Rescuing Mr. Gracey (30 page)

Coughs jerked him, shaking his frame, trembling every weary limb. Thick mucus clogged his airway until he gagged.

A cup appeared at his mouth, and Alec clasped the porcelain to his lips and gulped greedily. The lemony nectar soothed the raw thirst immediately.

Between the coughing and the physical exertion of sitting up, Alec was drenched with exhaustion. He flopped against propped pillows and slammed his eyes closed. As he lay there, aware that she was but a small step from the bed, he wondered what his strategy should be. Did she realize he was fully awake? He tried to keep his breathing steady and his facial muscles relaxed so that he might have time to sieve through his options and prepare for her punishments.

His ears alert, he knew she remained motionless beside him. Likely she debated if he was faking…which he was. His skin itched. Then he imagined how he must appear. Days of scratchy beard, oily hair, scruffy, sweaty, and weak as an old beggar. His cheeks warmed with the humbling self-image.

She must have thought the reddening cheeks were a returned fever, for she leaned impossibly close, her soft rose scent drifting to his nose. A rustling in the background and then her cool fingers touched his forehead and flitted down to his cheek.

Unbearable.
Every part of him wanted to wiggle, sit up, hug her, beg forgiveness. He wanted to charm a laugh from her and see her eyes admire him once more. But pride and fear shackled him motionless.

She brushed his hair off his forehead. His eyes opened of their own accord and locked upon her.

Startled, she jumped back and knocked over a wooden chair. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she skittered several feet farther away. “You’ve awakened, then?” she said, her soft whisper layered with shock and question.

“Aye.”

Mary’s face paled. Flushed. Paled again. Little explosions of emotion—fear, anger, relief—warred across her expressive face. She stepped even farther away.

Pangs of guilt swept him. Instinct begged he should ease her tension, grasp her small hand, and enclose her beautiful face in his hands. Trying to prop himself up, he felt all the more ridiculous when he collapsed back. “Water?” he rasped.

She rushed forward, her trembling hand splashing liquid onto the table before managing to improve the aim. “You must not gulp, else you’ll upset your stomach,” she said, her arm supporting his back to a more upright position. Her hand wobbled, and the water splashed onto the sheets. Bright red bloomed on her cheeks and popped the lovely freckles. “We’ll just go a wee bit slow.”

He smelled as if he’d rolled in the barn. Never had he known such humility, such weakness, but he drew in little sips, each one heavenly, all the while his mind sorting through explanations. He tried a smile, but even his facial muscles seemed semiparalyzed.

Mary walked from his bed and banged the cup roughly upon the table. The door opened, and his mother whisked into the room. Her expression bloomed with relief and joy.

Mary turned a thankful smile upon her. “He’s just now woken.”

Isabella rushed forward. “Oh, my dear lad—do you know how close we came to losing you?” Smoothing back his matted hair, she checked his forehead for fever with the back of her hand. “I knew you did not recover from this terrible sickness because you suffered from affairs of the heart. If it had not been for our dear Miss Mary, we would be burying you now.”

Grimacing, Alec managed a gentle rebuff. “Mother…please.” This was worse than the time she’d hugged and kissed him in front of all his fellow classmates at Eton.

Ignoring his plea, she touched Mary’s arm. “I will always be grateful to her. She did not hesitate to assist me in my distress.” Mary continued to stand, frozen, head down, lower lip between her teeth, her face flushed, her freckles clearly evident. Isabella continued, regardless of her discomfort. “Our Miss Mary very quickly changed all the remedies, and your recovery was not long behind.”

Gathering items from his side table, Mary said, “’Twas the good Lord that healed him.”

His mother fluffed Alec’s pillows and straightened his blankets. “Aye, through your hands, Mary.”

Hurrying across the room, Mary opened the curtains and released warm light. Initially, the light hurt his eyes, but combined with the fresh air from the cracked window, Alec breathed more easily. Now, if only his head would cease pounding. “May I have more water?”

