Poison to Purge Melancholy (37 page)

“I’ve never had the chance. And where would I begin? Likely he also assumed a new name.”

“Then perhaps, in case he searches for you, you should change yours back. You can still go by Ben, since he called you that, but—”

“Discard Dunbar and reclaim the family crest?” His voice was all jest, yet I sensed shame for humble beginnings.

“This is Virginia, sir, where all men are equal, regardless of their ancestry.”

His smile broadened across his handsome face. “If
you
wish it, mistress Polly, I would go so far as to change my name to—Shortpockets. Benjamin Shortpockets. Nice ring to it.”

I bit my lip to stem my laughter, lest the doctor should hear. “No, sir, I do not wish it.”

“Greenshingles, then? Or, wait, what about Tornbritches? Most appropriate.”

’Twas a moment before I could speak through my mirth. “Stop. I shall call you by your true name whether you like it or not—Mr.
Hawkins
.”

Taking a step back, he bowed low. “Your pleasure, mistress, is my own.”

Zela wasn’t on duty
at the King’s Arms Sunday night, which was just as well because by then I had no more need to talk to her and every need to talk to Hugh.

Not that it was easy to begin. First, while we scanned menus, the Grand Illumination procession came down the street to light the cressets in front of the tavern. Since I’d walked along with it the night before, I didn’t go outside, but the distraction didn’t promote conversation.

Next our waiter, decked out in colonial duds yet carrying the kind of large plastic tray seen in any modern restaurant, kept showing up at our table to take our orders, tell us things like why the sugar was brown, and to ply us with homemade relishes, apple cheddar muffins, and Sally Lunn.

At last, Hugh’s peanut soup came. I’d skipped that course, saving my appetite for the main meal, but when Hugh let me taste the soup, I went into such ecstasy, he put the bowl in the middle of the table so we could share.

“I still don’t understand,” he said, sotto voce
.
“Why is Polly haunting the Carson house?”

“Oh? You admit you believe in ghosts now?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Polly vowed to nurse her mother as long as she was needed. Elizabeth’s spirit never left the house—she’s trapped, refusing to let go of all the bad memories from the two years before her accident. She makes herself relive the symptoms of Brennan’s poisoning as a kind of penance, I suppose. She didn’t see her husband die or I’m guessing she’d relive his symptoms as well.” I wanted to use my forefinger to scoop up the last drops of soup, but controlled the urge. “She’s not sane, Hugh—if that can be said about a ghost. Maybe she never was, or the brain damage she suffered that Christmas Day somehow permanently put her mind in a loop that even death couldn’t break. So when Polly died, instead of reuniting with her husband and father, she stuck around to keep nursing her mother. I wish . . .”

Hugh frowned. “You wish what?”

“They’re both still there, Hugh. Nothing I did this weekend changed that. All I did was find out their stories, not help them escape.”

“Pat, don’t even think—”

Our waiter appeared, taking bowl and soup spoons. When he moved on to the next table, I said, “Why do I have this bizarre talent, Hugh? I didn’t ask for it. But if I have to live with it, I think I’m supposed to use it for more than just satisfying my curiosity. Polly and Elizabeth know someone’s listening now. I’m like . . . like . . .”

“Their shrink?” He gave me a free smirk with the sarcasm.

“That’s
exactly
it.” I smirked back, but I was serious and he knew it. “I have an obligation.”

“After dinner we’ll be heading back to Bell Run, Pat—”

“We’ll be back in a week and a half for your mom’s wedding. After that, it wouldn’t do you any harm to visit her once a month or so, would it? I’ll want to spend time with my future mother-in-law, after all.”

That made him smile.

I pressed my advantage. “Elizabeth will be an in-law, too. She’s family. I can’t
not
try.”

The waiter showed up again with Hugh’s Cornish hen and my game pie: bits of venison, rabbit, and duck, with carrots and pearl onions in a luscious dark brown gravy, all under a flaky crust. One bite (ooh, rosemary in the gravy!) and my eyes rolled in delight. Three bites later, I paused for air. “Well?”

“The Cornish hen’s delicious.”

“No, I meant about me working on Elizabeth. Maybe I can get her to dwell on pleasant memories, and to lay off the fusebox and making people sick.”

He sighed, switching his fork to his left hand so he could drape his arm along the edge of the table, palm up, as an invitation. Hugh-ese for “okay.”

I put my left hand in his, grinning at him. Yet, the gentle pressure of his fingers reminded me of the ring. Best to get this over with.

I took my hand back, sliding the ring off. Again, considering how tight it felt on my finger, it came off too easily. “I can’t wear this.”

He pursed his lips as he took it. “Because of Tanya?”

“Because of Beth Ann. It’s hers. Or should be. Her mom would have wanted that, I think.”

He looked at the ring with new interest, almost a LAG. “All right, I’ll put it back in my safety deposit box for when she turns eighteen.” Worming his arm beneath his pullover sweater, he slipped the ring into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. “Want to shop for another next weekend?”

“Acey said I should ask you for Great-Aunt Mildred’s.”

He made a face. “You don’t want that one. It’s ugly.”

A challenge I couldn’t resist. Besides, after having an antique ring on my finger all weekend, the modern issues seemed boring by comparison. “At least let me see it.”

He shrugged as he turned back to his food. “Whatever floats your boat, but I’ll end up buying you one anyway. That is,” he looked up, “if you still want to marry me?”

