On Bended Knee, page 14
part #6 of Wicked Worthingtons Series
Before then, he'd scarcely spent a day of his life without his brother at his side. Now he was returning after months away from his family. Had it really been over a year?
Poll took a deep breath and hefted his rucksack over one shoulder to mount the steps to the door of Worthington House. There was no such thing as a butler, nor even a footman here. One either knocked and was let in by member of the family, or one simply walked right in. The door was never locked, for the Worthingtons were always at home.
The door swung open at his touch and Poll noticed that the hinges hardly creaked at all. Yes, someone had been very busy. The foyer was still cluttered but vastly less jumbled and he noticed that there were actually a couple of places one could sit down. However, it was clear from the rectangular impressions of piles of books on the tatty velvet upholstery that the two spindly gilt chairs would never recover.
The house was so quiet that Poll actually felt a chill of foreboding. This house was never quiet.
"Hello?" His voice rang oddly through the empty downstairs. Poll walked through the foyer and down the hall. He moved quickly, only pausing to cast an uneasy glance into each open darkened room. Part of his mind noticed the fact that there was now a rather posh jumble of comfort rather than the chaotic spill of years past. The rest of him became more alarmed the farther he searched while finding no one.
The parlor that Iris used as a painting studio lay still and cold. A half-finished painting on the easel looked to be a depiction of Shakespeare with something spiny atop his head like a lumpy cap. A hedgehog?
But the paints on the pallet beside it had hardened and the stinging scent of turpentine had faded to nearly nothing. Poll ran one finger across the paintbrush lying along the lip of the easel. The pigment had hardened, the bristles ruined now beyond a soaking. His fingertip came away dusty.
How long had Iris been ill? Miranda had not specified in the note. Fear clutched Poll deep in his throat. Was he too late?
Mrs. Philpot was always in the kitchen. Poll strode quickly to the backstairs and clattered down them at speed. The kitchen was dim, lighted only by late afternoon light seeping in through the high cellar windows, but it was enough to see stout Mrs. Philpot sleeping in her chair before the fire. Something was bubbling away on the stove and there were chopped vegetables on the worktable, so Philpot was clearly cooking for the family.
Where were they? Leaving Philpot to her rest, for at best Mrs. Philpot was a forgetful sort of person, though hard-working. She was not, however, the person one should turn to for coherent answers to urgent questions.
Abandoning thoughtful progress for speed, Poll dashed back up the back stairs and then continued up the main stairs to the bedchamber floor. It was so quiet. Too damned quiet.
"Hello?" He heard his voice crack slightly. God, if he was too late in coming home…
"Hush. If you wake Aurora after all the work I had putting her down, I shall put bees in your chamber pot."
With a rush of relief, Poll turned to see his sister Attie glaring at him from a darkened doorway. "Attie!" He quickly modulated his tone to almost a whisper. "Thank heaven! The place is damned grim."
Attie crossed her arms and glared at him. Attie was a glaring sort of person, but this was a glare with intent. "Hello, Poll. Welcome home."
She was taller than when he'd last seen her, and angrier. Her tone was flat, almost bored, but her arms were crossed tightly over her torso and he could see her jaw clench.
Good God, Attie was worried sick. Diabolical she might be, his little sister was clearly exhausted and terrified.
Poll held out his arms. "Come here, you monstrous brat."
Attie thudded into him so hard he staggered. Her wiry arms wound around his waist as she pressed her hot face into his cravat. She wasn't one to weep but he could feel her quivering with tension in his embrace. He ran his hand over her thick unkempt braids and gave one an affectionate little tug. "Come on, buck up. Tell me what's going on with Iris. Where's Archie? Where's —" He cleared his throat. "Where is Cas?"
Attie sniffled and rubbed her face against him. Poll suspected she had wiped her nose on his cravat. But he didn't care.
"Cas is in the sickroom. Callie and the scarred man she insisted on marrying came in just this morning and they're resting." Attie claimed not to like Callie's husband, Sir Ren Porter, although everyone knew that Ren was one of the few people Attie actually respected. "Archie's exhausted, as is Miranda. They won't let me in, so I look after Aurora mostly. Why won't they let me look after Iris? I can be very restful company."
"Of course you could, pet." Poll highly doubted the fact. Even on her good days, Attie was a complicated and splendid being but restful company she was not. "Come on then. Let's go look in on Iris."
Attie drew back and nodded. Her eyes were reddened but they were dry and her pointed little chin was firm. "Mrs. Philpot said I should call her mummy, since she is sick. I think that is a rotten idea."
"Oh, Philpot. No one listens to Philpot. Iris is Iris, and that's all. Nothing will change that."
Attie drew a deep breath. "I knew you'd know what I meant."
As they turned to walk side-by-side to the mistress's bedchamber, Poll felt Attie's bony little fingers clinch his. Good Lord, if Atalanta Worthington wanted cuddles, things were dire indeed.
POLL ENTERED HIS MOTHER'S bedchamber and stepped quietly across the carpet to the heavily curtained bed. The room was dim though it was midafternoon. A large wingback chair was pulled close to the side of the bed and Poll saw a male hand draped over the arm of it that looked very much like his own hand.
