Chapter Nineteen

Mr. Bertrand's pacing, though bothersome at first, was now offering some form of distraction: the rhythmic footfalls acting as a sort of soothing lullaby, calming Isabel's jagged nerves until her breathing and pulse had slowed.

The town's only physician, Dr. Brookfield, rattled a tray in the next room, causing Isabel to jump from her seat. Mr. Bertrand paused in his striding, then snorted and resumed. Her insistence at bringing in a doctor had infuriated him and he was now pointedly ignoring her presence.

Nadir was sitting quietly, a contemplative expression on his face. The tray of tea and biscuits lay untouched on Isabel's nightstand; she glanced at the food and felt her stomach lurch.

Sinking back down onto the chair, she looked at her surroundings uneasily: Mr. Bertrand and Nadir had taken up residence in her bedroom, being the nearest room to Thomas at the moment, and the entire situation left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Mr. Bertrand kept pausing and examining her possessions and Nadir simply stared around the room. The room was filled with an eerie quiet, save for the quiet thuds of Mr. Bertrand's pacing.

A door creaked. Isabel shot out of her chair and rushed to the hall. Dr. Brookfield shut the door to Thomas's room behind him and turned his gaze to Isabel, his expression grave.

"The fever has progressed rapidly, Mrs. Bauer. I will be plain: I do not think he will survive the night if we do not act quickly."

Isabel felt her knees weaken. "What is there to be done?"

"The old ways are best. He shall be bled."

Suddenly, a strong arm was around her shoulders and Isabel felt herself being steered towards her chair. Nadir released her and she thudded back onto the stuffed seat, her body growing cold. The Persian gave her a sympathetic look before turning his attention to Dr. Brookfield, his tone quietly pleading.

"Doctor, do you really think it necessary to drain the boy's blood supply? It is a remedy that has been abandoned by many—"

"It is no remedy at all!" Mr. Bertrand snarled, approaching the doctor and drawing himself up to his full height. The physician looked at the masked man in alarm and took an unsteady step back.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Bloodletting is an outdated procedure that serves no purpose whatsoever. What are you planning on doing, Doctor? Replace the heated blood with cool water? He will die!"

"Mr. Bertrand," Dr. Brookfield said coolly, peering at the fuming man over his spectacles, "if I do not treat him immediately, he will not live to see daylight. I have rarely seen this fever, but when it appears, it is almost always fatal. If we bleed him, there is a good chance that the toxins will release themselves –"

"Yarrow will do the same! A dose of it along with a constant cold compress will break any fever."

The physician stared at Mr. Bertrand, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. "Really, sir, I do not think you are in a position to question my knowledge on the subject. There is a reason Mrs. Bauer asked me, and not you, to treat her son."

Isabel groaned and slid deeper into her chair, burying her face in her hands. She prayed to slip into unconsciousness, to end this horrific night and awake to a healthy son.

"Your medical opinion, doctor, is short-sighted and foolhardy! I will not allow this child to be the victim of an arrogant physician who would rather prove me wrong than cure the patient!"

"This has nothing to do with you!" Isabel screamed, shooting out of the chair with violent force. She felt a lump rising in her throat and struggled to compose herself, ignoring the tears sliding down her face. "How dare you take my son's illness and twist it into a personal insult! How dare you! I took care of you, Erik Bertrand! I took care of you because you could not care for yourself! And now you have the audacity to assume that your knowledge of medicine is greater than a physician's? That you alone can cure him? I apologize, Mr. Bertrand, if it offends you, but I trust Dr. Brookfield's opinions no the subject more than yours, and with very good reason!"

"It is simple logic, Isabel! Does it make any logical sense that removing something as vital as blood would help a sick boy? Does that make sense?"

Isabel shut her eyes and fell back into her chair.

"Isabel." Nadir's calm voice appeared beside her and she cracked one eye open. The Persian was kneeling beside the chair, and he placed a hand on her arm gently. "Isabel, I know you're scared, but I believe you should trust Erik." He shook his head at her bewildered expression. "I know he has not done much to prove himself worthy of your respect, but I know how wise he can be, and how well he knows his remedies." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I have entrusted him with my life on more than one occasion."

