Harold didn't wake up until Marian brought him his tea with honey, along with some bread and butter. Although he still wasn't able to talk – and he didn't push his luck by so much as attempting a whisper – the swelling in his throat had eased a great deal overnight. Not only was he able to swallow the warm liquid without grimacing, it was actually soothing. The bread was a little grating against his gullet, but not too bad.
But Harold was still quite annoyed by the fact that he couldn't so much as flirt with his scrumptious wife. Today, the librarian wore a fetching tulip skirt of steel-blue and soft gold wool gabardine, complete with a crisp white lingerie blouse and black satin sash that framed her delectable figure to perfection. But the most charming aspect of this ensemble was the six matching gold buttons lined up in two smart rows down the front of her dress, as if they were waiting for their marching orders. If he had not already commissioned for her a magnificent frock to complement his signature band uniform, it would have been the perfect outfit to don for the Easter Parade.
Although Harold couldn't speak, he could still look. And as he looked, he didn't try to suppress the intense longing that was displayed in his expression. He was gratified to see that Marian's cheeks turned the most charming shade of pink as she gazed at him in return, no doubt vividly surmising all the sweet and heated remarks he would have made to her if he could have spoken. However, this only served to further fuel his frustration, as her coquettish but wistful glance reminded him that, due to the precautions he'd insisted they take until the doctor gave him the all clear, all she could do in return was look. Normally, Harold loved not talking with Marian – but this certainly wasn't the kind of not talking he had in mind!
Marian sighed heavily enough for the two of them, walked over to the bed, and dropped a kiss on the music professor's forehead. "How are you feeling this morning, darling?" she asked, both tenderly and solicitously.
Harold shrugged and gave a so-so gesture with his right hand. His left hand snaked around the librarian's waist and pulled her to him so he could kiss her on the cheek, just as sweetly.
Marian gave a throaty laugh. "I see you've recovered some of your spirit."
Harold grinned wickedly at her.
Marian laughed again, this time in exasperation. "Does nothing dampen your enthusiasm for lovemaking?"
Harold gave her the smoldering come-hither look he knew always made her weak in the knees.
Marian pulled out of his embrace. "You need to rest," she insisted – though the severity of her tone was almost completely dampened by the flattered smile that lit up her face.
Harold grabbed his pencil and paper. I miss you, he wrote. He drew a little heart, for extra flair.
The librarian laughed a third time, sounding just as wistful as he felt. "I miss you, too, darling. But it's only three days. We've waited much longer than that – remember when we went to Des Moines with Mama for the funeral?"
Harold grimaced. He'd spent the rest of that January attempting to make up for the full week of privation they'd been forced to endure while sharing a bedroom with Mrs. Paroo.
Marian dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I'll be at the library until eleven thirty. Then I'll come home and make you your afternoon tea. Mama sent over enough chicken noodle soup to feed an army, so you can warm a little bit up on the stove if you get hungry this morning. Otherwise, I'll serve you some for lunch."
Harold nodded, and waited until he heard the front door close before getting out of bed.
As a younger man – hell, even just a year ago – he would have flouted the doctor's orders and done exactly what he pleased, even if he had to pay the piper for it (but when the man dances, the piper pays him, said the other salesmen on the train). Now that Harold Gregory Hill was no longer a shameless fraud, but a genuine music professor with a great deal riding on the success of his next concert – especially now that a little one was potentially on the way – he wasn't about to do anything that would put all the wonderful things he'd built in jeopardy.
So he was planning on staying home today. But even as an honest man, he would never be the sort who could just laze about in bed. After donning a workaday suit, completing his usual morning ablutions, and drinking the last of his tea, he went downstairs to the music room.
To his chagrin, loafing around the music room seemed just as pointless as lying in bed. There was nothing to do. He couldn't play the trumpet, as that would aggravate his throat and perhaps even strain his vocal chords. He was in no mood to plink at the piano. He really wanted to work, so he wouldn't feel completely useless, but any parade-related preparation could only be done at the emporium. The music had been selected long ago and the choreography had already been planned to the tiniest detail. At this stage, it was drilling that needed doing – the boys' glide step had vastly improved since last August, but it still wasn't quite up to snuff. But there was nothing he could do to improve it from home. And he didn't presently have the ability to improve it at the emporium, either. Marian and Tommy Djilas would be jointly overseeing the rehearsals today, tomorrow, and Thursday in his stead. While he trusted they would be adequate substitutes, it irked him that he wasn't doing the teaching. Especially this close to the big parade!
