The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (27 page)

“See? Just sleep,” she whispered, as his breathing quieted, becoming more regular now. “Tomorrow it will be better.”

She only hoped she was right.

She was there beside him, his angel of mercy. He could hear her even breathing, somewhere near his left elbow. He hadn’t any idea who she was, but she’d been there beside him all night. He’d woken several times from a dreamless sleep, and each and every time she’d wiped his brow with a cool, damp cloth, and then held a glass of water to his lips, murmuring encouragement as he drank. He’d wanted to ask her name, but he hadn’t been able to muster the strength to do so. Instead, he’d simply fallen back against the pillows each time, listening as she bustled about the room. Eventually, she’d return to her spot beside the bed—a cot, perhaps? He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if she never left his side.

Just how long had she been tending him? He had no idea; he’d entirely lost his sense of time. He tried to sit, doing his best to remain silent so that he did not wake her. Eventually he managed to pull himself up to a seated position, where he could finally take stock of his surroundings.

It was nearly morning, he realized; the room bathed in the dim, hazy light of dawn. The space was small and sparsely furnished, with only the narrow iron bed he currently occupied, a single chest of drawers, a nightstand, and a small cot pushed against the wall. There wasn’t room for much else.

On the cot, the woman lay sleeping on her side, facing him, a quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked peaceful, with one hand tucked beneath her chin, her rosy lips parted slightly. He watched as her chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm. Her dark hair was fanned out on the pillow, a single stray lock falling across one cheek. His fingers itched to brush back that errant strand, but of course he could not.

Who was she? He vaguely remembered driving over to Orchard House, intent on speaking to the woman who had taken possession of the estate, but beyond that he had no firm memories. Right now, the only thing he could recall was her gentle touch, her soothing voice as she tended him.

Growing tired, he collapsed back against the pillow. He would shut his eyes for a few moments, perhaps allow himself to doze as he waited for her to awaken.

And then he’d find out who she was, and thank her.

“You’re awake,” Emmaline said, watching with surprise as Mr. Wainscott’s eyes fluttered open. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to his side and reached up to feel his forehead. It was cool and slightly clammy, and she let out a sigh of relief. “And your fever has broken. How do you feel?” She reached for his wrist, lifting it off the bed and placing her
fingers across his pulse. It was strong and steady, a marked improvement.

“Thirsty,” he croaked. “Hungry, too.”

Emmaline nodded, smiling down at the man. “That’s a good sign. You have
no
idea what a fright you gave me.”

“How long have I been here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“It’s been five days since you took ill. You were lucky you were here when you collapsed. If you’d been out somewhere, alone…” She shook her head. “Anyway, drink this.” She held a glass of water to his lips.

“I’ve got it,” he said, taking the glass in one shaky hand.

Her brow knitted. “Are you sure? I vow, you’re still as weak as a kitten.”

He looked determined—male pride, she supposed. With a nod, Emmaline released the glass and watched as he brought it to his mouth and drank deeply.

“Better?” she asked as she took the empty tumbler and set it down beside the pitcher on the nightstand.

“Much,” he said with a nod, then reached for her wrist, startling her. “Thank you.”

“It’s only water.” She glanced down at his fingers, still wrapped around her wrist. They were long and elegant, like an artist’s.

“Not for the water,” he said, shaking his head. He finally released her. “Though, yes, I suppose I should thank you for that, too. But I meant for everything. I can only imagine the inconvenience I’ve caused you, the trouble you’ve gone to. I do hope you’ve had some help.”

She shook her head. “The doctor wanted you quarantined. Since I was already exposed, I did not see the need to have you moved.”

“You mean to say that you’ve been here alone with me, all this time? Five days?” he asked, his voice rising.

“Five days is not so very long, Mr. Wainscott. Besides, I’m a nurse, remember? Or at least I was, before I came here. I’m perfectly equipped to handle situations like this one. I promise you were never in any danger—”

“You misunderstand,” he interrupted. “I’m certain I had the best care possible, thanks to you, Miss…” He trailed off. “You’ll have to pardon me, but I cannot recall your name.”

