Chapter 8
The doctor and nurse stayed through the entire day. By the second night Edmund's fever broke and the doctor came wearily down the stairs. The nurse would stay the night and be replaced by a student nurse in the morning. In the shadowy library Dr. Perkins could just make out John Murray sitting motionless in a tall wing chair. The anger residing in the doctor's heart pushed him through the sliding doors to the Earl's side.
"John, I think the boy will live. Just for my own enlightenment, explain to me why you brought this child here. You obviously don't feel anything for him other than impatience. Are you planning on making him your servant?" The doctor frowned menacingly.
"For if you are, you will have me to answer to. I know you're Lord Dunsmore with the power of the crown behind you, but you are little more than a mouse in my eyes. A very small, inconsequential little brown mouse."
Slowly John raised his bleary eyes to the doctor. Fourteen hours of drunkenness had left him disheveled and trembling. Years of alcohol abuse showed in the unsteady hands and nodding head. The handsome face was slack and unshaven.
"I am that, doctor. Yes, I am a very small brown mouse. I thought I'd hidden that secret well. Now I see that everyone knew all along. Good night, doctor."
"One more thing Murray. You didn't have to confess that he was your son. We don't understand why or how, but it's the mother's blood that matters. Your blood did nothing to save him. Ironic, isn't it?"
Joseph appeared at the library doors. Shaking his head at the twists of fate, the doctor slipped through the sliding doors and was gone. Joseph came back into the library with a silver platter of bread and cheese. He silently placed it on the table beside his employer. Then he turned and pulled the library doors shut behind him.
John poured another glass of brandy and stared into the fire. Edmund would live. That thought chased through his mind over and over until he heard the mantle clock chime eleven. He realized that four hours had passed unnoticed. He carefully stood and straightened his clothes. Then he walked slowly through the sliding doors, stepped into the echoing hall and climbed up the stairs into Edmund's candlelit room.
Emma had straightened the bedclothes and removed the basin and used towels. The nurse slept deeply on a small bed in the next room. The odor of sickness remained under the smell of the camphor ice smeared on the boy's chest and throat. Edmund lay with his eyes closed, his swollen throat swathed in woolen cloth. A cup of thin chicken broth sat beside the bed, a spoon upright in the liquid.
That cup, untended, caused the tall man to catch his breath. It symbolized the neglect and isolation the boy had suffered since the death of his mother. For the first time his heart unselfishly filled with compassion for the wounded, stricken child. Tears stung John Murray's eyes as he stood looking at the mute testimony of the boy's suffering.
Slowly Edmund's dark eyes opened and saw his father standing in the doorway. As John watched he saw the bright eyes of little Mingo become the dull eyes of Edmund Murray.
The boy turned his head and closed his eyes. The gesture of dismissal was plain to the tall Englishman. Sighing, he turned and walked down the hall to his own lonely room. There he fell upon his large, soft bed and knew no more. The moon swung in its predestined arc and the night advanced toward the dawn.
"A-da-do-da! A-da-do-da!" The hoarse cry echoed down the dark hallway. Through his stupor John heard and understood. Memory collided with reality as he sprang from his bed and crashed into his own doorway. Recoiling, he stumbled down the dark hall and into the boy's room. The child was sitting in the bed, reaching. The old woman remained totally insensible, worn down by the hours of unrelenting nursing.
His mind blank but his heart pounding, John enfolded the boy in his arms. The child clutched his shirt with frantic fingers. "A-ya e-hi-s-dv, a-da-do-da." The soft Cherokee syllables penetrated his mind and the tall man pulled from the boy's grasp.
"Where, Mingo? Where does it hurt?"
The boy clutched his throat with both hands. John nodded, laid the boy upon the pillows and reached for the cup of soup beside the bed. Carefully he lifted the spoon of salty broth to the boy's dry lips. The boy swallowed painfully and nodded for more. Spoonful by spoonful the man fed his son. Then he brought the boy a glass of cool water and helped the child take several sips.
Gently he pulled the boy back down into the soft feather bed. Carefully the father tucked the blankets around the thin body. His large warm hand smoothed the short black hair from the boy's moist forehead. Pulling the chair close to the bed, John sat beside his son until the boy fell asleep.
Back in his own room he undressed and quickly sponged the stale liquor from his body. Then he slipped beneath the down comforter and fell into the deepest sleep he'd experienced since coming back to England with his son. He slept until the mid-day sunlight woke him.
Dressing quickly he strode down the hall to Edmund's room. The boy was sitting propped in bed with a book of Greek myths in his hands. But he was not reading. His dark eyes were fastened on the stark winter trees outside the window. A look of intense longing had pulled his face into planes and shadows. Slowly the boy became aware of his father in the doorway. He turned his head.
"Father." The voice was a thin whisper as it passed his still-swollen throat. The large dark eyes were dull with weariness. The events of the night were long forgotten, if ever they had been remembered. John saw the distance between them had returned and clamped down on the rising emotion.
"You look better. You should be able to return to your studies soon. I will engage another tutor for next week. Master Simmons resigned the night you became ill."
Edmund's eyes did not even flicker. There was no response at all. The boy could as well have been a wooden puppet. Puzzled, the tall Englishman stepped into the sunlit room and tried again. "I see that you're reading the myths. Those were always my favorite stories when I was a lad."
"I read them to mother from the books you left behind. She didn't want to forget all her English so she could understand you when you returned." Edmund's eyes began to gleam with an unspoken challenge. His slim hand clutched his painful throat and he swallowed.
John saw the challenge and his natural belligerence raced through his body and colored his cheeks. His hands clenched and he stepped closer to his defiant son. "You imply that I am somehow at fault because you and your mother remained in Kentucky when I came back to my home. It was her choice too, Edmund."
"No, father. No. You abandoned us for your English title."
"It is your title too, Edmund! That's why I came back…….for you."
"Is it? Are you really planning to hand over an English title to a heathen? I've heard you. I know what you think of me. And why." Edmund swallowed again and grimaced at the pain in his red, infected throat.
John Murray stood with his hands balled into fists, the desire to strike his son nearly overwhelming. All the tenderness he'd felt the night before, all the boy's yearning, had dissolved as mist in the brightness of the morning. Now they faced each other as strangers, or worse, enemies. In the space of a heartbeat John Murray felt his son slip away from him as surely as if he'd fallen into a bottomless chasm.
"You are Edmund Murray! Nothing will ever change that. I would if I could, believe me!" The bitter, damaging words were out before John could bite them back. The boy's eyes widened in shock, then darkened with uncontrollable pain. Edmund slipped under the down comforter and flung the book as far away across the room as he could. John spun on his heel, clattered down the stairs and slammed the outside door shut behind him.
Days passed, and Edmund slowly recovered from the scarlet fever. His thin body began to regain its vigor and his brilliant mind reached for knowledge as a thirsty plant reaches for moisture. He delighted in language and amazed his new tutors with his quick wit. They never praised him but Edmund soon grew to value learning anyway for the joy it brought him. His mind grew and flowered. But his father's hasty words had singed his heart beyond recovery.
Never again would the boy reach for his father's embrace. Never again would John Murray, Earl of Dunsmore, recover the loving closeness he'd felt so briefly. Even his marriage ten years later to Charlotte Stewart and the birth of his son George never totally obliterated the feelings of loss he felt for his firstborn. Gradually over the years the intensity of the memories faded, but the heartache remained. When stars fall, their brightness is lost forever.