But there was no use dwelling on what he couldn't change. Harold moved to the parlor, taking Great Expectations with him to keep him company.
XXX
Harold must have been more tired than he realized, for one minute he was reading Great Expectations and glaring at the clock, which seemed to dawdle eternally in the nine o'clock hour – and the next, Marian was bringing him a tray of tea and soup.
Although Harold didn't feel all that hungry, he dutifully ate and drank what was placed in front of him. He had to keep his strength up, after all. As he swallowed his lunch, he blearily glanced at the clock. It was now shortly past noon.
"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in bed, darling?" Marian asked when she came to take his empty bowl and cup away, and witnessed the music professor stretching and wincing.
Harold's lower back ached and he had a crick in his neck from falling asleep at an odd angle, but he vigorously shook his head.
Marian's lips quirked slightly, as if she were attempting to hide a smile. "Do as you like, then."
Harold repressed a scowl. There was plenty he would have liked to do, but couldn't. Not being able to talk was a veritable prison.
Although he'd schooled his expression, Marian regarded him with sympathetic eyes, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Only two-and-a-half more days, Harold," she reassured him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm off to the emporium. I should be home by four thirty."
After she left, Harold tried to read his book again. But all he could think of was the work he should have been doing to prepare for the Easter Parade. After a decent meal, he was no longer drowsy, so he couldn't count on whiling away the rest of the afternoon insensate. And now the clock seemed to be idling permanently in the one o'clock hour.
Around ten to two, he just couldn't take it anymore, and decided to hell with it, he was going to the emporium.
XXX
The wind was absolutely brutal. It was always brutal in the Midwest, especially in March, but somehow it was ten times worse when one was slightly ill. Harold had heard the wind battering the house and rustling the pines all morning, but as it hadn't directly affected him at the time, he'd paid no mind to it. Now, as he attempted to make his way to the emporium, the wind cut right through him, making him cough as he inhaled the harsh coldness of it. He'd worn a hat to protect his hair and a scarf to protect his throat, but he had to clutch both of these articles to him for dear life as he walked, or they'd be ripped away in the maelstrom. What's more, the blasted wind pierced his gloves, burned the tips of his ears beneath his hat, stung his eyes into tears, and made his nose run like a faucet. After five minutes of walking, he was also pretty sure he no longer had any cheeks.
Normally, none of this would have bothered Harold. He'd been through much worse weather, and with clothing that wasn't half as high quality as what he was wearing now. It was amazing, how much havoc a trifling illness could wreak in a man's constitution! Still, he persevered – he wasn't about to let a few breezes stop him from going where he would.
By the time Harold reached the emporium, he felt like collapsing into a heap – except he was too stiff from the cold to bend. (You do sit? Your knees bend and all? He smiled at the memory.) Fortunately, he met no one on the way to his office, as everyone was currently attending rehearsal in the auditorium. Even better, his office was nice and toasty, just the thing to chase the chill away. Without even bothering to remove so much as his hat, he managed to fold himself onto the sofa, where he reclined fairly comfortably until the shivers wracking his now aching body subsided. Once he recovered his breath and warmth, he would tackle the perpetual mound of paperwork piled on his desk. Although it was definitely his least favorite aspect of the business, it was all he could manage right now, and it was better than doing nothing.
Harold wasn't sure how long he laid on the sofa, as his mind started to drift and wander into a haze, no doubt from all the exertion and sheer force of will it had taken him to get to the emporium. He may even have dozed off a bit. Full alertness didn't return to him until the door to his office opened. Startled, he sat up with a gasp – which quickly turned into a coughing fit.
"Harold!" cried Marian, sounding just as surprised. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"
Not having his pad and paper handy, the music professor simply shrugged. Becoming aware that there was an uncomfortable sheen of sweat around his forehead, he removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair.
The librarian regarded her wayward husband with a look that was both exasperated and indulgent. "I ought to have known you would try something like this." She switched the light on, and examined him more closely. "You look as pale as death," she said, shaking her head. "It can't have been good for you, walking here in all that wind!"
Harold shrugged again, hoping his expression was nonchalant, even if he was as ashen as his wife claimed. He was still feeling rather dazed from the abrupt jolt out of slumber. He gazed inquiringly at Marian and tapped his wrist.
"It's nearly four o'clock," she informed him. "Rehearsal just ended. What time did you get here?"
Harold thought a moment, and then held up two fingers.