He paused.

"And the life of my child."

Isabel stared at the Persian beside her, her eyes widening with confusion. "Your child…" she said softly, searching Nadir's face for an answer.

The Persian's steady gaze stared back at her, the jade eyes red-rimmed and tired.

"Please, Isabel. For your son's sake."

Isabel felt more tears begin to course down her face and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, enraged at herself for the hopelessly obvious display of weakness. Now was a time to be brave; now she had to be strong.

"I can't lose him."

Nadir reached out and grasped her hand lightly and she opened her eyes, staring down at his grip. His dark fingers lay over hers gently, a reassuring touch that seemed to stave off the tears.

"You won't."

"Pardon me." Dr. Brookfield's elegant voice had lost its pleasant tone and his eyes had narrowed to slits. "Am I allowed to tend to my patient, or am I to leave him in the care of this…" his gaze lingered on Mr. Bertrand's mask, his expression betraying disgust, "man?"

The cold despair that had settled in Isabel's stomach didn't lessen when she nodded in reply.


Samantha's bright eyes had filled with tears as Isabel recounted the previous night, her voice thick with lack of sleep and worry.

"A fever? What have you done? What can be done?" The young woman's tone grew slightly hysterical. "Is he alright? Is he awake now?"

Isabel shook her head. "No, Tom is still… sleeping." She glanced around town square nervously. "Do keep your voice down, Samantha. The last thing I want is a horde of strangers showing up with their well-wishes."

Samantha crossed her arms and attempted a smile. "Certainly." Her face fell. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at his bedside?"

A cold shock of annoyance shot through Isabel. "Yes, I should. But Daniel should be informed of this, and both Nadir and Mr. Bertrand insisted that I should be the one to write the telegram." She sighed, leaning against the building beside her. "They are caring for him now."

Samantha looked alarmed. "Nadir and Mr. Bertrand? What of Dr. Brookfield? An irritating man, to be sure, but a fine physician."

Isabel glared as a passerby gawked openly at her bedraggled appearance. She couldn't really blame them: her skirts were wrinkled and muddy from the journey, her eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, her hair loose and flowing in a tangled mess around her shoulders. She ran her fingers through the knots feebly, pulling at them until her scalp ached.

"Dr. Brookfield recommended we bleed him. I preferred the second opinion I heard."

"Which was?"

Isabel hesitated. "Yarrow."

Samantha raised an eyebrow with perfect elegance. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Bertrand made up a concoction of some sort that involved yarrow. Apparently it promotes perspiration, which releases toxins in the blood."

Samantha stared at Isabel, her expression quite blank. "He is trying to perspire your son well?"

"Yes." Isabel had the urge to squirm under Samantha's indignant gaze. "It should work," she insisted meekly. "It should."

"Isabel, you took medical advice from a man who almost let his own hand rot off?"

"God," Isabel groaned, rubbing her face with her hands. "I know. But…" she raised her eyes to the clear blue sky above her, searching for the words. "But… there was an earnestness in his voice that I could not ignore. A true desire to help."

"A desire to help has nothing to do with it. I could have a desire to help, but that does not mean that I know what I'm talking about. Dr. Brookfield—"

"Wanted to bleed my son half to death," Isabel snapped. She regretted the tone when she saw the startled look on Samantha's face, the young woman's eyes growing wide and her mouth parting in a slight gape. "Forgive me," she said, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. "It has been a long night."

Samantha nodded, still looking surprised. "Have you sent the telegram yet?"

"Yes, I just left the post office."

"What is he going to be able to do?"

Isabel shrugged. "Pray."

Samantha scrutinized her friend with suspicious eyes. "Do you want me to go back to the house with you? I am sure the Foresters would allow me some time to visit a sick friend." She paused. "I think."

Isabel smiled at the kind woman in front of her. "No, that's not necessary. But thank you."

Samantha opened her mouth to reply when her gaze traveled behind Isabel and she let out a groan. "Oh, dear Lord. Mr. Sanders has spotted us."

