Nothing But Love
A/N: At the end of the previous chapter, Jolie falls through some rotten boards and hits her head.
Chapter 13
Carefully Stephen moved so that he sat with Jolie cradled in his lap. "Jolie!" he whispered, patting her cheek, "please wake up!"
Holding her with his left arm, gently he parted the hair on the right side of her head—a large bump seemed to grow before his eyes. Thankfully he could feel her heart beating and her chest rose and fell steadily.
After a long moment he blew out a deep breath. "Bien, petite fille, we are going to go to the house now. Tante Sara Jane will know what to do to help you." Sliding his right arm under her knees and keeping the other around her shoulders, Stephen stood slowly.
As he shifted Jolie slightly to distribute her weight more evenly, he pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. Sainte Mère, he begged silently, please pray for her!
With slow steps, so as not to jar the girl more than necessary, he left the barn and made his way across the yard to the house. Thankfully, Sara Jane saw them and rushed to open the back door.
"Take her straight up to her room," she commanded, grabbing up her medical basket which contained cloth for bandages and a bottle of witch hazel. "Go on, boy," she urged, "I'm right behind you."
Gently Stephen laid Jolie on her bed and stepped back, grateful that Sara Jane immediately assumed control of the situation.
She poured some water into the basin from the pitcher on the dresser and soaked a cloth. Sitting carefully next to the girl, she ran the cloth slowly over Jolie's face. "Now tell me what happened," she said, her tone even, her movement steady, nothing betraying the agitation she felt.
Stephen swallowed audibly. "She—she was in the loft, looking for Martha and her kittens. She was running toward the edge and—and she fell through the rotten boards. I warned her, before she went up, that the monsieur had said they needed to be replaced, but . . ."
"Judging from the size of that goose egg, she landed pretty hard."
Stiffly he nodded. "I—I managed to—break her fall a little, but . . . she hit her head—on a wheel of the mowing machine." Suddenly he felt as though he could not get enough air into his lungs, no matter how deeply he tried to breathe.
"Sit down before you fall," ordered Sara Jane over her shoulder. "Sit down and hold this in front of your nose." Thrusting a cloth at him she showed him how to make a small tent of the cloth, and within a few seconds, his breathing eased.
Turning her attention back to Jolie, she soaked the cloth again, in the witch hazel this time and folded it, laying it over the bump on the girl's head. "Here," she jerked her chin at the pitcher, "go get some fresh water. This isn't cold enough to help bring the swelling down."
Stephen clattered down the stairs and burst out the door. Sara Jane started to call after him but closed her mouth with a sigh. She cupped Jolie's cheek, relieved to feel the normal warmth of her skin. With her other hand she brushed the dark hair back off the girl's forehead. "Oh, honey-girl, you have to wake up now," she whispered.
Unaware that Stephen had returned, she continued, her voice choked with tears. "C'mon, Jolie, wake up, hon. I . . ." She swallowed hard. "I can't lose you, too."
Silently Stephen retreated a few steps then clomped noisily down the hall. He pretended not to see Sara Jane wiping her eyes on her apron as he entered the room and set the bucket of cold water on the floor at her feet.
"How long will the monsieur and the boys be gone?" His whisper seemed to echo through the room.
"All day." Sara Jane pulled the blanket up over Jolie and tucked the top around her shoulders. "Stoke up the fire a bit—we don't want her to get a chill."
His back to the bed, he poked at the logs vigorously. "Will . . . will she be all right, Tante Sara Jane?"
The words were so soft she almost didn't hear them. "Only God knows that for certain," she told him quietly. "But her breathing is steady and so is her heartbeat. Of course, we don't know how badly she may have scrambled her brains when she hit that wheel." Sliding her hand across his shoulder she gave him a hard squeeze. "All we can do is pray."
He pulled a wooden Rosary from his pocket. "I have been, since she fell."
Sara Jane covered his hand with hers. "Good thing about prayin'—you can do that and other things at the same time." Blinking back tears she added, "You stay with her while I go down and tend to the soup I've got cookin' for tonight." Before he could reply, she rushed from the room.
Uncertain what to do, Stephen walked to the small window and stared out at the yard. Seeing nothing to hold his interest, he blew out a breath and tapped his fingers against his trouser leg. Finally he moved around the end of the bed and perched on the edge of the chair.
Softly he began to talk. "I've not told anyone else this but Tante Sara Jane. I—I have two younger sisters—and a younger brother. His name is Nicky." He shook his head with a tiny smile. "He is about your age . . . You remind me of him sometimes. The things you say, or the way you act."
He fell silent for a long moment then added, "Everyone here—you, Tante Sara Jane, your papa, Lady—have made being away from home . . . less painful." Hearing the housekeeper coming up the stairs, he quickly swiped the tears from his face with the backs of his hands.
Muttering, "I have to finish my chores," he brushed past Sara Jane and bolted outside. Once he had reached the safety of the barn he sank to his knees, struggling to hold back the sobs that threatened to burst from his chest.
He heard Lady moving restlessly in her stall and realized that she sensed his mood. Pushing to his feet he squared his shoulders and walked to her stall. "Shh, ma belle," he murmured, stroking her neck. "She will be fine, bringing you carrots and apples before you know it."
