Read Online A Christmas Promise by Mary Balogh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Balogh
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him sink into a deep stupor, which gradually lightened as the hours passed until it was time for a renewal of the medicine.
And soon a pattern was established, the hours of relative calm interspersed with intervals of tossing and turning and muttering. He mentioned her name many times and her mother’s name. Eventually he called her name no more but only her mother’s and once her grandmother’s and her grandfather’s.
She had no idea how long it lasted. She did know that several times she refused to be persuaded to go to bed for a rest and that once she allowed herself to be persuaded to eat, though the tray went back almost as full as it had been when it arrived. She was only half aware that the doctor and the housekeeper and other servants came and went from the room. She only half heard the housekeeper tell her on three separate occasions that his lordship had called.
She neither knew nor cared if it was hours or days or weeks that passed. It was actually the evening of the day following her arrival. His breathing had changed. There were longer intervals between the loud raspings.
“He is going, poor dear soul,” the housekeeper whispered.
But she did not hear the words. She held his hand very lightly in hers and knew from his mumblings earlier that she was already superfluous to him, being still anchored firmly in the land of the living. She knew that he was seeing only her mother and his own parents. She knew that he had already gone from her, that he needed now to shed the nuisance of a body that would no longer serve him.
She felt only her own loss. He was beyond pain or fear.
“He is gone, my lady. I am so sorry, my lady.” The soft voice and the hands on her shoulders were those of the housekeeper.
And she realized that there were no more breaths at all. She sat and held his hand for a while longer before laying it down gently at his side so as not to cause him pain. And she leaned forward and kissed it.
“Good-bye, Papa,” she said.
“His lordship is downstairs, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “You go to him. I’ll see to everything here.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor got to her feet and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs. Bennet.” She did not look at her father again.
“H E IS DEAD,” SHE said. “He died a few minutes ago.”
“I am so sorry,” he said, and he took a step toward her. She was still wearing the brown velvet dress she had put on the morning of the day before. Her hair looked as if it had not been combed since. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed. He would have gone to her, perhaps even drawn her into his arms. He had been impressed to learn on each of his visits that she could not be persuaded to leave the sickroom. Perhaps he had misjudged her.
“There is no need to be,” she said. “He should have died a month ago. Only stubbornness kept him alive so long.”
He stood still and watched her. “Come and sit down,” he said.
“It was kind of you to call so frequently,” she said. “I thank you.” She did not move from her standing position just inside the door.
“He was my father-in-law,” he said. “And you are my wife.”
Incredibly, she smiled. “What a lowering admission for you to have to make,” she said.
“My carriage is outside,” he said. “I shall send you home in it, my lady, with a maid. You need sleep. I shall stay to see the physician when he arrives and to begin making arrangements for … to begin making arrangements.”
“For the funeral,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. It is kind of you to be willing to do that. I shall return tomorrow morning—with your permission. There will be letters to write, people to inform.”
Even then he considered going to her. What would happen if he took her by the shoulders? Would she relax her proud posture, set her head against him, and allow the floodgates of grief to be opened?
Was
there grief? Or would she continue to stand stiffly, perhaps, and look at him in
And soon a pattern was established, the hours of relative calm interspersed with intervals of tossing and turning and muttering. He mentioned her name many times and her mother’s name. Eventually he called her name no more but only her mother’s and once her grandmother’s and her grandfather’s.
She had no idea how long it lasted. She did know that several times she refused to be persuaded to go to bed for a rest and that once she allowed herself to be persuaded to eat, though the tray went back almost as full as it had been when it arrived. She was only half aware that the doctor and the housekeeper and other servants came and went from the room. She only half heard the housekeeper tell her on three separate occasions that his lordship had called.
She neither knew nor cared if it was hours or days or weeks that passed. It was actually the evening of the day following her arrival. His breathing had changed. There were longer intervals between the loud raspings.
“He is going, poor dear soul,” the housekeeper whispered.
But she did not hear the words. She held his hand very lightly in hers and knew from his mumblings earlier that she was already superfluous to him, being still anchored firmly in the land of the living. She knew that he was seeing only her mother and his own parents. She knew that he had already gone from her, that he needed now to shed the nuisance of a body that would no longer serve him.
She felt only her own loss. He was beyond pain or fear.
“He is gone, my lady. I am so sorry, my lady.” The soft voice and the hands on her shoulders were those of the housekeeper.
And she realized that there were no more breaths at all. She sat and held his hand for a while longer before laying it down gently at his side so as not to cause him pain. And she leaned forward and kissed it.
“Good-bye, Papa,” she said.
“His lordship is downstairs, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “You go to him. I’ll see to everything here.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor got to her feet and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs. Bennet.” She did not look at her father again.
“H E IS DEAD,” SHE said. “He died a few minutes ago.”
“I am so sorry,” he said, and he took a step toward her. She was still wearing the brown velvet dress she had put on the morning of the day before. Her hair looked as if it had not been combed since. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed. He would have gone to her, perhaps even drawn her into his arms. He had been impressed to learn on each of his visits that she could not be persuaded to leave the sickroom. Perhaps he had misjudged her.
“There is no need to be,” she said. “He should have died a month ago. Only stubbornness kept him alive so long.”
He stood still and watched her. “Come and sit down,” he said.
“It was kind of you to call so frequently,” she said. “I thank you.” She did not move from her standing position just inside the door.
“He was my father-in-law,” he said. “And you are my wife.”
Incredibly, she smiled. “What a lowering admission for you to have to make,” she said.
“My carriage is outside,” he said. “I shall send you home in it, my lady, with a maid. You need sleep. I shall stay to see the physician when he arrives and to begin making arrangements for … to begin making arrangements.”
“For the funeral,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. It is kind of you to be willing to do that. I shall return tomorrow morning—with your permission. There will be letters to write, people to inform.”
Even then he considered going to her. What would happen if he took her by the shoulders? Would she relax her proud posture, set her head against him, and allow the floodgates of grief to be opened?
Was
there grief? Or would she continue to stand stiffly, perhaps, and look at him in
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