Rescuing Mr. Gracey (29 page)

She needed to see Alec, not get ready for a ball. She bit hard on her lower lip as the maid brushed out her long hair, twisting it into a loose knot and securing it with a beautiful comb.

A stranger appeared in the mirror. The Irish washerwoman had disappeared inside layers of Protestant clothes and ivory hair clips. Yet, as she surveyed the results, her confidence crawled up a notch. She might pull off the hoax if she stayed only a day or two.

Swiping nervous hands over the soft linen fabric, Mary waited until Betsy assisted her with white stockings and slippers.

She rejected taking a final glance in the mirror, for the false refection was no more than a mask of deceit. Nodding her thanks to Betsy, Mary stepped out of the room and toward the closed oak door just down from her room.
Dear Lord, please help me attend to him so I can get home.

~ 24 ~

“His heart was grieveful sore…”

The room disoriented her. Cloaked with shadows, stale heat, and sweat, the dark space, lit only by a roaring fire in the corner, sucked away all fresh air.

She squinted, aware of Isabella sitting quietly by Alec’s bed, watching her. She moved toward a congested area and spied a cluttered desk of bottles and basins with a ceramic bowl. Wiggly leeches, lances, and blood—Alec’s blood—filled the bottom.

They’ve been bleeding him,
she thought angrily, holding down the urge to gag.
Only the rich kill their sick people by draining life from them.

Mary clamped her jaw and desperately searched the bed for his face. As he was buried within layer upon layer of thick blankets, she saw only the tiniest glimpse of black hair on a white pillowcase.

Sweeping the covers back from his face, Mary knew he had been the victim of the ridiculous English notion of sweating the fever by overheating the body. However, when she saw him, a withered, helpless creature, gaunt and bright red, with blue circles beneath his sunken eyes, Mary cried out.

This was not Alec. This thin ghost who labored for each breath, wheezing with each exhale, did not resemble him in the least. Struck with panic, Mary looked at Isabella for some explanation. Where was Alec?

Yet the teary woman stroking the man’s forehead nodded to Mary, assuring her that somehow the man she once loved had been so viciously transformed in so few days.

Fueled by indignation and worry, Mary shoved the heavy blankets from his body and pitched a large basin of water directly at the glowing peat fire. Flying furiously, she next opened curtains and cracked several windows, allowing a soft breeze to cleanse the air.

Swift commands spewed out of her. “I’m needin’ a basin of vinegar water, and garlic and beef broth, and fresh water and clean linens. And remove that vile basin of blood and parasites,” she demanded, pointing to the table.

The room, as if frozen by some ice storm, stood perfectly still. Only a solitary wall clock dared make the haunting
tick-tock
sound.

Isabella’s shocked, raised brows warned Mary that she was making terrible errors. “Please, Mrs. Gracey. You brought me here for my healing skill. I am asking you to trust me.” Dropping her head, Mary meekly stared at clasped hands. “And if you would be so kind as to bring fresh pillows.”

Mary glanced up in time to see Isabella nod. Rolling back the intense desire to run, she forced herself to walk slowly, with what she hoped was ladylike gentility, until she reached the bedroom door. “I will just get my remedies,” she said, her chin tilted.

Once in her own room, Mary scattered the items from her bag. Mustard seeds and menthol plants, angelica and willow root were tossed into a basin.
Slow down, Mary Smyth. They’ll toss you out if you don’t pretend better.

Alec’s bedroom had aired out considerably once Mary returned, and Isabella had summoned several servants to assist them. “May I request a fresh bowl and several spoons? I have a remedy to mix. I will also require warmed cloths with which to apply the mixture.”

Pausing ever so briefly, Isabella waved her hand at a maid. Mary employed two other staff members to sponge Alec with vinegar water over his head, chest, and neck, to draw heat. Meanwhile, she whipped a black-mustard-and-egg-white paste and layered the mixture onto flannel cloths for his chest. After shaving ginger into the garlic-based broth, she had a strong footman prop Alec on a high stack of pillows and help her spoon-feed broth into his mouth.