Isabel whipped her head around and grimaced as the tailor's joyous face came into focus.

Samantha made a sour face. "If that man becomes any more jubilant, I do believe he will explode."

"Mrs. Bauer! Oh, my dear Mrs. Bauer, how are you?" Mr. Sanders brushed past Samantha and peered at Isabel, his smile covering half of his face.

"I am fine, Mr. Sanders," Isabel replied, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I trust you are well."

"Oh, yes! These showers are doing wonders for my garden! Fresh buds springing forth like Athena from the head of Zeus!"

"Indeed," she replied, looking at Samantha for help. The younger woman's brow was set in lines of concentration and she was tapping her chin thoughtfully.

"What brings you to town this early, Mrs. Bauer? Mr. Bertrand feeling peckish? Requires some strange dish with ingredients that need to be specially ordered? A pâté, perhaps? Maybe a nice bowl of gruel? Do you have gruel in the house? I know where you can get some of excellent quality at a fair price."

Isabel raised an eyebrow. "No, not exactly. I was merely—"

"Mr. Sanders!" Samantha exclaimed suddenly, her bright eyes sparkling with what appeared to be genuine delight. "It has simply been an age since I last saw you! How ever are you doing?"

Mr. Sanders' gaze twitched between the two women, his face falling. "Oh, Miss… Miss…"

"Kinneston," Samantha supplied. "Samantha Kinneston." She waited as comprehension dawned on the tailor's face and his expression, once again, took a gleeful air.

"Ah, yes! The little girl who worked for the Foresters! Fine family, that, fine family indeed. Mrs. Forester has impeccable taste. Always knew exactly what she wanted… had an unfortunate tendency to interfere with the production of her requested items, but I suppose she was used to being in command. Particularly with that flighty husband of hers," he added thoughtfully.

"Yes, Mrs. Forester is a lady of the highest fashion." Samantha smiled warmly and glanced between Isabel and the road behind Mr. Sanders. She lifted her head and cleared her throat. "Mr. Sanders, I know this is terribly last-minute, but I find that the skirts I have now are always hopelessly wrinkled. The material I purchased last time is undoubtedly to blame; I do believe it was a signal from Fate that I should not attempt to sew my own garments when there is such an incomparable tailor within such a convenient distance from me. Perhaps I could put in an order for some skirts from your hand?"

Mr. Sanders beamed at the praise. "Why, certainly, my dear girl, certainly! I've only just finished up an order for Mr. Highton. His wife is ill, you know, too weak to sew anything, and their son is growing at a rather alarming rate. I wonder if it has anything to do with their diet… they refuse to ingest anything with beets in it, for some silly reason, something about the color they turn your tongue being the work of the Devil…"

Isabel slipped behind Samantha and hurried across the town square, the sound of Mr. Sander's enthusiastic voice dying as she climbed into the buggy and grabbed the reins.

She ignored the heavy coldness that settled in her chest at the idea of returning to a sick Thomas. She had managed to compose herself for the most part, keeping a careful shield of apathy on while handling the situation. She had said next to nothing to either of the men in the house after her outburst to Mr. Bertrand over the bloodletting disagreement, and she was content to keep it that way. Talking required too much energy; she felt that she simply lacked the will to position her words and force them out of her throat. Even her telegram to Daniel had been brief and without much feeling. Thomas is ill. Very serious. Please pray for us. She knew it wasn't fair to be so cryptic, but it was really all she could think of to say.

She glanced at the small church that sat on the edge of town. The dark brick building was crawling with ivy and a bird had built a nest in the cross above the door. She eyed a stained glass window of a weeping Mary, a thick crack running from the mourning mother's head to the bottom of the frame, obscuring the Holy Mother's face; a blasphemous flaw that distorted the woman's grief unforgivably.

Numbly, Isabel stepped down from the carriage and walked towards the church. She would repeat her prayers inside, hoping that God would hear her more clearly if she spoke inside His house.

The heavy door shut behind her and she dropped to her knees, silently begging for some relief from this torment.

Overhead, the broken Virgin wept.


The house smelled of mint when Isabel entered it hours later.