"Hello, Castor."
The hand twitched and a lean face looked around the high-back chair at him. A face very much like his own.
"It's about bloody time." Cas's tone was more weary than angry. He sounded husky with exhaustion but when he stood and turned to greet Poll, there was a slight smile on his face.
Poll considered his brother for a long moment. In the past many months he had thought about Cas with emotions ranging from betrayed hatred to boyish longing for his brother at his side. Perhaps it would never be simple between them again. Every feeling was barbed, ready to catch and hold another emotion until it was no better than a tangle of fishhooks.
"So, you are a father now. I got letters."
"Letters which you rarely answered," Cas said as he rubbed a hand over his weary face. "But you're here now. It's good that you're here now."
Poll's throat tightened and he finally dared a glance at the still figure in the great bed. Iris lay bundled in quilts until only her pale face was visible amidst a cloud of wavy silver hair. She looked like a wax figurine of the real Iris, the creation by some not so talented sculptor with little gift for capturing his subject's spirit.
"May I?"
Cas stepped away from the chair and waved Poll into his place.
"I need tea. And Philpot was supposed to bring soup. Poor old thing is spent. I'd better go down."
Poll felt his brother's presence leave the room and his shoulders relaxed a fraction in relief. That was a skirmish for another time.
He bent forward with his elbows on his knees and took his mother's limp hand into his own. Iris's hands.
Poll couldn't think of a time when Iris's hands had not been in motion. Fluttering scarves, dabbling paintbrushes, gesturing theatrically to emphasize her poetic ramblings. Poll felt the lack of her greeting him home most severely. She should come sailing down the stairs, cooing and trailing diaphanous clothing, speaking fine nonsense and touching his cheeks with her warm hands.
Poll opened his mother's hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes and imagined what she might've said.
My beautiful boy. Oh what wondrous fortune has bestowed upon us your dearest presence!
Iris always sounded as if she were reciting a play, whether she was teasing the Prince Regent or telling a joke to a potted palm. She treated everyone with fond endearments and forced them to brutal independence with her complete lack of maternal supervision.
She was Iris to every single one of them. She always had been, even before she had slipped so far away from reality. He could recall tiny Attie screaming for Iris "Iris! I fell down, Iris! I need a kiss, Iris!"
An unconventional mother she might be, yet she was his mother still. He could not bear the thought of the world with an Iris-shaped hole in it. He curled her fingers in his and kissed them. "If you please, my darling Iris, I would very much like it if you would sit up and speak to me. Better yet, I'd like to see you back at your easel. You must finish that painting of Shakespeare and the hedgehog."
"Thistle."
The word was faint. Poll doubted his own hearing for a moment. He opened his eyes and peered at his mother's still face. "What? Did you say something? Iris?"
She lay still as ever, only the slight rise and fall of her chest telling him that she was still with him, still with all of them in Worthington house.
Poll heard a step. He would recognize his brother's tread anywhere and anytime. He laid Iris's hand back down on the coverlet and smoothed her limp fingers straight before he stood and turned to face his brother.
"Did you say something?"
Cas looked up from the tray he was maneuvering through the doorway. "What? No. I made tea and Philpot scrounged up a tea cake for you from somewhere. I haven't seen a tea cake for a week. You always were her favorite." Cas shot the jest out in a careless tone, seemingly from pure force of habit.
Poll was in no mood for the old game of vying for the primary spot in Philpot's pastry-filled affections. They weren't boys anymore. Cas was someone's husband — Miranda's husband — and someone's father, as well. Their lives no longer ran in tandem. They were no longer partners in crime, no longer a pair, no longer the two of them against the world.
Poll took the tea and drank it down black and strong, ignoring the cream and the tea cake on the tray. "What has the physician said about Iris's condition? Someone has seen her, haven't they?"
Cas set the tray down. "No, we thought we'd let her ride it out, catch-as-catch-can." He rounded on Poll with black fury in his eyes, spitting out the words in a fierce whisper. "Of course, someone has seen her! The Prince Regent has sent his own physician thrice a week but there's nothing that can be done! If she is strong enough she will survive it. If she is not —"
Cas's rage choked off. He swallowed hard and bleak loss replaced the anger in his eyes. The eyes that were just like Poll's eyes.
Poll pulled his dejected brother into his arms. Sometimes he hated Cas. This was not one of those times. Cas pushed at him for a moment and then relaxed into Poll's hard clasp.
"God, Poll. I don't know how to fix this. There's no sneak-around! There's no secret passageway or bad invention or great escape! She simply gets sicker and sicker and there's not a damn thing I can do about it!"
Poll shook his head. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to fix it. Take care of her. Pour Philpot's soup down her throat. Sing silly songs and remind her that she loves us and that we want her to stay. And then she will! She will stay, Cas. For God's sake, she has a grandchild now! Can you picture Iris Worthington missing out on that?"
Cas let out a hoarse sound, part sob and part laugh. "She dotes on Aurora."
"Why is this all on you? Where is Dade?"