Despite frowns and scowls from the staff, Mary had effectively reversed all previous treatments. Isabella supported each instruction and demand, though she occasionally nibbled her lip or twisted anxious hands. Her trust in Mary paid off.

Over the next few hours, small improvements—lower body temperature, easier breathing, lips not blistered with dehydration—helped stabilize Alec, though he still looked weak and vulnerable.

Now she must wait, impossible though it seemed. She must not allow weariness or fear or even intimate memories to interfere with her purpose. She must not stroke his hair or caress his forehead. Most especially, though she applied a soothing ointment, she must not kiss his blistered lips.

Stop, Mary Smyth.
She suspended sentiment and shifted her effort toward gaining tiny victories. Each drop of liquid reflexively swallowed Mary considered a triumph. Each hour Alec did not choke on his own fluid redeemed encouragement. By late night, his fever dropped another notch.

Toward dusk, he opened his eyes and locked his gaze upon her. “Mary—I see you even now—you haunt me even now.”

“Take a bit of broth, Mr. Gracey,” she whispered, spooning nourishing liquid down his parched throat.

“What sweet dream…”

Nervous he may say something to alert the servants, Mary glanced at Isabella. His mother understood immediately and cleared the room.

“Drink more, Alec. You’re so dried, like an old leaf, you are. The body cannot overcome the fever lest you drink more.”

He sipped, but never took his gaze from her. Then, amazingly, he smiled, a sight Mary had feared she might never again see.

“I want you to cough for me. Can you manage the task? Cough and bring it up,” Mary said.

“I wonder why I see you here? ’Tis a lovely dream indeed,” he said deliriously.

Heat bloomed on her cheeks as she whispered, “None of your flattery, Mr. Gracey. Please, cough for me now.”

Alec gave a bit of a try at coughing. Mary turned to Isabella. “I’ll be needing help rolling him over. ’Tis best if his head is lower than his chest to move the lungs.”

Isabella called from the door for the servants to find Daniel. Within a few minutes, Mary recognized the burly man with a graying beard and bushy brows as the driver from this morning.

Between the three of them, Alec was turned so that his head tilted downward. Mary pounded with an upward motion over his ribs. He barked back, angry, confused. But the remedy worked. Soon a productive cough expelled thick mucus.

His body flushed with the exertion, and Mary propped him high on the abundance of pillows, then once again encouraged him to drink fluids. “Sleep now. Go to sleep,” she whispered as she placed a cool cloth upon his head.
Go mbíodh biseach ort gan mhoill.

“Will you stay?” he whispered back.

“Aye. I’ll be here when you wake.”

He closed his eyes and smiled again, a boyish, sweet smile that never failed to charm. Moisture filled her eyes.
Do not do that, Mary Smyth. Do not be fooled by him again. He is not who you thought.

Spiking fever, strangled breathing, ranting, and delusional dreams lasted off and on through two more nights. Mr. Gracey visited by arrangement for a few brief minutes each morning and evening. Although deeply concerned for his son’s well-being, he was bewildered and helpless, promptly retreating to the sanctity of his library. Just after midnight on the third day, Isabella turned her weary head toward Mary. “Should we be bleeding him again? And there’s this medicine the doctor ordered.”

Mary whirled on Mrs. Gracey, afraid his mother would undo all that had been gained. “Don’t ya see the bleedin’ ’tis takin’ the strength from him, and that medicine is a poison meant for a man dyin’?”

Isabella’s mouth opened in surprise. Mary stiffened.
Mind your temper, Mary. You need her to trust you.
Averting her gaze, she nibbled her lower lip. “I apologize for my rudeness, Mrs. Gracey. I don’t think your medicine has done him any good. I ask you to keep trusting me, and if I am wrong, we have lost nothing, for he was clearly dying.”

Isabella glanced at the oily medicine and then her son. “I suppose we could wait for his bleeding and medicine, then.”

Mary gave a quick nod, then dragged a chair to his bedside. Pulling out her rosary, she said, “You may get some rest, Mrs. Gracey. The outcome of this night will be determined by God himself. I will call you if there is a need.”

