The Summer of You (18 page)

Do not think about your leg; think about the boy. The leg is nothing. There is nothing.

He leaned down, held his ear to the boy’s chest. Nothing. No sound, no rise and fall.

“Dammit,” he whispered, picking the boy’s limp body up again, throwing him against his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Michael Wilton cried, as he crawled out onshore.

“The water has gotten into his lungs; he cannot breathe,” Byrne answered, and then with a great Thwap! he slapped Joshua on the back, as if he were burping an oversized baby.

“Come on, boy,” he growled, slapping his back again, “come on!”

Another slap, and another . . . Michael was crying now, tiny hiccups of fear and panic as he watched his brother’s blue face jostle with each slap . . . and then finally, Byrne felt the body go rigid, and shudder, and a stream of lake water flowed up from Joshua Wilton’s lungs, out his mouth, and down Byrne’s back.

He laid the boy back down on the muddy earth. He was breathing again, his chest rising and falling—weakly, but it was functioning. His color was returning slightly, but he was still unconscious. Then Byrne saw the bright red blood begin to trickle out of the corner of the child’s mouth.

“We need to get your brother inside—a doctor,” Byrne said, standing with only a small grimace, taking Joshua into his arms. Byrne looked around, took stock of where they were. And for the first time all morning, he knew he had a bit of luck. Because they were a mere hundred yards away from the only place on Merrymere’s shore that could possibly help them now.

“This way,” he said, as he led Michael toward the Cottage.

Jane woke up to the sounds of banging and commotion. She sat up in bed, drew back the bed-curtain just in time to see Mary, her lady’s maid, opening the door. She did not come bearing firewood (which had been unnecessary for over a week now, the temperature remaining high throughout the evenings) but instead, seeing Lady Jane awake, rushed to the wardrobe and fished out Jane’s dressing gown.

“Milady! There’s been a terrible accident!” Mary squeaked before she rushed back out into the hall. Jane had no choice but to follow close at the girl’s heels.

Her first thought was her father. Something happened in the night, something bad. But he had been sleeping so well since coming here. Nancy said he was very rarely wandering the halls at night now . . . but they passed her father’s door, it was still closed, still undisturbed.

Perhaps it was Jason. He had not yet come home by the time she went to bed last night. Jane suspected he had chosen to drown his sorrows over Penelope Brandon somewhere, but what if he had gotten himself injured? What if he had gotten himself killed driving a team, or in a duel, or . . . the highwayman?

Jane quickly shook off that last notion. Goodness, she was becoming as gullible as the locals! Likely Jason had gotten drunk and twisted his ankle or some such thing, Jane thought. Yes, that’s it. He’s fine, a little battered, but fine.

He had to be fine.

So Jane readied herself to see her drunken brother moaning in pain on the settee in the receiving parlor—but she was not at all prepared for the sight that met her eyes.

Byrne Worth knelt, dripping wet and in his smalls, by the unconscious form of Joshua Wilton, who was also wet, and lying on the settee. Michael Wilton stood in a corner, watching a flurry of Jane’s staff bring hot water and pillows and quilts at Nurse Nancy’s direction.

“I need that blanket, thank you,” Nancy said, as a footman handed her a feather quilt embroidered with silk thread, and ruthlessly stuffed it around the boy. “We need to warm him up, keep him breathing. And give them quilts, too!”

Jane saw a young maid wrap a blanket around the stock-still form of Michael Wilton as she rushed into the room. Someone threw a quilt around Byrne’s shoulders just as Jane reached his side.

“What happened?” Jane asked, kneeling at the settee, her eyes raking over the boy.

“He hit his head and fell into the water,” Byrne answered softly, his eyes focused and hard, never straying from the boy, “he took a great deal of it into his lungs, and . . . now there’s blood in his mouth and . . .” He looked at her then, and Jane saw his face crumple for just a moment, in some emotion Jane could not identify—Pain? Fear? His expression was intense, as if he was reining something in, and unleashing it would be disastrous. But it only flashed for a second, before his mask hardened again, and his eyes refocused on the small child in front of him.