The little horse quieted under the lilt of his voice and his gentle touch. For a moment he stood with his hand on the mare, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his lips moving as he prayed silently. Lady nickered and bobbed her head, as if she were trying to reassure him now. "Bien," he told her with a shaky laugh, "we will accept nothing but a full recovery."
By the time he returned to the house it was late afternoon. On silent feet he climbed the stairs, one hand clenched around the Rosary in his pocket. He heard Sara Jane talking and shamelessly stopped to listen.
"I meant what I said earlier, little girl. I can't go through losing another child." At that, Stephen's eyebrows arched in surprise. Sara Jane's soft voice went on, "I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl—Doc said I wasn't far enough along to really tell when I lost it. But I do know how much it hurt, both my body . . . and my heart. And I've never gotten over it, really. Pushed it way back in my mind, but it's always there. I've cursed that day many times, though . . ."
Without thinking Stephen shifted his weight, causing one of the boards he was standing on to squeak loudly. He heard Sara Jane gasp, and he moved so that she could see him standing in the hall. "Pardonnez-moi, Tante Sara Jane. I—" Realizing he had no acceptable excuse, he hung his head and apologized again. "Please, forgive me. I had no right to listen when you thought you were speaking only to her."
"Might as well come in and hear the whole sordid story." Leaning back in the chair, Sara Jane took a moment to gather her thoughts. When he was seated on the floor next to the bed, she began.
"You remember me telling you about bein' a student as Miss Kingsbury's?" He nodded slowly and in an emotionless voice she told him about being attacked in the alley behind the academy by the son of a very well-to-do St. Louis family. Told him about being left in the alley like garbage, about being found by another man who helped her, took her to a doctor and made sure she would be well attended.
"It's been over twenty years, and I can still remember what his voice sounded like," she mused. "Deep, and rich, I guess you'd say, with a touch of a drawl, like he was from down South, or maybe Texas." With a shake of her head she added, "Sure would've liked to have seen his face . . ."
Clutching the edge of the small table, Christine closed her eyes and willed the dizziness to pass. I must have straightened up too quickly.
But a sly little voice in her head chided her, That is not what caused the dizziness, and you know it very well.
"Hush!" she whispered angrily. Looking around to be certain that she was alone, she held onto the table and slowly eased down on the chair next to it.
Well? the voice taunted her. Was it the night you asked him to sing to you, or the night in the music room?
With a soft moan, she covered her face with her hands.
"Christine?"
The voice startled her and she jumped. "Oh, Jack, please come in."
He settled on the sofa opposite her, frowning at the lack of color in her face. "Are you all right? You jumped like a scalded cat when I spoke to you just now." His sharp brown eyes studied her intently.
Feeling a rush of color come to her face, she smiled. "Just woolgathering, I'm afraid. Have you any news of Stephen?"
"No, dammit," he muttered, pushing to his feet to pace the room. "I've been to all the towns within a ten-mile radius of here that begin with 'Sainte An' and nothing. No one has seen anyone who even vaguely resembles your boy." He rubbed his face and turned back to her. "I thought I'd come back here for a day or two and then set out for the towns further away." Bracing his hands on his hips, he added, "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"
"Nothing, unless you consider a visit from Louis Chalfont exciting." Erik's voice came from the doorway, dripping with sarcasm.
"Chalfont? That lily-livered, no-account pile of horse sh—" He choked the word off, but Christine laughed.
"Don't feel as though you must watch your language around me, especially about that . . . fils du putain," she told him. "There is not much else that you could say about him that we have not already said."
Jack grinned at her description and sat back down on the sofa, while Erik took her hand and sank down on the floor at her feet. "So," drawled Jack, "tell me every little disgusting detail about Chalfont."
Erik and Christine looked at each other and he said, "You begin, love, since you saw him first." He threw back his head and laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him before proceeding.
In a few pithy words she told Jack about her short conversation with Chalfont, and then Erik took up the tale, explaining that he'd discovered the foul little man lurking at the back of the house.
By the time Erik finished, a broad smile covered Jack's face and he shook his head. "Sure must have been somethin' to see," he said. After a moment he grunted. "Think that will be the last of him?"
Both shook their heads. "Regrettably, I doubt it," replied Erik. "However, I sincerely hope I am in error about that!"
"Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!" Nicky blew into the room like a small tornado, nearly knocking over a chair and a footstool in his wake. Jack stood and scooped the boy up before he could do any serious damage.
"Did you find Stephen? Did you fight any bad men?" Questions flew from the boy faster than Jack could answer, prompting him to lay the palm of his hand over Nicky's mouth.
"Just hold your horses a minute, Nicky." He glanced at Erik and Christine. "Okay if we go out to the kitchen? It's a bit of a raw day and I'd like some coffee."
"I believe I smelled fresh coffee when I came through earlier." Erik's smile was broad when he added, "And if I am not mistaken, chocolate cake."
The adults chuckled as Nicky squirmed to be put down and shot out of the room as soon as his feet touched the floor. With a smile Jack said, "I'll speak to you later, then," and followed Nicky out, closing the door behind him.
Erik stood and pulled Christine to her feet then sat down in the chair with her on his lap. "Now, love," he murmured, brushing the hair back off her forehead, "is something wrong? You've not seemed like yourself the last few days."