fill it with water.” She tugged the curtain aside so that the bath alcove was completely open, revealing the large, enameled-copper tub and a wall of shelves where various requirements for bathing were placed. “I’ll set out bath-salts, if you want them. And I have a razor and shaving material, if you have need of them.”

“You are always prepared,” he said, intending it as a complaint, but making it into a compliment. “Yes, I will rid myself of this stubble,” he said, and went on slyly, “or I might have to explain where all the scratches on your body came from. Since you insist on doing this. Perhaps I should grow a beard again.”

Madelaine could not stop herself from smiling, knowing now that he would remain with her for several hours, if not all night. The weight of his absence lifted from her, and she said playfully, “In fact, given the circumstances, shaving would be the prudent thing to do.”

“Prudent,” he repeated ironically. “What a word to use for anything pertaining to you and me, Madelaine.”

“All the more reason it is necessary,” she said, satisfying herself that the tub would be ready when the water was hot. She set out two large sponges and a rough washing cloth on the rack next to the tub, and then pulled out a brass towel-rack. “I’ll get a robe for you from the linen closet.”

He extended his arm to block her progress and pulled her to him, bending to kiss her as his embrace enfolded her.

She shifted against his arm, then gave herself over to his caresses as if she had never before experienced them. Finally when she could speak at all, she said softly to him, “Tecumseh, I have no wish to compel you to do anything that displeases you.”

“I know that,” he said indulgently as he stroked her breasts through her clothes.

“You’re distracting me,” she objected without any determination to stop him.

“Good,” he approved. “It’s supposed to.” His kiss was light and long, full of suggestions that made both of them breathless. “Why don’t you let me help you out of that rig you’ve got on?”

“Tecumseh,” she said again, making a last-ditch effort to keep from giving in to him. “You will not be angry, will you? For turning you from your purpose?”

“Why should I be angry?” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And what purpose do you mean? I wanted only to apologize for failing you.”