Jane wanted to reach out to him, soothe him in some way, but his entire body vibrated with warning. He was no longer aware she was there, and barely aware of the rest of the room. There was no solace he would accept. Not yet.

Jane spared one last glance for Byrne and then turned to Nancy.

“Has anyone sent for the doctor yet?” she asked.

Nancy shook her head. “They arrived but moments ago,” she said, breathless. Then turning to one of the footmen, “Get a horse saddled, and go now!”

“I’ll go,” Jason’s voice came from the hallway.

He was still wearing his formal kit from the night before, cravat long lost and his shirt partially undone, his hair an utter mess—but he was alert and there.

“Jason,” Jane asked, trotting to him, “have you even slept yet?”

“No,” he admitted, “but I’m not in my cups, and I’m the fastest rider in the house.”

“But—”

“Your arguing is wasting time,” Jason reasoned, then called out to the footman, “have them saddle Midas—and he better be ready by the time I walk out to the stables—which is now!”

The footman lost all decorum as he broke into a run, almost bumping into Jane and Jason as he careened out of the room and down the hall to the door.

“You must fetch the family, too—the Wiltons,” Jane said, pitching her voice low. If a flicker of emotion crossed her brother’s face, he swallowed it down in the way of men—or at least, in the way of men this morning.

Jason leaned down and kissed Jane’s cheek—something he had not done in years, something that told Jane he knew the seriousness of the situation—and then followed the path of the footman and was out the door.

And now Jane did not know what to do. Nancy hovered over the child, directing maids to fuel the fire, bring more blankets, and she applied smelling salts to a handkerchief.

Byrne did not move from his position by the couch. He knelt there, as if in prayer. But his whole body was a tense live wire, all his energy focused on the boy, watching his chest rise and fall, willing him, unsuccessfully, to wake up. Jane took a step toward the settee, intending to . . . she did not know what she intended. To help? How? She had no medical training; she couldn’t reassure Byrne that way. She prayed that the boy would be all right, fervently and with her whole self, but any assurance she made to him would fall flat. She could do nothing.

It had been over a year since Jane felt this useless. Since she sat by her mother’s deathbed, placing cold compresses on her brow, reading books aloud to fill the dreadful silence, only broken by her mother’s raspy breaths. Trivial, fruitless things that gave no comfort to either mother or daughter. With her father’s illness, Jane had fought, was fighting, striving to understand, to find better treatment, but with her mother . . . there was nothing to be done. Nothing but to sit and wait for the moment when the awful noise of her mother’s breathing ceased, at once a relief and a horror.

Jane wrapped her dressing gown about her tighter, her memories too chilly for the overheated room. She was about to turn from the room, go upstairs and quickly change into a gown, something serviceable, when she caught a small movement out of the corner of her eye.

Michael, standing by the side of the room, out of everyone’s way, wrapped in his blanket, quietly shaking. As lost and as helpless as Jane in that moment.

She crossed the room, knelt by Michael. Normally full of mirth and mischief, his eyes were now uncertain, water streaking his cheeks.

“Michael,” Jane began softly, putting her hand on his small back. She expected him to flinch at the touch, to be startled—not to turn immediately into her arms and hold on for dear life. He clutched at her neck, this tiny, fragile child with scraped knees and elbows. His flesh was clammy and he shook, vibrated continually, as if he could not get warm.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered between gulps of breath.

In that moment, Jane swallowed her own feelings of uselessness. There were things to be done. She pulled back, glanced down at Michael’s reddened joints.

“We,” she said authoritatively, “are going to take care of those scrapes on your knees and elbows.” She stood and held out her hand to him, which he took. “And you are going to tell me everything that happened.”