“Mrs. Gage,” she supplied. “Emmaline.” She had no idea what had prompted her to provide her given name. She’d certainly never allowed such familiarity with any of her previous patients.

“Emmaline,” he repeated. “Of course. And you must call me Jack.”

“Very well, Jack.” She reached down to straighten the bedcovers—a habit, she supposed.

He looked toward the window. “What time is it?”

Emmaline turned toward the window. “Nearly noon. It looks like rain, doesn’t it? Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go prepare you some broth. If that goes well, perhaps you can have some toast later.”

“I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” he said with a sigh.

A quarter hour later, Emmaline returned with a steaming bowl of broth and set it down beside the bed. “I suppose you’re going to insist on doing this yourself, too?”

“You know me too well,” he joked.

She set a tray across his lap. “I know your type,” she corrected. “After all, bravado was a common wartime trait.”

He straightened his spine, readjusting the tray. “Did you serve on the front?”

Emmaline nodded, placing the bowl and spoon on the tray before him. “First at a clearing station at Passchendaele, then Allonville.”

His eyes seemed to darken. “When were you at Allonville?”

She swallowed hard before replying. “The last year of the war. Why?”

“I came through that clearing station,” he said, his voice suddenly dull. “In 1918. Just after the attack on the twenty-first of March.”

“You were at Saint Quentin? In March of 1918? Good God, you were Fifth Army, weren’t you?”

His eyes met hers, his gaze unflinching. “Fifth Army, Third Division.”

She nodded, sinking to the cot beside his bed. “You said as much the night you arrived here.”

How on earth had he survived it? She’d heard that the Fifth Army had been all but decimated. They’d been at the very front, and had taken the brunt of the German attack. Trench mortars, mustard gas, chlorine gas, smoke canisters—the casualties had been horrific. There had been very little for them to do at the clearing station afterward; most of the wounded had perished right there in the trenches before regimental medical officers had even been able to get to them.

She watched as he spooned the broth into his mouth, his hand trembling as he did so. One bite. Two. Torturously slow. And then he let the spoon clatter back to the tray. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward her. “My entire unit was destroyed that day,” he said, his voice flat. “Fathers, brothers, sons—gone, nearly all of them. I’ve never quite understood why I managed to survive. Me, with no wife, no children. No one back at home who cared whether I lived or died, save my mother and sister.”

Emmaline’s throat felt tight, her windpipe constricted. She swallowed hard, willing the tears to remain at bay. “I’m sorry” was all she managed in reply.

“So am I,” Jack said, sounding utterly defeated.

“I should leave you,” Emmaline said, rising from the cot. “Let you finish your broth in peace.”

“Please stay.” Jack’s voice broke ever so slightly.

Emmaline nodded, reaching for the spoon on his tray. “But only if you’ll let me help you.”

4

EMMALINE PEERED AT JACK OVER THE TOP EDGE of the book she held in her hands. He looked tired, though he’d never admit it, stubborn man. “Shall I stop there for the night?”

“No, keep going,” he answered, opening his eyes. “I’m finding this all…quite illuminating.”

She was reading aloud from Forster’s
A Room with a View.
She’d found it in the library, and Jack had asked her to read it to him. It was clear that the novel wasn’t to his taste, and yet he was indulging her, pretending to enjoy the romance between Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson.

“In fact,” he continued, “can you reread that last bit? You know, the part where she was gazing at him longingly?”

“Oh, do shut up!” Emmaline cried, smacking his arm with the book.

“Well, you must admit it’s a bit overwrought,” he said with a shrug.

She shook her head. “I won’t admit to any such thing. It’s beautiful and romantic, the writing so very vivid. Why, I can almost see the streets of Florence, just as Mr. Forster has described them.”

“I suppose.” He sounded unconvinced. “What does Lucy possibly see in George, anyway? He’s a rather sullen chap, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all. His manners are just not as refined, that’s all. Anyway, it’s all about escaping society’s constraints, and George represents that escape, along with an escape from sexual repression. Lucy is a truly brave heroine.”

He shook his head. “You got all that from the text? Why, it’s just a love story. And a rather dull one, if I might say so.”

