Interlude November 1691 #2
What held her there? Tears burned suddenly and hotly in her eyes. There were just times … when she missed him. Fiercely. Incredibly. Times when she could not stop the dreams of what could never be. Times when she longed for him with an ache in her heart that could not be brought under control.
The war in Ireland was over. That, at least, she knew. She had prayed, night and day, that he would live. She had promised God that she would cease to want him—if only God would grant that he would live. But it was not an easy promise to fulfill.
“Mama?”
Michael pulled at her hand, staring up at her with curiosity—and a strange look of understanding that was very unusual for one so young. He was concerned; he did not know what hurt her, only that something did.
She gave herself a little shake and stared down at her child. Her love for him suddenly seemed to pour out of her like the rush of a geyser, and she picked him up again, cradling him tightly to her heart.
Life was good. She could not have Sloan, but she had their son. She had Michael. And as long as she had him, she had everything.
And she had Robert, as kind and gentle a man as had ever walked the earth. They had a good life. She was content.
As long as she kept her eyes from straying to the sea.
January 1692
A cold wind blew in from the sea. Winter had come that year with a chilling blast, as if the season itself had life and menace. He stood on the cliffs with the wind whipping around him, watching the terrible power of the sea and feeling powerless himself.
Alwyn had taken ill. Even now she lay in her beautifully adorned chamber, tossing with fever.
No matter what the physicians tried, she slipped daily.
She was so very thin now, blue veins were bright against the pathetic delicacy of her hands, her coloring had gone ashen.
Like gossamer or silk, she became ever more elusive.
How he longed to give her his strength, to hold her, to give her courage.
But the fever had brought delirium, and though he held her hand, she seldom knew he was there.
No matter how he longed to help her, he could not.
And it was a hard lesson to learn that no matter how strong a man might be, he hadn’t the power of a single gust of wind, or of a single wave that might crash against the shore.
“Lord Treveryan! Lord Treveryan! You must come, quickly.”
Sloan turned and seized the horse’s reins as the steward, an old man long in his service, dismounted.
“What is it, then, Gerald?”
“She asks for you, my lord. My lady asks for you.”
Sloan frowned. “She calls for me by name?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Sloan had nothing more to say. He nodded briefly, taking the steward’s horse, and turning the mount for the castle. He raced the rock-strewn cliffs and clattered across the bridge, and the garden, void now with winter’s death.
At her door he paused, for her ladies were all around her; but she saw him.
She looked at him across the expanse of the room, and she smiled at him, with eyes brilliantly clear.
She lifted her free hand to wave the others away and beckon him.
Still she was smiling at him, as she might have years and years before.
A smile that welcomed; that recognized; that saw him as a man, and not a friend or brother!
He swallowed sharply and hurried to her bedside, sitting there, and taking her hand—alarmed by its heat.
“Sloan,” she said, reaching to touch the wings of his hair.
“Lie back,” he urged her hoarsely, “save your strength.”
She shook her head. “Tis too cruel, is it not, Sloan, that now, when I must leave this world, it is all so clear to me! The mists are gone now, and the flowers and the birds and all that I thought were my world. You are here. Oh, Sloan, hold me!”
He did. He felt her bones, and her burning flesh, and the gold cascade of her hair, beautiful still as death stole away all else that was lovely in life.
“Hold tight to life, my wife,” he urged her. “Hold me, and I’ll give you strength.”
Against his chest she smiled again, wanly now.
“Nay, my love, for I am weary.” She was silent for long moments, and then she spoke again, brokenly.
“You must live well, my dear Lord Treveryan! For never did you seek to disown me, to see me locked away beyond convent walls. So much I denied you … the heir you so craved.”
“God denied us, Alwyn. And there was nothing that I craved.”
“You lie, my lord, but I bless you for it.”
She inhaled a long, shaky breath.
“Easy, Alwyn, lie easy, and fight for life.”
“Just hold me, Sloan. For these moments, let us know love, as once we did.”
He held her all through the night. He whispered soothing words to her, and he forced her to take water.
But when morning came, she was gone. She did not convulse, nor was her last breath different from any other.
He spoke to her many, many moments after she lay dead, and it was one of her ladies who came gently to tell him that his lady had departed this life to rest with her Creator.
He took to his chapel then, staying there for hours in the pew before the altar. He did not know if he was plagued by guilt, or simply by loss. In all his light trysts, he felt that he had taken nothing from her.
But when he had loved Brianna, he had loved her fiercely and intensely, with all his heart.
Somehow, that hurt him now; and yet, he could not feel guilty for that love.
The emotion had been something pure, and very, very beautiful.
And so he did not understand what haunted and twisted so in his heart, unless it was simply the sadness of what might have been, had Alwyn found the strength in life that she had found in death.
With her passing, the winter winds seemed to rise with greater vengeance against the castle. January came, and with it ice and snow.
Sloan at last left the darkness of the chapel to come to the sea again. Not the wind nor the ice nor raging gales could keep him from staring out to sea, and at last he knew where his salvation would lie.
He could go to the Colonies. Carry letters, woolens, and goods.
She lived there. With her husband, he reminded himself. And her child. She had a home, and a family. But he longed to see the child he felt was his. What man would not?
With an aggravated and anguished oath he clenched his fists to his sides.
He would put to sea again, but he would head for Boston, or New York.
He would try with all his strength to stay away from Salem Town.
If he went near it at all, he vowed to himself, he would do so in secret.
He would allow himself to see the child, and then slip away. And if he saw her …?
“You will do nothing!” he thundered to himself aloud, and the wind picked up the cry and carried it about, mocking him.
He had to go. The sea beckoned to him, as did the wind. As did his desperate need to see the child.
And Brianna. Even if he did not speak to her; even if he just stood and watched her walk, or whisper to the child. He had to see her, or he would never be free of the memory that haunted him.