His mother brought soothing liquid while continuing the rapid chatter. “Now, of course, your father thinks Miss Mary is an acquaintance of mine, and fortunately, she has been ever so good about keeping the conversation light during our short times away from the sickroom.”

Alec flipped his eyes open, his heart accelerating. What precautions had been made to protect her? Should his own father and the Order of the Orange figure out what was transpiring in the Gracey household, her very life might be threatened.

Searching her expression for signs of fear or worry, Alec noted Mary avoided eye contact. Lashes feathered over vibrantly blushed cheeks; her discomfort was growing. His mother did not seem to notice.

“We all must guard our secret until you are well enough to send Miss Mary home, else your father will likely oppose us.” Isabella now gathered discarded laundry. “We restricted who could enter until you regained your senses. Now that others will have access, we must be vigilant about referring to her as Miss Frances, her middle name, especially when servants or your father are about.”

Isabella kissed his cheek, then brushed her fingers against his rough beard. “If you are up to bathing, we will send Daniel in to refresh you and your linens. You poor boy.”

The childish manner with which his mother talked further embarrassed him. “Mother…I am hardly a boy,” he groaned.

Her eyes watered. “Oh, Alec. So happy to have you better.” Batting away the tears, she placed firm hands upon her hips. “Would you believe we have been pounding on your back? If you can imagine. And each time, you cough quite well and the breathing eases considerably.” She sighed before continuing. “However, Miss Mary instructed me that you must cough frequently in order to get out that vile disease and strengthen your lungs, so if you feel so inclined, you must indulge the urge.”

Isabella turned a fond gaze toward Mary. “She is such a wonder.” Her nod confirmed the statement. “I shall never forget what you have done for our family this week.”

Mary shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with his mother’s abundant compliments. Intending to redirect attention, Alec coughed slightly. He soon realized the mistake, for once he started, his body racked so violently, he could not draw air. Long minutes passed before he could even sip from the lemon mixture. The spasm finally retreating, Alec gasped, then collapsed upon the pillows.

Isabella’s brows lifted sharply. “You see what I mean?” Her hand waved toward his chest. “We are far from perfect health, my son. But at least the fever and terrifying rattle in your lungs are gone.” As she stroked his rumpled hair, Isabella’s voice wobbled. “You are never to scare me like that again, is that perfectly understood?” Her brows drew down worriedly.

“How long have I been sick, Mother?”

“For over a week. Mary arrived three days ago.”

Alarmed, Alec tried to sit up, only to fall back again. His mother did not understand how the loss of Mary’s assistance overburdened the overworked family. “Mother, I am well on the road to recovery. Mayhap we should let her go home now. She has had to spend days at my sickbed and must grow very weary of the task.”

Mary’s face flooded red again, then reversed to pale just before she cast her gaze away. Only then did he realize his blunder.
Fool.

“Of course I am so grateful for your assistance and…” Thoughts slugged through thick mud as he fumbled for the correct expression. “I am…I attempt only to express concern that the lost income may be dearly missed.”

Mary stiffened, and her chin tilted. Now he had hurt her pride. Fortunately, his mother interrupted.

“Alexander Gracey. Of course I have adequately supplemented Mary’s income for her services. I daresay her family will be most happy that she has taken on this little employment.” Scurrying about, she straightened his bedcovers again before mumbling an excuse. “We will forgive your senseless chatter because of your illness, but I will not hear of her returning so soon. We must have you well enough to rise out of bed.”

Proper words became as elusive as a leprechaun in a dark wood. Alec moaned, frustrated. Once again, Mary misinterpreted his intent. Tilting her head, she whooshed toward the door.

“No…Mary. Please…” Racking coughs overtook him. Stretching his hand, he managed to halt her exit.

Isabella offered the sweet tea, but Alec shoved the glass aside. “If you can stay,” he begged between gasps, “I would be so grateful.” He closed his eyes, drained.