“Oh, never mind. Perhaps I should find a more titillating passage—would that make you happy?” she teased.

“I should have my sister send over some of her earlier works, and have you read those aloud,” he said with a chuckle.

“Is that so?” Emmaline had learned that his sister, Aisling, was a novelist, married to a botanist and living in Cambridge. Jack spoke fondly of her and her husband, even though their marriage had caused a terrible scandal back home, as the groom’s father was unknown, and his mother a washer-woman. Jack loved to talk about Aisling—it was clear that they shared a very close bond.

“Did I ever mention that her first publication credits were short stories in the
Boudoir?
Published under a pen name, of course.”

Emmaline just shrugged. She’d never heard of the
Boudoir,
though it
did
sound rather racy.

“Yes, indeed,” he continued. “My sister got her start writing naughty stories.
Very
naughty.”

“You’re teasing me,” Emmaline said with a sigh, marking the page in the book with a square of needlepoint. “It isn’t nice, you know—teasing one’s nurse.”

Jack’s eyes danced with mischief. “Actually, I’m not teasing at all. They’re scandalous stories, I tell you. Trust me, I’ve
read every last one of them. I’m the one who took them to London and sold them to the
Boudoir.”

Emmaline raised one brow. “I presume I’m to find this shocking?”

He shook his head, a shock of blond hair falling carelessly across his forehead. “No? Oh, right. I forgot, you’re an American. It’s much harder to shock an American, isn’t it?”

She resisted the urge to stand and brush back the lock of hair from his forehead. “What, precisely, are you trying to say about Americans, Mr. Wainscott?” she asked instead, allowing herself to enjoy the banter.

“I’ve no idea, really.” He shrugged. “It’s all balderdash. But it made you smile, and you’ve a beautiful smile. Your entire face lights up. And there you have it, my ulterior motive. I’ve
always
got a motive. Just ask my sister.”

Emmaline’s heart fluttered at the compliment. “I imagine you do,” she murmured, her cheeks growing warm. “Always have a motive, that is.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, “do you think we could take a turn outside? In the garden, perhaps? It’s far too stuffy in here tonight.”

Emmaline shook her head in frustration. “No. No turns outside, no leaving this bed. I let you overtax yourself this afternoon, and you need your rest.”

He’d insisted on ambling about the house before tea, and he’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion. She’d let him out of bed against her better judgment, and he’d proved that he wasn’t quite ready. The influenza had taken a far greater toll on his body than he realized. She’d never met such a stubborn man.

“I know what we’ll do,” she said, suddenly having an idea. “We’ll give you a shave. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. I found some shaving supplies in one of
the washrooms when I first arrived. Surely there must be a usable blade among them.”

He reached up to rub one heavily whiskered cheek. “I suppose you’re right. I would hate to forfeit my claim on being a dandy. I take great pride in it, after all. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ll be right back. You’re
not
to get out of that bed while I’m gone, do you hear me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. “You’re quite bossy, you know.”

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest. “You do realize I’m going to be holding a blade to your throat in a few moments, don’t you?”

“I like you,” he quipped. “Very much, to tell you the truth. Surely you wouldn’t harm a man who holds you in such high esteem? Even if I am lying here rather helplessly.”

Her pulse leaped. Dear Lord, the man had no idea how his careless words affected her. “You’re far too charming for your own good,” she said, trying to sound disapproving.

“Perhaps I used to be, before the war. Now I’m just a bore. Like Cecil Vyse,” he added, tipping his head toward the book. “The poor bloke.”

She rolled her eyes. “Have you been listening to yourself? I vow, you could charm the skin off a snake.”

For the briefest of moments, he looked thoughtful, serious even. “It’s been…years since I’ve laughed the way I have today,” he said, somber now.

“I’m glad,” she said. “You’ve made me laugh, too. It’s been…” She trailed off, realizing that she’d almost said
fun—
which was ridiculous, really. She was only nursing the man back to health, not enjoying a house party. “I’m enjoying your company,” she said instead. “Now if you’ll excuse me
for one moment, I’ll go gather the shaving supplies.” She hurried out before the telltale rise of color in her cheeks gave her away.