Jet stood at the entryway of the room for some moments after the door had shut behind the Doctor, not quite sure how to proceed. "So, I hear that you failed to rescue my bonnet?" This accusation caught Jet completely off guard.
"What?"
"My bonnet, the good doctor said it was lost. I'm quite distraught over it for it was my favorite." 'My God, she never stops!' he thought. "I assume you'll be replacing it?" She smiled in that small wry way that gave Jet to know she was not in earnest.
"Well, I'm not up on the fashion of bonnets these days so I'm not sure my judgement in the matter could be trusted. I suppose whichever had the most ribbons, lace, and baubles would be preferred?" He said approaching the bedside and pulling up a chair.
"Oh that would be perfectly dreadful! I couldn't show my face in the world!" Her laugh flowed like a bubbling brook.
"Ah, than the most gaudy tasteless thing available it is!" He smiled. "As it stands, I would prefer you not show your face in the world - it seems to bring about no end of trouble for me."
"Speaking of you, who are you precisely? We've never had a formal introduction and I must say, if I am to be enjoying your hospitality for the immediate future I should at least know to whom my gratitude should be attributed to." Jet had forgotten that while he might be aware of her name, she might not know his.
"Well, I suppose I can easily remedy that. I am Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III." He made a slight bow.
"A bit young for a Lord, aren't you?" She said archly.
"I am older than I look, but yes, father had a bout of ill health and, as I had already shown an aptitude for the business, he opted to retire."
"And how old are you, Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III?"
"Jet, please - how forward of you to ask, I have not asked such personal details of you - how old are you then?"
"Jet? That's an unusual name."
"My sister gave it to me." Jet replied.
"And how did that come about?" Bertha inquired.
"Well, she was still just a little baby and she was only just learning to speak properly. Back then everyone called me Chet and, you see, she couldn't quite make the "Ch-" sound so it sounded like "Jet" whenever she said it. Then Arthur took it up and that was that." Jet explained.
"Is Arthur your brother?" she asked.
"No, he's my best friend - you remember..." Jet lapsed into sudden silence. He looked down at his hands.
"Oh, so he was the one who..." she trailed off.
"Yes."
"Oh." The pair sat in silence for a minute.
"I am so sorry for that - you must know I am! I never intended-" He reached over for her hand - she evaded him.
"I know." She looked away to the opposite wall. The two remained in stony silence for some time. "Thirty." she said, quietly.
"What?" he looked up.
"I am thirty years old." she answered. "So, how old are you?"
"Twenty-six." Jet replied. "Thirty is rather young for a Sergeant Major, is it not?"
"My father was a curate in the south when he became acquainted with General Booth. Father felt his message was one of great import to the world and joined the Army in spreading it, he and myself, when I was just a girl of fifteen."
"What of your mother and other siblings?" Jet prodded further.
"My mum died when I was very small; I have no siblings to speak of - just a cousin, Jim Reed, he was with me at the brothel."
"Yes!" Jet exclaimed. "The man with the glasses. Is Reed your family name then?"
"No, just his. My Father and I are Smith's."
"So then, Sergeant Major Bertie Smith - well there's not much remarkable in that."
"It's Bertha." She admonished him.
"I believe, I have more than earned the right to call you Bertie if I so choose." Jet grinned. She answered him with a half smile.
"I suppose, given the expense you have incurred on my behalf, I can allow it. But only you." She seemed to flag somewhat; Jet looked at her with concern.
"How are you feeling?" She rubbed her eyes for a moment.
"I'm just, I'm just very tired. My head suddenly feels like the inside has been replaced by a dense fog. I'd like to sleep now, if you don't mind." Bertie's head nodded down.
"I'm sorry Bertie, Dr. Lang said I had to keep you awake until he returned." Jet explained. Her head dipped again. "Come on, I need you to stay awake. Here, tell me more about your family - what was your mum like?"
"Oh mum. She's very nice - you would like her." Bertie drawled. Jet looked at Bertie, confused.
"I thought you said she had passed? What's her name?"
"Oh yes... yes, she did pass," Bertie pressed a hand to her head "I'm sorry, I'm terribly confused. What did you ask me?"
"What was her name?" Jet repeated.
"Oh, her name is Brigid." An Irish name, so Bertie was half-Irish then, he had guessed so much from her features but it was a higher percentage than he had anticipated - and once again Bertie was speaking of her as if she were alive. A sense of alarm was beginning to grow in Jet. "I really am very tired, I think I'm going to go to sleep now." Her head fell backward against her pillows.
