Where Dreams Begin(108)

“Go up to her if you want,” Zachary said gruffly.

A bitter, self-mocking smile curved Ravenhill's aristocratic mouth. “I don't know,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible. “I don't know if I can go through this a second time.”

“Do as you like, then.” Zachary left him abruptly, unable to stand the twitching pain in the other man's face, the flash of fear in his eyes. He did not want to share feelings or memories or platitudes. He had coldly told his mother, Maude, the housekeeper and any servant within earshot that if they resorted to fits of weeping or other displays of emotion, they would be banished on the spot. The atmosphere in the household was calm, quiet and oddly serene.

Not caring where Ravenhill went or what he did or how he might locate Holly's room without assistance, Zachary wandered aimlessly until he came to the ballroom. It was dark, the windows covered in heavy draperies. He shoved one of the velvet panels aside and secured it, until long shafts of sunlight scored across the shining parqueted floor and illuminated a green silk-covered wall. Staring into a huge gold-framed mirror, he remembered the long-ago dance lessons, the way Holly had stood in his arms and earnestly murmured instructions to him, while at the time all he had been able to think of was how he desired her, loved her.

Her warm brown eyes had danced as she had teased him: I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you…

Slowly Zachary lowered himself to the floor and sat, his back against the window ledge, remembering—his eyes half-closed and his head drooped in weariness. He was so tired, and yet he couldn't seem to sleep at night, his entire being locked in suspenseful agony. The only peace came when it was his turn to watch over Holly and he could reassue himself every minute that she was still breathing, her pulse still beating, her lips moving ceaselessly as she floated through fragments of dreams.

After what could have been five minutes or fifty, Zachary heard a voice echo in the dark, gleaming cavern of a room. “Bronson.”

He lifted his head and saw Ravenhill standing in the doorway. The earl looked pale and grim, almost unnaturally self-controlled. “I don't know if she'll die,” Ravenhill said curtly. “She doesn't look nearly as sunken and emaciated as George did at this point. But I do know she's heading into the crisis, and you'd do well to send for the doctor.”

Zachary was on his feet before he had finished the last sentence.

Holly seemed to awaken in some blessedly cool dream, the pain and heat lifting, leaving her relaxed and more alert than she had felt in weeks. I am better now, she thought in surprise, and looked about eagerly, wanting to share the wonderful news with Zachary. She wanted to see him, and Rose, and to make them understand that the torment of the past days was finally over. But she was perplexed to find herself alone, standing in a cool, faintly salty fog that reminded her of the seaside. She hesitated, not certain of where to go or why she was here, but she was lured by faint sweet sounds ahead…it almost sounded like water splashing, birds chirping, trees rustling. She wandered forward, her limbs invigorated, her senses refreshed by the soft atmosphere. Gradually the veil of mist faded, and she found herself in a place of sparkling blue water and gentle green hills, with lush exotic flowers everywhere. Curiously she bent to touch one of the velvety peach-colored blossoms, and its fragrance seemed to surround and intoxicate her. Despite her puzzlement, she wanted to laugh in pleasure. Oh, she had forgotten how it had felt to be so purely happy, in the way that innocent children were. “What a beautiful dream,” she said.

A smiling voice answered her. “Well, it's not precisely a dream.”

She turned with a bewildered frown, hunting for the source of the tantalizingly familiar voice, and saw a man walking toward her. He stopped and stared at her with the blue eyes she had never forgotten.

“George,” she said.

Holly's fair, fresh skin had a plum-colored cast, and her breathing was alarmingly fast and shallow. The fever burned unbelievably hot, and her eyes were half-open in a strange, fixed stare. Dressed in her white gown, with only a light sheet to cover her legs, she looked as small as a child as she lay alone in her bed. She was dying, Zachary thought numbly, and he could not seem to think of what would happen afterward. For him there would be no hopes, no expectations, no future pleasure or happiness, as if his own life would end when hers did. He waited in the corner of the room silently while Dr. Linley examined Holly. Paula and Maude had also entered the bedroom, both of them obviously struggling to mask their grief.

The doctor came to Zachary and spoke very softly. “Mr. Bronson, there are several techniques I've been trained in, most of which I believe would finish your wife off quickly rather than save her. The only thing I can do is give her something that will make her passing easier.”

Zachary did not require an explanation. He knew exactly what Linley was offering: to drug Holly so that she would sleep peacefully during the last painful stage of the typhoid. He heard himself breathing in a too-rapid, too-light fashion that was not unlike Holly's. Then he heard the sound change, and he glanced toward the bed as Holly's breaths came in difficult, fitful sighs.

“The death rattle,” he heard Maude say fearfully.

Zachary felt his sanity snap, and he flinched under Linley's steady regard. “Get out,” he said hoarsely, almost giving in to the temptation to bare his teeth at them all and grow like an enraged animal. “Leave me alone with her. Leave, now!”