Marian clucked her tongue. "Oh, Harold!"
As out of sorts as he was, he still had the spirit to grin mischievously at her. Hopefully it didn't look as much like a grimace as it felt like.
Thankfully, she smirked in return, and let any further scolding go. "I'm making the final rounds of the building, and then I'll take you home. Why don't you wait for me by the front entrance?"
Standing up and smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket, Harold did just that. However, he soon regretted taking the librarian up on her suggestion. For he was immediately accosted by Mrs. Shinn and all her ladies, who were there for – well, he wasn't quite sure at this point. The Events Committee spent a lot of time volunteering at the emporium, helping with costumes and other such gewgaws. Marian was the one who oversaw their activities in relation to the boys' band.
But the librarian wasn't around to intervene. And whatever the ladies' reason for being in the vicinity, it had completely fallen by the wayside in their zeal to coo over the ailing music professor, express their deepest sympathies in a clumsy but earnest manner, pester him with superfluous advice, and press dubious home remedies on him.
"My dear Professor Hill!" said Maud Dunlop, who had clearly forgiven him for yesterday's lapse in tongue. "It seems awfully unfair that you should be sick when the snow has finally melted and the first flowers are coming into bloom."
"It is a bit windy and cold for spring today, though," giggled Avis Grubb.
"You poor thing!" Alma Hix piled on. "You must feel just mired in winter."
"Are you taking tea with honey?" asked Eunice Squires, ever the practical one.
"No, you should take tea with ginger," corrected Alma Hix.
"No, you should take slippery elm tea with lemon," insisted Maud Dunlop.
"My mother always recommended gargling with saltwater or vinegar," put in Eunice Squires.
"You could try swallowing a clove of garlic," said Mrs. Shinn in her usual autocratic manner. "I do so every day and have not had a cold for years!"
Maud Dunlop's eyes lit up. "Oh! That reminds me – we in the Dunlop household absolutely swear by my special apple cider vinegar brew for colds. The recipe has been passed down for generations through the ladies on my mother's side. I could drop by with a bottle or two for you tomorrow morning."
Harold had thought that being hemmed in at home all morning was like a prison. He'd thought that walking to the emporium was like navigating a cyclone. In the midst of such endless chatter, he realized that he had not grasped the true meaning of prison or cyclone until now. He was so used to dominating a group wherever he went, effortlessly steering the ebb and flow of conversation exactly to his liking, that he was at a complete loss as to how to handle this well-meaning but overbearing onslaught of attention. Voiceless, he could not so much as interject as the ladies chattered at, over, and around him. And he certainly could not escape – at least, not without looking unforgivably rude. All he could do was nod dumbly and smile politely at each and every inanity that came bubbling and tumbling out of the ladies' mouths, and wait for the tempest to finally blow over or, as was more likely, for Marian to rescue him.
Is this how ordinary men feel? the music professor wondered. While he was well aware that his silver tongue had greased the skids for him throughout his life, he had never fully realized how disconcerting and demoralizing it was to not only be at the mercy of someone else's rhetorical force, but also to lack the ability to do a damn thing about it.
At last, Marian finished her final inspection of the emporium. With a tact and efficiency Harold found himself downright envying in his wretched state, the librarian shooed away the ladies as expertly as she ever did Mrs. Paroo's boisterous chickens out of the vegetable garden. Though she wasn't able to avoid the promise of Mrs. Dunlop's apple cider concoction, it was a small price to pay for extricating him without ruffling any feathers.
Nestled against Marian's soft warmth, Harold found the walk home a lot more pleasant, despite the wind being just as biting. And when they entered the front hall of their charming Victorian and disrobed their outer garments, the librarian looked so divinely tousled that he opened his mouth to tell her so – and then snapped it shut when he remembered he wasn't allowed to talk. What's more, he could surmise from the congestion lodged in his throat that he'd only be able to emit the most guttural of grackle squawks if he tried.
In her bustle to unbundle herself, Marian hadn't noticed his near-slip, so he couldn't even give her a heated look or mischievous grin to let her know exactly what was on his mind.
His mood souring, Harold scowled. This she did notice and, with a look of deep concern, pulled him to the sofa in the parlor. Realizing how weak he felt, he didn't resist, not even feebly, as she laid him down and tucked a blanket over him. When Marian served him his soup and tea, he ate and drank all of it – though mechanically, as he didn't have much of an appetite. And when she led him upstairs and tucked him into bed shortly afterward, he went as meekly as a lamb.