"Bertie! Bertie no!" Jet insisted, but there was no response. "Wake up Bertie." he patted her hand. "Come on, I need you to wake up." Jet tried shaking her and patting her cheek. She failed to rouse despite his best efforts. Panicked and at his wits end he decided to employ an old technique he had heard of in his youth from the books his Governess read to him - he kissed her. Justice was swift and harsh - Jet picked himself up from the floor rubbing his ribs. He grinned "Same spot as earlier. You have nothing if not consistent aim."
You kissed me!" she was livid.
"Well it woke you up." He sat down, still grinning.
"That is without question - I'm likely never to risk sleeping again with you in the room." she exclaimed.
"Good, then we are in accord. Dr. Lang will be glad to hear it." He laughed. She looked as though she wished to make reply but could not find the words - finally she just protruded her lower lip in something of a perturbed pout.
"So, tell me about Arthur." She posited. Jet looked at her in surprise.
"Why do you want to know about him? I'd imagine you'd prefer never to hear his name again."
"I suppose I don't. But as reprehensible as I may find him, he still is a child of God, and as God has placed him in my path I should like to know more regarding him." Such a saintly reason for such a perverse request, he thought. Still, it was best to honor it. Jet took a deep breath.
"Alright, what would you like to know?"
"How did you come to know him?" Bertie asked.
"Well, that is a bit of a tale. You could say we've known each other since before we were even born."
"How is that?" furthered Bertie. Jet continued:
"Well, my mother was a close friend of Duchess Caroline Wyndham despite their marked difference in age. When my mother was a young woman the Duchess was something of an idol to her and, as the Duchess favored my mother's attentions and good mien she soon became a mentor to my mother - she even introduced her to my father. For many years the Duke and Duchess had wished for a child but it seemed to be in vain. Then she became with child, my mother soon joined her so Arthur and I were born only a few months apart. We were raised almost as brothers and in all things we were in sympathy. Ever since his father passed, two years this summer, he and I have been business partners as well as brothers." Bertie stared at him as he spoke, her eyes growing wider with every sentence.
"So that man who assaulted me in the street, who was going to..., you mean to say he is- " Jet let out a deep sigh.
"Yes, Arthur Wyndham, Duke of -." For once it seemed Bertie was truly at a loss. She seemed to be trying to speak, her hands fidgeting at the blanket.
"I think I shall be ill." she finally pronounced.
"I am sorry, I won't try to defend his actions - I won't try to pretend either of us are the type of men you might call 'good' or that any of that was entirely out of character. Well, I suppose stopping him was..."
"Do you normally do what he says?" Bertie asked.
"I can't really answer that. It would imply that I am, in some way, under his command as though that might mitigate my culpability. Mark me - I am at least equally culpable for our shared sins if not often the lead transgressor." Bertie seemed to want to object. "No, don't. It's my fault it happened at all - I'm the one who threw the clod of dirt that made you come over to address us. If it weren't for my actions he would've never taken notice of you at all. He has never taken disrespect well. No, normally I would not have stopped him - I cannot account for why I did." Jet walked over to the closet and took a tenderly wrapped brown bottle from the drawer, uncorked it, and took a long dram.
"Perhaps it was God." Bertie quietly suggested.
"Perhaps, who knows! If kisses can wake sleeping women I suppose other fairy tales are possible as well." He took another large gulp from the bottle. Bertie looked at the bottle nervously.
"What are you drinking?" she asked so quietly it was difficult for Jet to hear it.
"You know what it is! You spend every day trying to save people from it. It's Laudanum." He declared loudly raising the bottle into the air. He shoved it under her nose "Want a taste?"
"No, thank you!" Bertie cried, pushing it away. Jet shook it in front of her:
"Are you sure? It'll help your headache."
"I can tolerate the pain, thank you."
"Suit yourself; more for me." He plopped back into the chair and took another drink. His leaned his elbows on his knees with his hands hanging somewhat limply in between, fingers still holding the brown bottle ever so slightly. He stared vacantly out the window beside Bertha's bed; thinking everything and nothing in the same moment. The sun had finally surrendered itself to slumber below the horizon, yet there was still some daylight lingering, leaving the things of the world in dark relief from the tea colored sky. Bertha tugged absently at the white yarn knots that adorned her blanket.
