Disconcerted, she lowered her head in her hand and closed her eyes, wanting to banish the recollections back to oblivion. Her failure to find any recall of Ashton swept away any hopes of a joyful conclusion to her malady and left her weak and listless. Although she knew she had to face the truth, her heart still cried out for him. Sweeter by far were the moments she had spent with him.
“Mum?” Meghan reached out a hand to lay it gently on her shoulder. “Are ye all right, mum?”
A long, weary sigh slipped from Lenore as she leaned back against the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling at all well this afternoon.”
“Come lay down on the bed, mum,” the maid coaxed. “I’ll fetch a cool, wet rag so ye can bathe yer face whilst ye rest.”
“Shouldn’t I be getting dressed for dinner?” Lenore tightened the towel across her bosom, but could not find the energy to begin the actual dressing.
“There’s plenty o’ time, mum. Just ye slip on yer wrapper an’ lay down till ye’re feelin’ better. What with ye an’ yer father travelin’ all the way from Natchez, a little sleep might do ye good.”
Obeying the woman’s suggestion, Lenore donned a light cotton wrapper and stretched out on the bed. The sheets were cool and freshly scented, and the comfort of the down-filled tick soon swept her into the dark sea of slumber. For a time she drifted in a nirvanic limbo where reality was but a mere haze behind long, undulating veils. Dreams began to filter through, and in carefree abandon she floated from one to another, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fluttering draperies closed in around her and began to glow, as if suffused with sunlight. A broad-shouldered form came to her, at first indistinct and dark; then her heart tripped a beat as Ashton’s sun-bronzed features came into focus. He leaned his head down to press a lover’s kiss upon her naked breast, and before her eyes his visage slowly broadened and changed. A thin mustache appeared above leering lips, and she found herself staring into the warm regard of Malcolm Sinclair. The veils became flaming walls that surrounded her, and she writhed in agony as their fiery tongues flicked out to torment her. Then from the core of the flames human forms emerged and pressed in close around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Everywhere she turned she was met by a myriad of smirking faces. Goblets were lifted in tribute, as if to celebrate her descent into this roiling pit of hell…except for one man who stood apart from the proceedings. He was more like a frightened ferret scurrying about from one hiding place to another, moving stealthily but ever closer to her. Then suddenly his countenance filled her vision, and his soundless scream echoed through her brain.
Lenore came awake with a gasp and stared wildly about the room, unable to tear herself from the nightmare. Any second she expected to find that tormented visage hiding in one of the nooks and crannies of her room, and her heart quaked in fear as she braced herself for the discovery. A dark shadow seemed to hover close beside the bed, and when reality slowly returned, she realized it was Meghan who stood there. Gazing down at her with sympathic gaze, the maid smoothed the tumbled hair away from her brow and cheek.
“Ye’ve been tossin’ an’ mumblin’ like ye were havin’ a bad dream, mum, an’ I think ye’ve got a wee bit o’ fever.”
Still apprehensive, Lenore cast a wary glance about the room. “Is someone with you?”
Meghan frowned in bemusement. “’Tis only yerself an’ me here, mum. There’s no one else.”
A trembling sigh slipped from Lenore’s parched lips as she leaned back into the pillows. “Yes, I must have been dreaming.”
“Aye, mum. That ye were,” Meghan agreed, placing another moistened cloth across her forehead. “Ye rest yerself some more, an’ I’ll wake ye when it’s time to dress for dinner. If ye’re not better by then, I’ll tell yer father ye won’t be comin’ down.”
“I am tired,” Lenore admitted.
“O’ course ye are, an’ ye’ve a good reason to be.”
Lenore sighed and let sleep overtake her again. It was vague and restful, with only a fleeting moment of distress when her dreams wandered through a confused maze and she heard a cacophony of muted voices, the snarled curses of an angry man, the muffled weeping of a woman, and the slurred oration of a drunken poet.
Startled, Lenore sat upright, wondering for a moment where she was. Then as memory returned, she rose and allowed herself to be dressed in the gown that Meghan had laid out. Opening the chamber door, she slipped out into the corridor and crept down the stairs.
The illusive night sounds of the marsh drifted in through the open windows, blending with the soft, distant crashing of the waves on the beach. The french doors of the parlor stood wide to catch the cooling breezes, but as Lenore approached the room, she felt a chill sweep over her. The fever had not left, and reality seemed rather indistinct, but Meghan had done her best with dressing her hair, and her lackluster mood was not revealed. The fever filled her cheeks with color and brightened her eyes while the blue gown did much to compliment her fair skin.
The slightly slurred voice of her father came to her ears as she paused in the hall near the parlor: “What is this chiding? Have I not done well by you? The Bard said it well, he did. ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child.’”
Malcolm’s reply seemed rather brusque. “Happy is the child whose father goes to the devil.”
“Tsk! Tsk!” Robert shamed. “Have you no respect for your elders, man?” A moment of silence followed by an appreciative sigh gave evidence that Somerton had just taken a long sip of his favorite tipple. He chortled as he gave a warning: “Be careful now. I’ll leave me fortune at some other’s door, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find another.”
“You’re drunk,” Malcolm chided.
“Am I now?” Robert sucked his breath in through his teeth and might have delivered a retort if Mary had not come into the hall with a tray of clean glasses for the parlor and greeted her mistress.
“Good evenin’, mum. ’Tis good to see that ye be feelin’ better.”
Lenore smiled lamely, not wishing to correct the young woman. Then since Mary hung back, Lenore preceded her into the parlor. Malcolm quickly rose from his chair and came forward, wearing a strange smile as his eyes caressed her. Stiffening slightly as his hand slipped behind her waist, she pressed trembling hands against her skirt to quell the urge to draw away.
“Come join us, Lenore. We have been severely starved for your beauty, and now you have given us a feast. It is difficult to take in such radiance with just a mere glance. Let us savor it at our leisure.”
Robert pushed himself rather clumsily from his chair and held up his glass in salute to her. “I must agree. Surely the loveliest daughter a man could want.” He liberally indulged himself in the toast, then with a knuckle lightly whisked both ends of his mustache upward. Clearing his throat, he stared down into his empty glass and then beckoned for Mary to fill it. “Be a good girl now and fetch me another whiskey.”
Malcolm’s forehead crinkled into a reproving frown as he escorted Lenore to the settee. “Shouldn’t you wait until after dinner?”
With a casual wave of a hand Somerton dismissed the younger man’s suggestion and spoke directly to the maid. “A splash or two more won’t hurt, me dearie.”
Uncertain as to what to do, the maid looked to Malcolm for approval and then, at his reluctant nod, replenished the libation. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Robert chortled as the servant brought him the glass, and being in good spirits, began to recit a little verse. “Yestre’en the queen had four Marys, This night she’ll hae but three; There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton and Mary Carmichael, and”-he winked at the girl as he changed the ending to his liking-“and thee, me sweet Mary Murphy.”