She hated herself for the time spent in the small church, crying for a son she should have been tending to. She hated herself for the reluctance she felt in returning to this damned house with the perpetual dark cloud above it and mysterious figures inside. Even now, standing in the hallway and inhaling the scent of peppermint, a comforting aroma that reminded her of childhood, she felt a thrill of horror at the idea of climbing the stairs and kneeling beside Thomas's bed. Seeing his pale, damp face, his body unmoving… Death, she felt, was looking over her shoulder. She shuddered.

"Isabel?"

Nadir stood in the doorway of the kitchen down the hall, a steaming mug in his hand.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice raw from the hours crying. "How is he?"

"Still asleep. I will take it as a sign of recovery."

Isabel made an effort to crush the sting of hope she felt welling in her chest; she was not entirely sure she would be able to survive the blow if she allowed herself the comfort of believing that he would be well only to be proven wrong by a worse turn in the illness. Isabel Maureen Bauer, she thought grimly. Optimist extraordinaire.

"I hope you will forgive me for the mess I made in the kitchen, Isabel."

Isabel's attention snapped back to the man before her. He smiled apologetically and held up the mug in explanation. "Erik asked for some tea and I am afraid I had some trouble locating the particular type he wanted."

"Tea for Thomas?" Isabel asked, her fingers kneading her skirt gently.

"No, I believe it is for Erik, as a matter of fact. He complained of stomach pains, and said mint should help soothe it."

Isabel took a step forward, her mind racing. "Mr. Bertrand is with Thomas? Alone?"

Nadir raised his brow, surprised. "Yes. Yes, he is."

Gathering her skirts, Isabel fled up the stairs.

Hurrying as quietly as she could up the steps to the third floor, she was very aware of her heavy breathing, her rapid pulse, the heat crawling all over her form from the exertion. Reaching the hallway, she tiptoed to Thomas's room and opened the door a crack. The sight that met her sent a pleasant sort of shock through her, and she opened the door entirely to gaze on it.

Thomas was, in fact, sleeping. Peacefully, it appeared. His breathing was deep and even and his face had recovered some color; though still too pale, a faint hint of rose tinged his cheeks, and it heartened Isabel. He lay curled up on his bed, his hands tucked under his head, his mouth parted slightly, his brow furrowed in sleep.

Mr. Bertrand sat on a wicker chair, one of the items left abandoned by the Churchman's. His head was propped up on his thin hand, his elbow resting on the chair's arm. The lawn shirt he wore was wrinkled and un-tucked from his black trousers. The rumpled, messy appearance that she had a growing fondness for was an infinite improvement on the cold impression his immaculate dress clothes gave. His other, bandaged hand lay across his stomach, and Isabel slowly raised her eyes to his face.

His eyes were closed and as he let out a peaceful sigh, Isabel realized he was sleeping.

"Finally getting some rest, is he?" Isabel jerked her head around and saw Nadir in the doorway. He strode forward and placed the mug he was carrying on a small table near the door. "He can drink it when he awakens," he said, indicating the tea with a wave of the hand. "With any luck, it will be cold by then and we can listen to him complain about its unsatisfactory temperature."

Isabel snorted and Nadir raised a finger to his lips. "We should keep our voices down, I think," he said softly. "Erik is not at his best when he is awakened abruptly, intentionally or not." Isabel nodded and flicked a glance at the sleeping masked man in the chair. She desperately wanted to make a comment on how she doubted she had ever seen Mr. Bertrand at his best – at least, given her experiences with the man, she hoped she hadn't – but refrained.

Thomas shifted, one arm dropping off the side of the bed, and Isabel neared him, reaching out a hand and touching his forehead with the lightest of caresses. His skin was cool and dry, and she shut her eyes, silently praying that God had been merciful.

"He is a strong child, Isabel. I do not doubt that he shall be perfectly fine, given time."

She nodded, her eyes still tightly shut.

Nadir left the room abruptly and Isabel opened her eyes, wondering, with a touch of alarm, if she had offended him. She stayed kneeling beside Thomas's bed for several minutes, too scared to leave, when she heard a rusting up the stairs. Nadir appeared once more, carrying a small tray. "You are, if I may say so, in desperate need of tea."