“I will stay too,” Isabella insisted. “And so will Daniel.” She took the chair on the other side of the bed, and Mary knew Isabella hedged her bets by keeping Daniel in case she needed to wrest control from the little laundress.
Please, God. Spare him.

All night, Mary exhausted every remedy, every hint of healing technique learned by the ancient ones to keep him alive. Each tick of the clock was a victory against death, and when late night melted toward morning, she knew the battle was nearly won.

“Mary, you’ve been sent to carry me straight to heaven,” Alec whispered.

“You’ll not be going to heaven this day, Mr. Gracey.” Mary yawned and allowed her weary head to rest upon the mattress. Stretching her arm across his chest—keeping violent delusions from causing him harm—she let her eyes close. One moment. Just one…
 

~ 25 ~

“And the Orange cry…”

A polluted fog wrapped tentacles around his throat and squeezed. Alec’s exhausted legs stumbled, pitching him toward dizzy shades of gray. He gasped for air as a thousand wasps warred with whining bees. He scanned the confusion, praying for an exit from hell. He fell.

With a jolt, he awoke.

The room pitched like a ship lost in a storm. Alec slammed his eyes closed and inhaled. His hollow stomach rebelled; his throat constricted with excruciating thirst. The sharp pain in his head made him wonder if he had consumed too much whiskey last night.

When he lifted too-heavy lids, his vision blurred, then cleared. A cherry desk…
his
cherry desk.

Turning his pounding head with the speed of a snail, he noted herb bags and cups and many bowls burdening the side table.

He frowned. Was he sick? Closing his eyes against the hammer slamming his head, he tried to rewind time. Memory crashed into him, slamming his heart as thoroughly as a wave against a sandcastle.

Mary Smyth—innocent smiles, pleading words, confused eyes.

Alec swallowed as other darker, disturbing memories assailed him. He had the impression he’d been in a suffocating cocoon bound for blazing-hot hell, but then a gentle hand had rescued him, lifting him from the lonely pit, carrying him like a baby toward soft Irish songs and sweet cooling strokes. An angel bid him to drink soothing liquid.

Lord, I need water.
A ragged dagger stabbed his head, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, even his back throbbed as if someone had pounded upon it.

Obviously, he had lived through some terrible ordeal. Alec tried to sit up, but a long weight bound him to his bed.

Puzzled, he turned his head and pondered the hindrance. It was but a slender arm stretched as if to hold him prisoner. Following the length of the limb, he discovered a sleeping woman, her head resting upon his bed, her tumbled hair shielding her identity.

Alec thought the woman must be his mother. But no. His mother had black hair, like him—this hair was caramel and gold and red and…

Blood rushed in all directions. His weak heart slammed against his chest, then skipped wild beats. Carefully, he lifted her hair.
Aye. ’Tis Mary.

Mesmerized, confused, he stared at the sleepy little head resting just inches from his body and drank in her beauty—upturned nose with the adorable dashes of freckles, thick black lashes framing round eyes, sweet dimples peeking out shyly even in her sleep.

He held his breath as fuzzy thoughts cleared and trepidation raced ahead of delight. How could she be here, in his chair, beside his bed? More puzzling, Mary wore an expensive, well-tailored gown. And her hair, usually braided and hidden beneath a white cap, was pulled back with silver combs embedded with jewels.

Jarred by the assault of understanding, Alec pressed against his pillow and tried to inhale. Mary must know everything. His name, religion, possibly his political agenda—layer upon layer of ugly truth—all exposed.

Clenching his fists, he longed to release a ferocious howl.

After all the agony, after all the lost nights plotting to find a gentle way to reveal the truth, she had discovered his secrets while he lay helplessly ill.

His hungry gaze floated over her innocent face.
She hates you now, Gracey.
Once she woke, those beautiful aqua eyes, once so trusting and filled with love, would pierce him with disgust and accusation.
You’re a Gracey, an Orangeman, an Anglican. Her enemy
!

All thought of the future disappeared when an uncontrolled tickling—vicious, unexpected—compelled him to cough. Pressing his lips closed, squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to stifle the need, to gulp back the spasm. He sat straight up and gasped.