In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family's private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.
It was well over ten years since he'd last entered his mother's boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.
The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan's harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he'd inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.
She hadn't smiled at him that day; she hadn't believed him, either, or rather, hadn't known what to believe. She'd hesitated, hadn't immediately thrown her loyalty and support behind him, and that had been enough. Enough to bring life as she and he had known it to an end.
Slowly, he moved into the room, recognizing figurines, a clock, a letter opener. Breathing in, he could almost believe he could smell her perfume, weak and stale beneath the weight of the years, but still there.
Still evoking her presence, her smile.
He'd stopped blaming her long ago. He halted by the bed. The counterpane was of padded silk; there were silk shawls and wraps of the finest wool draped about the room. Cushions with silk tassels, pillows edged with lace; he gathered them all in the middle of the bed, then wrapped them in the counterpane. Picking up the candelabra, he headed back to Amanda. Reaching the door of his old room, he paused. All inside was quiet. Setting down the silken bundle by the door, he continued on, back to the gallery.
He knew the house intimately, like a second skin. He walked through the downstairs rooms and checked every window, every door, every place someone could effect an entry. His great-grandfather had built the house-he'd built it to last; a year of neglect hadn't harmed the fabric, had barely left a mark beyond the dust and cobwebs. Confident no "highwayman" could surprise them in the night, he returned upstairs. Opening the door to his old room, he heard Reggie blathering.
"You know, you look just like a young lady I used to know. You can confide in me, I'm quite safe. Do we-I suppose I mean I-have to actually have an interview with the Great Man? With St. Peter, I mean. Or is it the done thing to just swan in, assuming no stain on one's conscience? I don't believe I have one on mine… not really. Nothing too damning, y'know."
Reggie was twisting restlessly on the bed; as Martin closed the door and set aside his bundle, Martin saw him stiffen, straighten, then tug at the bedclothes Amanda was struggling to keep over him. Martin had seen Reggie make the same gesture many times, tugging his waistcoat into place.
"Truth is," Reggie went on, his voice lowering, "I always imagined he'd look like my old headmaster, old Pettigrew. I'm quite keen to see the old fellow." He paused, frowned, then amended, "St. Peter, that is. Not Pettigrew. I know what old Pettigrew looked like-well, he looked like Pettigrew, don't you know?" Reggie continued, but his words became harder and harder to make out, degenerating into a delirious mumble.
Amanda was silently crying, tears rolling down her cheeks as she struggled to keep Reggie from thrashing about, from disturbing his bandages. The mumbling continued, rising, then falling; Reggie continued to twist and turn.
Martin nudged Amanda aside. "Sit by the headboard and hold his head. I'll deal with the rest of him."
She nodded, sniffed, scrubbed at her cheeks as she scrambled up on the bed. Together, they made a better job of letting the delirium run its course while limiting the damage Reggie did to his head. And them; Martin had to lunge across the bed and catch Reggie's arm before he hit Amanda. As far as Martin could judge, he'd been demonstrating cracking a whip.
How long the attack lasted he had no idea, but it eventually subsided, and Reggie slipped once more into deeper unconsciousness. Martin gradually straightened, stretched his aching back. Amanda slumped back against the headboard, her hands reluctantly unbracketing Reggie's bound head.
"He thinks he's dead."
Martin looked at her stricken face, reached out, drew her off the bed into his arms. He hugged her, cradling her head against his chest. "He's not dead, and there's no reason to suppose he will be anytime soon. We just have to wait and he'll wake up." He prayed that was true.
She sniffed, then lifted her head and turned to the bed-as if she intended kneeling by it until Reggie regained his wits.
He held onto her. "No-you have to rest."
She turned huge eyes on him. "I can't leave him."
"We can make up a bed by the fire, and be close enough to hear if he starts rattling on again." He drew her with him, picking up the bundle he'd collected. "You'll be no good to him later if you're worn to a frazzle."
Amanda allowed him to bully her into helping him lay out the beautiful counterpane and build a bed of the puffy cushions and pillows, the shawls and wraps. She knew he was right. But when he tried to make her lie on the side closer to the fire, she put her foot down. "No. I can't see him from there."
He narrowed his eyes at her; the suspicion he'd intended just that, so if Reggie stirred, she might not hear and he could deal with it and leave her asleep, blazed in her mind. She set her chin. "I'm sleeping on this side."
She lay down on the side closer to the bed, settled her curls on the pillow and fixed her eyes on the bed. Hands on his hips, lips thin, Martin glared down at her, then, with one of his low growls, capitulated. Stepping over her, he lay down between her and the fire.
With his body screening her from the hearth, she should have remained cold, iced to the bone by shock and concern. There wasn't any warmth left in her. But Martin settled his chest to her back, curved his body around hers, slid his arms about her-and his heat enveloped her. Sank into her, gradually permeated her bones… until her muscles relaxed, until her lids grew heavy…
A strange noise woke her. A cross between a snort and a choke, a snuffling…
Then she remembered. Eyes flying wide, she looked at the bed. And realized what she was hearing. Snoring. Not from Martin, but from Reggie.
She eased from Martin's arms, stood and hurried to the bed. They'd left one window uncurtained; faint light seeped into the room. Reggie lay on his back-the snorting, choking noise was definitely coming from him, but he didn't seem distressed. The sound seemed too regular for a death rattle.
The lines of his face seemed relaxed, not slack in the utter blankness of unconsciousness. Daring to hope, to believe in the relief welling inside her, she put a hand to his cheek.
He snuffled more definitely, raised a hand, caught her fingers, patted them with his, then pushed her hand away. "Not now, Daisy. Later."