Isabel couldn't help it – she grinned.

"Ah, yes. I see I have finally learned the secret. The English hold a very firm belief that tea can aid in the solution of every problem, correct?"

"A silly thing to believe, but true nonetheless."

"I find that most beliefs are silly, to a certain extent. Shall we take it in your room? The hall, perhaps?"

Isabel shook her head. "I couldn't leave Thomas. I just couldn't." She smiled shyly, embarrassed by the admission. "I just need to be with him for a little while. That's all. Just to be with him." She looked at Nadir. Please understand.

"Of course." Nadir poured tea into the dainty china cups kept in the pantry and held one out to Isabel. She accepted it, thanking him quietly, and sat on a cushioned chair a few feet from Mr. Bertrand. She gazed at his sleeping form for a moment.

"I have never seen him look so peaceful."

Nadir sighed. "And yet, even in sleep, he holds an intensity that I could never achieve. Do you not see it? The lines around the eyes, the taut skin around the mouth." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The face, Isabel, tells many stories. Some pleasant—" he smiled at her warmly, "—some not." His eyes flicked to Mr. Bertrand. Clearing his throat, he drew his teacup up to his lips and smiled. "Do select a topic of conversation. I fear I am hopeless at such things."

Isabel sipped her tea and grimaced: apparently, Nadir shared Mr. Bertrand's opinion that chamomile could soothe franticness. Calming it may be, but the taste was still utterly wretched to her tongue. Putting the cup onto its saucer, she peered at the Persian squarely. "I have been thinking on something you said."

Nadir raised an amused eyebrow. "Have you really? And what is that?"

"You suggested that Mr. Bertrand may be…" she looked at her employer again, examining him briefly for any signs of consciousness.

"He is asleep, Isabel. It is the first rest in a long time; he should be quite comfortable there for several hours yet, I daresay."

"Very well." She shifted in her seat, considering her question. "You suggested that Mr. Bertrand may be… composing something in his study, correct?"

The Persian nodded.

"But I haven't heard music here in many weeks. How can he compose silently?"

Nadir smiled. "The human mind, Isabel, is a truly remarkable thing."

Isabel massaged her temple, glaring at her cup of atrocious tea.

"Oh, pardon me. I do know you hate enigmatical answers. But it is the best I can do. He hears the music in his head, and then he writes it down. It is all very simple, really."

Isabel tapped her lips with her index finger, gazing at the ceiling thoughtfully. "He must be very talented."

Nadir scoffed. "'Talented' is such a small word for what he is. One of those tragic genius types, you know. But a good man. Despite what he says, how he acts, what he has done… he is a good man."

Isabel held the Persian's gaze. "Nadir, tell me about your son."

Nadir's eyes darkened to an impossible shade of green. "Oh, Isabel," he said, sighing. "Another time."

"No, please. I want to know."

"I am tired, and it is a long, sad story." He rose, setting his empty cup back on the tray. Seeing the look of disappointment on her face, he sighed again. "Tomorrow, Isabel. After Thomas is awake, you and I shall go for a walk, and I will tell you of my Reza."

"Reza," Isabel repeated quietly as the Persian disappeared from view. A strange sort of sorrow seemed to be carried in that small name, or perhaps just in the way Nadir had spoken it. Quiet sadness of a father who loved his son.

Isabel looked at Thomas, his foot twitching in his sleep.

"Reza," a voice said, so soft it was almost inaudible. She turned to Mr. Bertrand and saw he was still asleep, his eyes closed, his head resting on his palm, but his lips were parted, and he once again repeated the soft word, his voice a faint whisper in sleep.

"Reza."


Another decade, another update. Life's been spinning around my head lately, and story-telling comes second, so updates will be a bit scattered. Sorry 'bout that.
Chat remains a bright ray of color in a dull gray world. All hail the betas; they are our heros.
Ah, yes. Your reviews give me hope for humanity. Or something. I appreciate and cherish each one, anyway.