"So, tell me about your family?" Bertha requested, finally breaking the silence. Jet turned his head to look at her, a little befuddled. "You said you have a younger sister - is she your only sibling?"
"Oh yes." Jet was relieved to have a reprieve from the subject of Arthur. "Yes, I have three siblings. An elder sister, Philomena, who is two years my senior; my younger sister by six years, Elizabeth; and a younger brother, Avery, who will turn ten next month."
"What are they like?"
"Well Philomena is... well she's queersome. It seems when she views the world she is attempting not to laugh out loud at a joke only she can hear. I won't claim that she hasn't accomplishments but she does not seem to possess talent in any one of them. She was always a strange bird: more likely to spend hours in the library reading the dictionary than poetry or novels; more at home talking to the cats than to the family. I am quite certain those cats know more of what goes on in her head than any human ever will. On late nights, when we were younger, she would spend hours talking to the full moon. She said she thought it must be so lonesome to be the moon - so far away from every one and every thing - always looking down on the world but never being able to join it. I told her the moon had the stars to keep it company but she said the stars were actually even further away from the moon than we are. I believe she still feels it is her duty to keep the full moon company. She's not mad or dangerous or anything - just odd. She's lately married, to our great relief.
I doubt there can be much question that I am the most partial to my baby sister, Elizabeth. I still remember when she was born and how soft and tiny and perfect she was. When she was old enough to toddle about she would follow me around like a tiny yellow-headed duckling. She's much less a baby now, I suppose, but it's hard to picture her, in my mind, as a lady. It is easier for me to picture she and I on the bank of our pond catching frogs - to my mother's horror, I should add - than attending society balls. I scarcely can recognize her in her gowns and finery, powdered and done up. She is so very beautiful, so very accomplished and talented, were I not certain of her suitor I should fear her eminent loss."
"So she is spoken for?" Bertha queried.
"Not yet, but she is as good as. I don't quite know how I shall ever see her as a Duchess, or a mother for that matter - when the time comes."
"A Duchess? So then the suitor is-"
"Arthur." Jet interrupted. "I'm sorry, I meant to avoid the subject."
"I suppose it can't be helped." Bertha sighed. "He was your constant companion from birth - I doubt there is a way to exorcise him completely from your recollections. What of your brother - Avery was it?"
"I don't know that I can say much about Avery, we do share the same house but we have little interaction. I suppose he does like to draw and read and he writes well for his young age. He spends most of his days riding and I daresay he has a particular eye for horseflesh that puts even our buyer to shame. Beyond that much I'm sorry to say my knowledge is lacking - I imagine the grooms know more of him than I." He shook his head. It seemed the Doctor was a long time in returning; the stars were now beginning to dot the sky and there was that moon, full and round and fat, casting its light through the window. Without immediately recognizing it he took in the soft music as part of the scene - as mellow and soft as the moon itself. Suddenly, he snapped back to himself and looked to the source of the music. Bertie was looking at the moon humming softly. "What is that music?"
"Oh, it's nothing." She looked vaguely embarrassed, as though she had not realized she had been humming at all. "Just an old tune my mother used to sing to me about the moon."
"Well, since I have been introduced to the tune would you care to add the words?" he gave her a wry smile. She flushed slightly but acquiesced to his request.
"The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.
How sweet to rove,
Through Morna's grove,*
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! - the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"
And in this manner they passed the hour, talking of things of little consequence until Dr. Lang returned and relieved Jet of his post for the night.
It was not until afternoon, when Jet awoke, that he sensed something was wrong. It seemed there was a great commotion coming from the room next door where Bertie was being kept. The Doctor was barking orders to what sounded like a highly agitated pair of maids. There was the sound of heavy thumping, somehow muffled, yet it did not cease. In a moment he was up, bedclothes tossed aside. He ran into the other room wearing only his nightshirt to behold a horrible sight. Bertie was shaking about uncontrollably on the bed. The maids, each to a side, were using all their strength to keep her arms down; yet those very arms jerked about so violently they had to use both hands and still often lost their hold. Dr. Lang was desperately attempting to stabilize her head.
"What's happening?" Jet cried out over the din. One of the maids lost her footing and sent the side table lamp crashing to the floor.