“Finally, you manage to say what you mean,” Isabella reprimanded. Darting a glance between Mary’s apprehension and Alec’s embarrassment, she said, “I really must have you bathed, Alec. If Miss Mary would be so kind as to tell Daniel that Alec desires to clean up? Will you also request Cook to prepare whatever you think appropriate?”

Relief washed over her expression as Mary quickly curtseyed and fled.

Alec exhaled his anxiety as Isabella sat on the edge of his bed. “Mother, I can’t believe you brought her here…”

“We battled for your life. When nothing but God above could help us, Mary arrived with her medicines and country knowledge and even her little prayer beads for you.” Isabella smiled. “I even joined her prayer. That girl worked a few miracles, along with God, of course. I owe her much.”

“Mother…she…she is not angry with me?”

“Is there a reason she should be, son?”

“Aye. Until you fetched her, she did not know I was Anglican, much less a Gracey. Didn’t she question you?”

Isabella rose, busying herself by straightening the room. “Truth be told, as soon as I said you needed help, she gathered her things and came. She agreed to all my requests, including allowing Betsy to wait on her, wearing your sister’s clothes, and even talking with your father about your condition.” His mother bent close and whispered conspiratorially, “I think, at first, he suspected Mary may be the native laundress, but our Mary is educated and so clever—regal, really.” She giggled. “In his ignorance, your father thinks all Catholics are uneducated, and thus he no longer suspects Mary as the girl from Dolly’s Brae.”

Alec sighed, his head falling farther into the pillow. “And yet I cannot have her for my wife, can I? Her religion, my father, all of Ireland will not allow our affection.” Waves of dizziness consumed his strength. “Am I to woo her only to lose her again once I recover?”

“Hush, my lad. Get well first. Worry about all else another day.”

Alec submitted, for he was too exhausted to consider the heartache that waited at his door.

~ 26 ~

“As we passed by…”

Leaning upon the wall just outside his bedroom, Mary placed a steadying hand on her chest. Her heart tripped like a newborn filly.
Stop your girlish thoughts, Mary Smyth. He’ll see how you’ve weakened.

Since Alec awoke four days ago, and as his strength increased, her ability to resist his charm slipped like warm jelly. For the first two days, righteous fury protected her from drowning. She ignored his soft smiles and apologetic expressions, and instead kept thinking of his deceit and lies until her heart nearly cracked with ice.

Yesterday, everything changed. Though he was pale and weak, his eager blue-eyed gaze followed her everywhere, and his smile melted her icy heart. As she rushed through each task, careful to keep the questions clinical—have you eaten, did you take your herbal tea, did you sleep well—her frigid cloak disintegrated each time his honey-coated voice beckoned her to come nearer.

Fleeing to the garden, Mary isolated herself from the temperature of his room, where her cheeks flamed too hot, her pulse tripped over itself, and butterflies multiplied in her stomach.

Remember the lies, Mary Smyth.
Terrible lies, deceitful and dangerous, she thought, stoking her fiery temper that protected her melting heart. He must never know how empty her arms, how thirsty her lips.

Last night, however, he invaded her dreams. She awoke, gasping for air, frightened for him…for her. She dreamed that he lay wounded and dying, some terrible gash across his chest. She tried to carry him past British soldiers, but with his weight, they continued to fall. The enemies were coming nearer, faster. They fell a last time. Guns now pointed at them—but the enemy was no longer Anglicans but native Catholics.

Conflicted with guilt and desire, she circled her bedroom, her bare feet curling into the soft rose carpet.
He is a mirage, Mary. Ya must forget him. Ya must never consider him.
She must be distant, even rude, so that parting would be easier.

Slumping in a heap, she cradled her head in her arms, rejecting the dream that haunted her. Yet her Catholic history cried out, tormenting her until she wept into her soft, down-filled pillow.
No suffering ever crosses the Gracey threshold.
My people are dying, mothers are crying, fathers are leaving for America.
Mary slammed one fist into her palm, finally recovering her resolve.
Aside from the earl, the Graceys are the greatest persecutors of the innocents in our neighborhood. Remember that well, Mary Smyth. And that includes the man lying just one door down.