Where Dreams Begin(106)

Over the course of the next fortnight, Holly was aware of not quite being herself, the fatigue having settled deep in her marrow and refusing to leave no matter how much she slept. Retaining her usual good humor took a great deal of effort, and late in the day she often felt irritable or melancholy. Her weight began to drop, which she rather liked at first, but unfortunately her eyes had begun to take on a sunken aspect that was not at all pleasing. A family doctor was sent for, but he was unable to find anything wrong with her.

Zachary treated her with extreme gentleness and patience, bringing her gifts of sweets and novels and amusing engravings. When it became clear that she no longer had the stamina for lovemaking, despite her willingness, he settled for other intimacies, spending the evenings bathing her, rubbing scented cream into her dry skin, cuddling and kissing her as if she were a treasured child. Another doctor was sent for, and then another, but neither had been able to come up with a diagnosis other than “decline,” the word all physicians used when they were unable to identify an illness.

“I don't know why I'm so weary,” Holly exclaimed fretfully one evening, while Zachary brushed her long hair as they sat before the fire. The air was warm—stifling, almost—but she felt chilled in all her limbs. “There's no reason for this decline—I've always been perfectly healthy, and nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

The motion of the brush paused, then resumed its gentle stroke. “I think you're over the worst of it now,” came his soft voice. “You seem a little better today.” While he brushed her hair, he made a hundred promises of all the things they would do when she was well again: the places they would travel, the exotic pleasures he would show her. She fell asleep in his lap with a smile curving her lips, her head resting heavily in the crook of his arm.

The next morning, however, she was much worse, her body quivering and light and burning hot, as if every part of her had been transmuted from flesh to flame. She was only vaguely aware of voices, of Zachary's gentle hand on her head and Paula's light cool fingers moving a cool rag over her scorching skin. It seemed that if that gentle cooling stroke ever ceased, she would not be able to bear the heat that would surely overtake her. She heard herself whispering words that made no sense, then some moments everything was clear enough that she could speak. “Help me, Mother…don't stop, please…”

“Dear Holly,” came Paula's kind, familiar voice, and the cloth moved diligently over her, ceaseless and untiring. Somewhere amid the delirium she heard Zachary as he snapped out orders to servants and sent a footman for the doctor, and there was some new hoarse note she had never heard in his voice. He was afraid, she thought dully…She tried to call for him, to reassure him that she would certainly get well again. But now that was only an elusive hope. It seemed this terrible inner fire would always be with her, burning and charring until she was nothing but an empty shell.

A new doctor arrived, a handsome blond man who wasn't much older than herself. Having always been attended by gray-whiskered old physicians of renowned experience and wisdom, Holly wondered if Dr. Linley would be of any use at all. However, his cool competence was immediately apparent, and during his examination she felt her delirium receding somewhat, as if storm clouds had been driven at bay by an emerging sun. With a gentle briskness that somehow reassured her, Linley left behind some brandy tonic and sent for some broth from the kitchen, advising that she must eat to preserve her strength. He left to confer with Zachary, who waited outside the room.

Finally Zachary came in to see her. Carefully he took the bedside chair and moved it to the edge of the mattress.

“I like that Dr. Linley,” Holly murmured.

“I thought you would,” Zachary said dryly. “I nearly turned him away at the door when I saw his appearance. It was only because of his excellent reputation that I let him inside.”

“Oh, well…” Making an effort, Holly dismissed the subject of the handsome doctor with a feeble gesture. “He's moderately attractive, I suppose…if one likes that golden Adonis sort.”

Zachary grinned briefly. “Fortunately you prefer Hades.”

She made a sound that, given more breath, would have been a chuckle. “At this moment, you bear the god of the underworld…more than a passing resemblance,” she informed him. She watched his face, which was calm and self-assured as always, except that he couldn't conceal the skull-white color of his skin. “What is Dr. Linley's verdict?” she asked in a scratchy whisper.

“Only a bad case of influenza,” he said matter-of-factly. “With some more rest and time, you'll be just—”

“It's typhoid,” Holly interrupted, a weary smile curving her lips at his deception. Naturally the doctor had advised him to keep the news from her, to prevent worry from hindering her possible recovery. She lifted a slender white arm and showed him the small pink blotch on the inside of her elbow. “I have more of these on my stomach and chest. Just as George did.”

Zachary stared thoughtfully at his shoes, hands shoved deep in his pockets as if he were deep in concentration. However, when his gaze lifted, she saw the gleam of hideous fear in his black eyes, and she made a crooning sound of reassurance. She patted the mattress beside her. Slowly he came to her and rested his dark head on her br**sts. Encircling his powerful shoulders with her arms, Holly whispered into the thick locks of his hair, “I'm going to get well, darling.”