"She's having a seizure!" Dr. Lang shouted back. "I need you to hold her legs down!" Jet obediently leaned over the footboard and grabbed hold of her blanket covered ankles, pushing them deep into the mattress. Bertha continued to shake uncontrollably, leading Jet to a sense of deep panic.
"Is there anything else I can do to stop this?" Jet hollered.
"No!" Dr. Lang answered. "She just has to get through it on her own, we just have to keep her from hurting herself in the meantime." Jet held her fast for what seemed, easily, an eternity; terrified from the sight. It was as though a demon had possessed her - he had never been one to believe in any of those ancient stories but in that moment he couldn't deny he wished someone could come and stop this frightful show with a mere touch. Finally, it seemed she had calmed down, the jerks and shakes had lessened - Jet looked down at his hands, the knuckles were pure white from his grasp. He willed his hands to loosen and slid them from the bed. Dr. Lang ran his sleeve across his forehead wiping off sweat from the exertion of his task. "It looks like she's past the worst of it. Look! She's coming back to herself." Bertie's eyelids fluttered open and she let out a slight moan. Dr. Lang drew her attention. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Bertha." she replied drowsily.
"And your family name?" She hesitated for a moment and scrunched up her eyes and nose as though this piece of information were not immediately accessible to her conscious mind but had to, instead, be searched out.
" Smith."
"And how old are you, Bertha Smith?" the Doctor asked. She moaned slightly in response.
"uggh... Thirty."
"What town do you currently reside in?"
"W-ing." She replied. The Doctor shook his head.
"Try again." he requested.
"I live in W-ing." She insisted. Dr. Lang looked concerned.
"Let's try another one: who is the ruler of England?"
"Queen Victoria." She sounded more certain on this answer. Dr. Lang continued asking her more simple questions which she answered to the best of her ability, growing more sure as she continued. Her color seemed to be returning, her cheeks reddened and her eyes, while tired, shone brightly. Finally he returned to the troublesome query:
"What town do you currently reside in?"
"W-ing. No wait..." she put her hand to her forehead and concentrated for a moment. "London." Jet felt a rush of relief wash over him. It must have shown on his face for the Doctor gave him a worn smile and a nod.
"Who am I?" Dr. Lang continued.
"You are Doctor... Lang." she answered.
"And who is he?" Dr. Lang indicated to Jet.
"A man with very poor taste in friends." She smiled. Dr. Lang laughed.
"I believe she'll be alright, she weathered the storm with all her faculties in tact."
"I can't say I'm sure that's a positive thing." Jet was incensed, but still his eyes revealed his amusement. Bertha turned to Dr. Lang:
"What happened Doctor?" Dr. Lang took her hand in his.
"You had a seizure, my dear. It was quite serious - I believe I shall need to take a look at the wound if you would permit me." She nodded in assent and Dr. Lang carefully unwound the bandages from her head to reveal an ugly line of stitches running across a bright red line that marked the injury. "Oh dear." Dr. Lang muttered, poking at the red line. He placed his hands on her cheeks and forehead.
"What's the problem, Doctor?" Jet looked pensively at the physician. His eyes looked sadly at Bertha as he spoke.
"The wound is inflamed. I'm sorry my dear, it appears you have developed an infection, and a dangerous one at that. You are burning up with fever. I will do everything I can to treat it but we may want to send for your family." She was taken aback by the news, as though it had never occurred to her that she might not recover. She felt her cheeks and head for herself as if in an attempt to disprove the diagnosis but it was clear from her fallen expression her test had only confirmed it.
"I was staying with my Uncle Reed in Cheapside but my father is still in W-ing" she provided soberly. She continued but Jet was, at this moment, beyond comprehending. He stood without response watching as a maid left the room and returned some minutes later with a bowl of cool water and a number of towels for compresses. The other had left as well but she did not return. Jet walked over to his own quarters in a daze and, upon arrival, promptly vomited into the sink basin.
The next two days seemed to pass in an excruciating blur of people and illness. Bertha fell into a fevered sleep the first evening from which she was unable to be awakened from. Her Aunt Reed and cousin, Jim, arrived a few hours later and had kept a constant vigil since. She fell into another fit that night and a third the following morning. With her family's blessing, Jet had attempted to attend to his affairs that first day but soon found he was unable to focus his attention on business while Bertie lay on the precipice of mortality. He returned early that afternoon to take up his chair at her bedside. The second night of her illness he found himself keeping watch alone with Jim Reed. Not a word passed between the two men for some hours as they sat beside her still form. Finally, Jet stood up and walked over to the window casement, he peered out the window letting his eyes rest upon the form of the waning moon - still so much what it was only two nights ago when he and Bertie had gazed upon it. He hummed softly without thinking, that low Irish tune.