His grin said he was kidding. The insecurity was behind his eyes, where he thought I couldn’t see it. “You aren’t getting away that easy, Bub,” I assured him. “But we
do
need to talk.”

The puppy dog look came back, mixed with a dose of the universal male revulsion against “discussing the relationship.” Could I tell him he wasn’t over Tanya? That he’d been running from his grief all these years and had only now turned to face it?

This wasn’t my theory but Beth Ann’s, though she didn’t know it. I’d had that talk with her. A short talk—neither of us wanted to be uncomfortable for more than ten minutes.

“Dad’s been weird since you guys started going out,” was her reaction. When asked “weird how?” she’d shrugged. “He mentions stuff he and mom used to do. Out of the blue. Then if I ask about her, he clams up again. And when we were coming home from Grandmom’s on Thanksgiving weekend, he stopped in Richmond and we visited Mom’s grave. We
never
did that before.”

I’d told her I thought it was a good sign. I hoped it was. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss Tanya with Hugh. I needed to get to know her better myself first.
Paesan
’ to
paesan
’.

Instead I brought up a more practical subject. “Your daughter wanted to know where we’d all live. She’s afraid we’ll leave Bell Run. I told her that wasn’t an option for me.”

“Nor for me,” Hugh said. “I know the trailer’s too small for the three of us, and I’m also not abandoning Miss Maggie. She likes to pretend she’s independent, but she can’t take care of that place by herself.”

“She’d be heartbroken if we left.” I remembered Miss Maggie’s comment about her “own selfish motives”—in fact, I’d thought about it off and on since my early morning walk with her yesterday. “I think she wants to spend some time with me, Hugh, before I get married. I guess she thinks I’ll get busy and won’t have time later.” No, I thought,
I
was afraid of that. “I’d like to take some little trips with her—let her show me around the historic sites in Virginia, however far she’s able to travel.”

He let out a belly laugh. “You’ll end up in South America. Sure you could stand her singing that long?”

“I’ll offer it up.” I sobered again. “I’ve lived with her less than a year, Hugh, and she’s been so good to me—”

“And you might not get the chance again—” He didn’t mean because of marriage. He meant I might not have time because Miss Maggie was pushing ninety-two and nobody lives forever. We both had that scary thought in mind and neither of us could voice it.

He reached across the table and caressed my hand again. “Great idea, Pat. Miss Maggie would love traveling with you.”

“Some trips could be the four of us,” I suggested. “You and Beth Ann, too?”

He feigned horror. “Me travel with three women? You’d make me stop and ask directions.”

“What makes you think you’d be driving?”

We bantered back and forth while we finished our meal, talking about vacations we could all take on spring break or after school let out for the summer.

When the waiter removed our plates and left us to decide about dessert, Hugh took my hand for the third time. “If I’m hearing right, you want to take this engagement slow?”

Part of me—no, two parts: heart and hormones—wanted to shout, “No! Let’s get married tonight!” but I asked, “What do
you
want?”

“I want to hop a plane to Vegas right now.” He’d read my mind, and the grip of his hand said he meant it. “But I guess slow is better. Not painfully slow, I hope?” His pseudo-evil leer surfaced.

“Not painful at all, Romeo.”

We skipped dessert, opting for a moonlit walk through the historic area. Hugh was well-versed in all the dark corners conducive to necking. He led me to the chimney wall of a kitchen where they’d done living history baking that day. The bricks were still warm. With them at my back and him in front of me, I felt nice and cozy.

“I never took Tanya here,” he said, as if handing me a gift.

“Yeah? What about every girl in your high school?”

“Quit being fussy.” He kissed me in a way that proved he’d learned a thing or two since graduation. An avid student of the subject myself, I paid close attention to the lesson, even expressing a willingness to do extra credit.

But when our studies showed signs of going beyond the curriculum that night, I knew we had to discuss one more thing. I pushed on Hugh’s shoulders. “Rich called this afternoon.”

“You want to talk about my brother?” He paused to draw in a needed lungful of air, before adding incredulously, “Now?”

“Rich rushed the lab into doing my blood tests this weekend. He called with the results.”

Unfortunately, that had the effect of a cool shower. Hugh straightened up, scared. “Well?”

First I reassured him. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just that my blood showed a higher than normal tendency to clot. Rich says, given my family history, it’s likely genetic, I guess sort of the opposite of hemophilia. He said I’m not anywhere near the danger zone, but I have to avoid anything that can aggravate it.”

“Like birth control pills?”

“Right, and I—you see, my cousin Nicola almost lost her baby because of a blood clot, so I asked Rich—”

“You can’t get pregnant,” Hugh deduced.

“The problem is, I probably
can
. But I shouldn’t. Not ’til I have more tests.”

The thing about Hugh is, if you give him an opportunity to be a hero, he’s there. He hates my playing with ghosts because he can’t protect me, but by gum, he could protect me from pregnancy and swore he would, with an air of noble sacrifice that was almost Lancelot-esque.

I was trying not to laugh when he added, “What do you want to do about New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh, right. Thursday night. I wanted to ask you—”

He hugged me closer, going all sensitive-guy on me. “If you don’t want to take the risk before having tests, Pat, that’s fine. Whenever you’re ready.”

The idiot. Couldn’t he tell I was ready
now
? “It’s not that. I just—I had this idea for New Year’s Eve.” I grinned up at him. “And you’re gonna hate it.”