CHAPTER EIGHT #2
"Shhhh." The pressure that had been bearing down on her vanished, and Isabel lurched upwards, gasping for air.
There hadn't been any weight on her, not like before, but it had felt that way.
There were hands on her back, rubbing and soothing as Isabel wheezed, then coughed, then wheezed again.
"It's all right, love. It's all right. I won't hurt you.
Nobody's going to hurt you. It's only me.
Easy, easy . . ." The voice kept going next to her ear – it was a woman's voice – her mother's voice?
– no, her mother was dead and she was in Linden and there was no one to stroke her and soothe her, except now someone was.
"It's me. It's Constance. I won't hurt you.
Lie down, love. You've got to rest. It's all right.
Lie down, and I'll pull the blanket up. You're shaking. "
She was shaking, she could tell that much.
Slowly – she couldn't make herself go faster – she lay down on her side, curling her knees up against her chest. It hurt to hunch over like that, but it was the best defense she could manage.
As promised, a blanket was settled around her shoulders, and she let out a long, shuddering exhale as the cold that had surrounded her was dulled.
The hands that had pulled the blanket up stroked her forehead.
"I'm going to go and check on Walter," the woman's voice said – she knew that voice, she knew it, but she couldn't say how – "but I'll be back in a moment, all right?
I won't go far. Try to sleep. You need to sleep.
It's all right, don't fret. I'll be back soon.
" And Isabel wanted to reach out and grab for her sleeve, to hold her in place – she may be telling the truth about coming back soon, but selfishly she didn't want to give up that soothing voice even for a moment – but she was so tired and the blankets were so warm, and she was sinking down and down into quiet and darkness.
# # #
Constance tiptoed out of the bedroom with one hand balled into a fist and pressed against her mouth so she wouldn't cry out loud: she knew, if she started, she wouldn't stop.
Isabel had looked so small and so frightened, frightened of her – not that she'd done it on purpose, not that it was her fault, but she couldn't shake the sound of her pleading voice out of her ears.
Once she had made it out of the bedroom, she eased the door shut and leaned against it, biting down hard on her fist to keep from doing what she really wanted to do, which was scream.
I don't want to.
She'd said she was a disappointment to her husband.
After what she'd just witnessed, Constance doubted that.
The sort of man who forced himself on an unwilling wife wasn't angered by her reluctance; he was excited by it.
Convincing his wife that the fault lay in her for objecting to his conduct was just an added bit of pleasure, a twist of the knife.
None of the women Constance loved best had married such men, thank God – but she had known neighbours who had, and she'd watched them be whittled down in daily increments, year by year, until they were walking shadows of their former selves.
And Isabel had been married to such a man for ten years.
Who had she been, before that? Who could she be now that he was dead and gone?
A giggle and a shriek interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced hastily back towards the bedroom door to ensure the noise hadn't roused Isabel.
No sounds emerged from behind her, so she assumed Isabel was still safely resting, and went to investigate the source of the noise.
She found it in Walter, who was still sitting where she'd left him in the middle of the main room: Tib had emerged, presumably drawn by the sound of voices, and was now washing Walter's face and hair with her tongue.
He seemed to find the experience deeply amusing, if the giggles were any indication.
Occasionally, he would start to wriggle away, but then Tib would put a paw on his head to hold him in place, and despite the fact that he could easily shove the cat away and make his escape if he wished to, he only laughed harder, flopping over on the floor and rolling onto his stomach as he chortled.
Constance held back a moment, enjoying the scene – whatever Isabel's husband had done to her over the course of her marriage, it didn't seem to have impeded her ability to raise a healthy, happy child – before going over and scooping Walter up off the floor and into her arms. Tib made a disgruntled noise, lashed her tail, and trotted off to the kitchen; Walter watched her go, then tilted his face up to Constance, brow furrowing. "Mama where?"
"Your mama's resting," Constance said. "And so we must find some occupation for you where you'll not be underfoot.
So what may that be?" She knew she couldn't leave Walter to his own devices in the main room or the kitchen: good-natured as Tib was, the cat could not be relied upon to keep a toddler out of mischief.
Besides, he was too prone to outbursts of joyful noise to have him so close to his mother's bedroom while she was resting.
He'd have to go either upstairs or outside.
But Constance could not accompany him to either destination to keep watch: she needed to be close enough by Isabel that she could hear if she called out, and to guard against her illness worsening without intervention.
She could go across the way to ask Lucy to watch him; but that would require explaining the matter to her, which would take more time than she wished to spend away from Isabel's bedside.
Besides, Lucy had her own little ones to watch over.
What she needed was an adult who was close at hand and not otherwise occupied to keep an eye on Walter until Isabel woke.
And only one such came to mind when she thought about it.
"Needs must," she muttered to herself, then hoisted Walter in her arms – he laughed, so she jogged him again to amuse him – and stepped across the room to pluck a few toys from the chest before going up the stairs and into the attic bedroom.
Peter was in bed, as she'd known he would be; providentially, he was also awake, staring out the window as he picked at a loose thread on the coverlet.
He didn't look up when she opened the door, or when she crossed the room.
In fact, he took no notice of her at all until she dropped Walter unceremoniously on the bed and announced, "I need you to watch him awhile. "
Peter would hate to hear her describe him as gawking, but there was no other fitting word for the look on his face. He looked at her, then at Walter, then back to her. "I beg your pardon?"
"His mother's downstairs, and sick near to fainting," Constance said.
Walter, having recovered quickly from the surprise of being dropped on the bed, began crawling up to where Peter sat.
Peter, for his part, appeared too baffled to notice.
"She needs me to nurse her, and someone must keep him out of mischief.
You've no other pressing business today, so the task is yours. "
Walter had made his way to the head of the bed, and was now patting Peter's face with both chubby hands.
He poked at one of the pitted scars on his cheek, and Peter pushed his hand away – but, Constance noted, he didn't snap the way he once might have.
"And you think I have any business watching him?
I've no notion of how to entertain a child, and no skill at it besides.
And how am I meant to keep him out of trouble when I cannot rise from this bed? "
"You needn't entertain him, he can do that himself.
" Constance removed the toys – a wooden horse and a ball – from her apron pocket and dropped them both on the bed.
Walter's eyes lit up, and he crawled back down to pick up the horse.
"You've your crutch there, you can use it if need be.
I'll close the door so he can't wander. And you can always shout for me if you're in need of assistance.
" She raised her eyebrows. "Unless you mean to tell me you're so reduced in strength that you cannot keep a child of two in check.
You may well tell me that, if you wish. I've not heard a good joke all day, and it would do me good. "
Peter looked down at Walter, who was now wholly absorbed in the toy horse. His brows knitted together in the middle of his forehead – but he didn't snap, and he didn't scowl. "He'll be wanting clean clothes and a meal soon enough."
"I'll bring them up when you call for them," Constance said. She paused a moment, waiting for him to make some further objection, but none was forthcoming. When she was certain the day was won, she added, "thank you. It's a good service you've done, for him and for his mother."
Peter gave her a sly look. "And for you as well, I suppose."
This was a conversation Constance didn't have time for – especially not now, when the speech Isabel had stumbled through before her collapse indicated that they had a great deal to settle before Constance could speak of it to anyone else.
"You've freed my hands for another task," she said, "so yes, it's a service for me as well.
Thank you." She turned quickly and left, shutting the door behind her before Peter could offer a rejoinder.