"You love her, don't you?" a voice from behind him asked. 'Impertinence must be a family trait.' Jet thought to himself.
"No. No, I don't." Jet replied, not turning to face the man. "To be honest, I can't even say I especially like her."
"You've put yourself to a good deal of trouble and expense for a woman you don't especially like." Jim Reed probed.
"I suppose it's because I know her. I can no longer count her as one of the nameless masses. And I find I am not so easily able to watch as someone I know dies where they might have lived had I intervened - as troublesome as I may find that life. I have the means without even having to strain my finances and given that I have contributed to her troubles in the past, it is only fitting that I should make some atonement for them." Jet still stared at the moon, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"Ah! She did say she knew you at the brothel." Jet winced at Jim Reed's indelicacy. "How did you meet?"
"I would prefer not to discuss it." Jet's reply was unmistakably terse. Jim shuffled uncomfortably in the chair beside the standing gentleman.
"Well, I love her." he offered. "I can't thank God enough for leading you to the rally - I am certain she would not have survived if not for you." Jet refused to acknowledge Jim Reed's confession or gratitude but stared in stony silence out the window. The two men remained in this state for some time until Jet finally spoke:
"I believe I shall be retiring for the evening, good night to you." He strode from the room without so much as a slight bow or nod of acknowledgement leaving Jim Reed to stew in a state of discomfiture.
The following day marked the arrival of Bertha's father who, Jet was surprised to note, was the same man with the imperial mustache from the rally where he and Bertie had first come into contact. It seemed that over the past few months he had acquired an eye patch on his right eye and now walked with a cane. The Rev. Smith made no greeting but hobbled over to his daughters bed and fell to his knees at her bedside weeping openly and grasping her limp hand. Those gathered turned their faces from the scene, even Jet, who up until this point would have questioned whether he had the facilities to feel such emotions, found his heart rent by the wailing sobs of the father for his only daughter. The man cried out to his God, his words often choked and lost, for leading him to send his only daughter to death when he had requested His guidance in leading her to a place where she would be protected from harm. "You have taken my wife, my eye, my limb all in my service to you! Please," he begged. "Don't take my daughter too!" he fell into wrenching sobs. Jet, not one to give much regard to the religious, had to admit he appreciated this man's honesty in the face of his God. Still, he had no desire to witness further display and opted to remove himself from the apartment to the street. It had been so long since he had been able to get out he found he was not immediately able to adjust to the feel of the open air or the glare of the sun. Once he gained his bearings he breathed deeply the cool breeze and began to walk with little question as to where his feet would lead him - his hands had begun to shake and a feeling of unquenchable desire for his long delayed drink of choice nagged at him. He made short work of the distance to that den of an apothecary shop and, having purchased his prize, he sat down to drink.
By the time he had finished his second bottle the sun was setting in the west. Still, he wasn't quite ready to return to the Hotel. The idea of being amongst those people who had overtaken his apartment who praised him as a hero yet impeded his ability to indulge in his comforts. Their talk of God, their constant prayers, their attempts to make a friend of him left him feeling suffocated - it was a relief to finally breathe free without having it observed. For a while he walked aimlessly. He had no mind for business at the moment. He could visit Lord and Lady Cox, but he found his desire to see either party was quite stifled. The brothel would hold no peace for him; the memories of his encounter with Bertie there were far too raw. He chanced upon a small girl selling flowers and purchased one for his charge. It seemed there was no point in further delaying the inevitable, he turned and began the walk back to the Hotel.
He arrived in the apartment to find the father still kneeling at his daughter's bedside; the others having gone to leave the man in peace. His sobs had ceased and were replaced by prayers for the will of God to be done. Jet liked this version of the man significantly less. Still he stood in the door frame watching. The man seemed to sense Jet's presence and turned, making an effort to stand. He grasped the top of the cane to pull himself up but found that his long stay in one manner had left him unable to right himself. Jet offered his arm to assist the man to a nearby chair.
"Thank you." The man said. His face was pale from the exertion of his grief, he appeared exhausted. "So you're the man rescued my daughter." Jet held up a gloved hand to stop him.