She led Michael to the door to the kitchens, letting her eyes fall once more to the settee as she passed, where Nancy tended the boy and Byrne remained motionless by his side.

Waiting.

Seconds ticked into minutes—and every minute that passed, every minute that Joshua remained unconscious, Byrne felt a year of his life drain away.

He had to be all right. This child was in his care, and it was his responsibility to watch over him until the doctor came.

He had to hold on until then.

Seconds ticked into minutes.

He could feel the red, raw edges of pain shooting from his leg up his spine, trying to overtake him. It would eventually; it was so much stronger than him . . . but not yet. Not as long as he concentrated on the boy.

Byrne, as a rule, did not pray. His faith was ambiguous—war made men either believers or atheists, and having been witness to and perpetrator of its atrocities, Byrne leaned toward the latter. Men—good men—and innocent children had fallen to their fates for less than Joshua’s sins. No, Byrne did not pray; it would have been useless. But he devoted his will. He focused on the boy, willing his breath to flow, willing him to stay alive . . .

Seconds ticked into minutes.

God, his leg throbbed.

Jane had been there, he realized dimly. He remembered her eyes, two wells of concern. He couldn’t accept her sympathy now, her help. Not yet. It would break him, and he was just barely holding it together. To think, just this morning, he had been reliving their kiss.

It seemed so long ago.

He knew she had gone to the boy, Michael, and left Byrne to Joshua and his will.

Seconds ticked into minutes.

The nurse bustled around him, the servants doing her bidding—all of them waiting, watching. A door opened and closed—he knew it was Jane, returning with Michael. Byrne knew how Michael was feeling, knew that blank shock. Byrne was an older brother, too, and had stood by as his younger brother was hurt. He had been responsible for him; he should have watched him better . . . It had been his fault . . . It was his fault . . .

“Mr. Worth?” Michael’s voice came, small and unsure. Byrne chanced a look up.

“I’m really sorry we threw the apples,” the boy whispered penitently.

Seconds ticked into minutes.

Byrne nodded dumbly, accepting the apology before turning his focus back to Joshua. Jane took Michael’s hand again.

It had cost him to look away. Those red, raw edges of pain were gaining ground. But he had to hold on just a little longer. Had to stay clearheaded until—

“Where is he?” Dr. Berridge demanded as he burst through the drawing room door, followed quickly by Victoria Wilton and Jason.

“My family’s following,” he heard Victoria say to Jane as the doctor barreled past him and began examining the boy.

Dr. Berridge whispered words to himself, long tangled Latin words that Byrne did not try to understand. For as soon as the doctor had arrived, he scrambled to the other side of the room and let those red, raw edges overflow and take him.

Jane saw the moment Byrne crumpled and collapsed against the wall. Victoria must have seen it, too, and since Michael was now in his sister’s care, Victoria gave Jane a nod, releasing her to attend him.

She reached his side quickly, and silently crouched by him. He breathed hard through his teeth, his eyes a dark haze. Byrne’s hands clutched at his injured leg—as he was clad only in smalls and a blanket, Jane was able to see the thick, ugly scar that twisted over strained muscle. He rubbed, massaged, but it offered no relief.

His eyes met hers, finally.

He was in a great deal of pain.

“Get me out of here,” he pleaded quietly through clenched teeth.

“Can you stand?” she asked. He looked unsure for a moment, but then, resolved, gave a small nod. Jane reached over and grasped his hand, using all her strength to pull him upright. He nearly fell over, though, when he tested his weight on his bad leg, so Jane went under his arm, took his weight, and nimbly helped him hobble to the door.

No one followed—the focus was on Joshua, as was right. Jane maneuvered Byrne across the hall, to the unoccupied library, still littered with Jason’s papers and her father’s ledgers, but blissfully quiet. She set him down on the long leather sofa, took the blanket from his shoulders and covered him with it. Hard to do when he would not release her hand. Indeed, he clutched, held fast—as if she were the only thing tethering him to the ground.