"If you please sir, I have quite had my fill of gratitude and I am certain I shall never receive so much in total in all the remainder of my life." Rev. Smith was nonplussed by the young man's reaction but ceased speaking.
"How is she?" his voice was rough as he spoke. Jet answered matter of factly,
"Dr. Lang has said if she fails to wake in the next day it is likely she will never. He is still hopeful that she may make at least a partial recovery but he is not sure the amount of damage the fits may have caused to her mind."
"Can you tell me what happened? Jim told me you witnessed the attack."
"Yes, a pair of men were harassing her and she rebuffed them so one of the men hit her across the head with a paving stone. I believe he was arrested for the assault." Jet was solemn in his reply.
"I imagine his fate is tied directly with hers then?" the Reverend looked sadly towards the bed.
"Yes. Though, regardless, I believe his life is over whether now or years from now." He had meant his statement in way of consolation but Rev. Smith did not seem to take it as such.
"It is a pity, I will remember to pray for his family." the older man murmured.
"If I may be so bold, why did you send her to London? You must be aware that this is the home of your detractors." Jet took a seat in the other chair at the foot of the bed. Reverend Smith responded with a short, mirthless laugh.
"I suppose the answer 'God told me to' would be insufficient to a man such as yourself." Jet nodded in agreement. "It was three months hence - there was a Salvation Army rally in W-ing. I was to be the main speaker, but the army of the adversary showed in full force that day. They attacked us with a fury. I was caught by a group of men and beaten viciously; I lost my right eye in the attack and my limb was badly broken. The cuts and bruises have since healed and the physician tells me I may regain full use of my limb in time but my vision will never be as it was. When Bertha came to visit my bedside, though she had attempted to conceal them, I saw the bruises blooming on her hand and wrist. She confessed a man had accosted her and threw her to the ground. We were fortunate that was all that happened to my poor girl." Jet winced, attempting to will away the memory. The man continued: "That night I prayed to God to reveal to me a safe place to send her. I felt the strong hand of the Lord guiding her to London where she could be cared for by her Aunt and Uncle; so I sent her. And now look at her!" He waved harshly to the bed but quickly composed himself. "I suppose it is God's will. I just wish I understood His plans better." Jet held his tongue; tempted as he was to contradict the man, now was hardly the appropriate moment to deny him the consolation of his faith. He politely excused himself and retired to his room for the night.
For hours Jet tossed about in his own bed, unable to sleep for the irritation building inside of him. Finally he abandoned the bed entirely for the balcony. The night breeze brushed about him like so many ribbons weaving and twisting around his body. He tilted his chin up, eyes closed and let the wind breathe upon him cooling his form yet not his temper. He pressed his fists to the railing and looked up to the night sky.
"Why'd you even let me meet her if you were just going to kill her, eh?! Why bring her back into my life just so I could watch her die?! What kind of sadistic God blights his own servants? Murders them without mercy?" He shouted to the void. "Some God." He muttered letting his hands loosen to rest, open palmed on the chilled rail. "Damn you!" He howled. He slammed his fist onto the rail. "Ouch!" he yelped, cradling his freshly bruised hand. "I suppose you think that's funny?" he accused the silent stars "I suppose you think all of this is hilarious! Butter upon Bacon! You are bloody well disturbed! I'm through with you!" He turned, slamming his open palms against the rail, wincing upon the contact of the injured one with the metal. "As if I had anything to do with fictional beings anyhow." he muttered walking back into his room and throwing himself upon his bed. It seemed the outburst had done its trick - Jet slept a dreamless slumber well into the dawn.
With the rising of the sun Jet washed his face, dressed enough to be presentable to those interlopers who occupied the apartment day and night. He walked over to Bertie's room and stood leaning on the door frame. There sat Rev. Smith slumped down in the chair beside her bed, breathing slowly, asleep. The sunlight cast a bright beam over Bertie's form, still swaddled in thick blankets. He noticed something, a slight flutter of the eyelids. It seemed as though every piece of grief and stress, every weight of the world, left him in that moment. He smiled. "Hey, good morning." Those brown eyes fixed on him,
"Good morning." she whispered. "I don't want to wake him; he looks so tired." And thus, the vigil ended. Dr. Lang arrived mid-morning and, after a thorough examination, concluded her faculties were intact and her fever had broken. The apartment was filled with rejoicing family and friends praising God for this great miracle. Jet stood apart from the celebrations, accepting handshakes and praise but otherwise keeping to himself, content to let the revelers have their moment. Save for one handshake. He approached Dr. Lang who was packing his supplies to leave, "Thank you Dr. Lang, I believe she never would have had a chance if not for you." he offered his hand, the physician received it.
"If not for the both of us."
"Should you find yourself in _shire, you are welcome to our house any time."
"I shall consider it." Dr. Lang replied.
"So what now?" Jet asked.
"The family has requested she be moved to her Uncle's house when she is well enough, I will check in periodically to monitor her recovery but I believe she has gotten through the worst of it."
"If she requires any further attention, merely contact my solicitor and he will make the necessary arrangements."
"Then you are leaving?" the Doctor inquired.
"Yes. Tomorrow morning. My business has long since been concluded and with Bertie on the mend I see no reason to remain. I have no doubt her family will vacate the premises as soon as she is able to be moved - they don't seem the type to take advantage of hospitality." he made a nod over to the swarm of blue uniforms crowded about the bed. Dr. Lang smiled.
"Then I wish you safe travels, may we meet again in less dire circumstance."
"I shall look forward to it." Jet saw the man to the apartment door where they shook hands once more.
That evening Jet bid farewell to a sea of grateful faces begging him to stay, to visit the next time he was in town, to come to dinner or tea, and above all praising and thanking him for his heroic generosity. All in all it was very tedious. Finally, they had all gone home. Even Bertie's father had left to join his sister and her family for supper. Jet was finally alone in the apartment with Bertha for the first time in days. He sauntered over to her room. "Hey."
"Hay is for horses." she smiled.
"Bricky woman." he answered back. She gaped at him.
"I believe such talk is indecent in the presence of a lady!" she scolded in a scandalized tone.
"Ah, have you seen one about, then?" he teased. She puffed out her lower lip in indignation.
"So is it true? You are leaving tomorrow?"
"Yes, my business is finished and I have no reason to remain longer. Besides, another day with your family might send me to the madhouse."
"I imagine they have been a bit much for you - they do mean well." she sighed.
"Oh, I don't doubt it." Bertie looked as though she were about to speak, then hesitated, picking at the yarn ties again. Finally she seemed to gather her courage.
"Will you come to call on us next time you are in town?" Jet couldn't tell for sure if this were a question or a request. He let out a theatrically loud sigh, as though he was being grossly put upon.
"I suppose I should have no choice but to call on you seeing as I saved you from certain death. Pluck'd you from the claws of the devil himself-" he dodged a flying pillow. "My my, such a violent child. No doubt you are much restored. Besides," he added. "If I didn't call on you you'd just find me anyhow."
"That would seem to be the current trend." she allowed. "So, until we meet again?" she stuck out a hand as though for a handshake.
"Until then." he took her hand in his own, flipped it so the back faced him and gave it a quick kiss which was met promptly with a slap to his face. He grinned.
"You are an evil man! I should know better than to trust you!"
"Just remember that the next time we meet. I don't want all these people to put ideas of my goodness into your mind. I imagine by Christmas I shall have been elevated to sainthood in their eyes."
"You have nothing to fear from me, I shan't be fool enough to ever place you on a pedestal. But still..." she hesitated again. "Thank you... Jet." His name pronounced by her lips sent a bolt of lightening through him. He laughed in spite of himself. He unconsciously tried to cover his grin with a hand.
"What is so funny?" she sounded rather put-out by his reaction. He took a moment to collect himself, still grinning he answered,
"That's the first time you ever called me by my name. I suppose I wasn't ready for it."
"You weren't ready to hear your own name? You are an odd one." she shook her head.
"You are one to make such an accusation, Sergeant Major."
"I thought it was Bertie." she suggested slyly.
"Bertie it is and Bertie it shall always be until I breathe my last!" Jet declared raising a fist to the sky. The two broke out into a fit of laughter. Bertie was the first to catch her breath.
"I suppose it is getting late and you have an early train to catch."
"Yes, I suppose that is true. And you still need your rest as well - I can't have you dying after I've left or I'll lose my reputation as a grand miracle worker. Goodnight Bertie." He turned to leave.
"Goodnight Jet, I'll pray for you." He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Good luck with that." he shot back, closing the door behind him.