Cas straightened and shoved a hand through his hair. "He's been called up before the Prince Regent for something or another. He tried to tell Prinny to bugger off because of Iris, but she talks about Prinny as if he's a friend of hers. Perhaps it's true. He'll be back soon, but just like the rest of us, he's worn flat. Before this, Dade was up in Shropshire, helping Aaron rebuild Worthington Manor. Elektra is terribly sickened, apparently."
"Elektra? She's ill as well?"
Cas stared for a long moment. "Damn. You have been gone a long time. Elektra is expecting. As big as a house, according to Dade. Miranda was only ill the first few months. She tells me that it's not uncommon for some women to unpack their baskets every single day of their condition."
His family had moved on without him. Poll took a breath. "Damn. I can't imagine Elektra is taking that well at all. She hates admitting to weakness."
Cas let out a long sigh. "Don't we all?"
"What about Lysander? Isn't he helping out?"
Cas turned to stare at Poll. "I thought Lysander was with you. He was sent to bring you back."
Poll blinked. "I had a letter from Miranda and rode hard home, night and day. I have no idea where Lysander is."
The two stared at each other in consternation for a long moment. The silence was broken by a thready whisper from the curtained bed.
"Then I daresay … someone ought to go find him … at once."
ATTIE LEFT CAS AND POLL to their reunion and wandered down the front stairs, too edgy to even consider riding down the banister. This would have been alarming if her worried thoughts could have settled on the notion for more than a split second.
Poll had come home without Lysander.
This was not acceptable. Attie had made a plan. Lysander would ride out and do Attie's bidding, both freeing himself from his quietly desperate state of agitation and serving the doubly useful purpose of bringing home the unbearably absent Poll. It was a perfectly efficient notion.
Had she made a mistake? Attie wasn't much into self-examination, so she dismissed the notion out of hand. Someone, somewhere, had undoubtedly committed a grave error, but she was quite certain it had not been she.
After all, Castor and Pollux Worthington were at that moment having a civil conversation, right at Iris's sickbed yet! If anything could revive Iris's will to survive, it would be the reunion of her beloved twin sons.
In the front hall, Miranda had risen and dressed and was bouncing Aurora on her hip as she turned away from the front door.
Attie wasn't terribly concerned with clothing and hair and the presentation thereof, but she was not blind to the fact that Miranda looked a bit more well turned out than had been her custom these last worrisome weeks.
Attie sat down on the bottom step and plunked her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. "Did you change your dress when you knew that Poll had come home?" It was always best to begin with the real question. It saved a great deal of time and had the added benefit of making people want to be rid of her, which distracted certain ladylike persons from urging Attie to put a ribbon in her hair or change out of her brother's old clothes.
Miranda pretended to care about the handful of letters she'd just paid the post-boy for. Lately, the post had been ruthlessly tossed into a brass spittoon kept by the front door, for Worthington House had larger issues to attend to at the moment. No one in the family give a single damn about invitations.
Miranda glanced up, clearly realized that her avoidance technique wasn't working. As if Attie could ever be distracted from her intentions! Miranda let out a sigh.
"I know it must seem silly. It isn't that I want Poll to be attracted to me. He is my brother now and I'm quite content with that. I hope he can be as well."
Attie didn't comment. Waiting silently whilst staring was far more eerie, she'd discovered.
Miranda kissed Aurora on the top of her silky curls. "I suppose I wanted to look nice because I want Poll to see that I'm well and happy, not exhausted and ill-kempt. Which, when I say it out loud is even more —"
Miranda trailed off as she peered at one of the letters in her hand.
Attie twitched with curiosity. She been bored already anyway, for Miranda was far too sensible to be entertaining when provoked. "What? What is that letter?"
Miranda looked up at Attie with puzzlement etched on her fine features.
"Do we know anyone in Yorkshire?"
Chapter 16
TO THE FAMILY OF Mr. Lysander Worthington,
I write to you regarding the well-being of your relation, Lysander Worthington.
Mr. Worthington is currently lodging near Farby in Yorkshire due to the minor injury of his mount. There was a contretemps in the village square involving Mr. Worthington and a prize ram. Although no one was seriously injured, the situation made it clear to me that Mr. Worthington might best be served by remaining out of the public for some time.
He has convinced me of your loving regard, so I have made so bold as to write without introduction so that I may reassure you of the safety and wellness of your brother and son.
Should you feel distress that his visit is an imposition, please rest easy on my account. He has proved to be of immeasurable help to me even as I strive to assist him.
Signed,
(with heartfelt apology for the appalling script, inescapable I fear, due to an injury)
Mrs. Oakes
Yew Manor
Swaledale, North Yorkshire
In the largest and most elaborately ornamented bedchamber in Worthington House, a family meeting had been called amidst the festoons of lace, bouquets of dried roses and randomly stacked paintings bearing vivid images of a recognizable William Shakespeare, usually accompanied by a bizarre interchangeable menagerie. Iris and Archie's room, of course.
Dade looked up from the letter he had just read aloud to his family and frowned. "Prize ram? What the hell?"
Poll clapped a hand over his mouth and snorted laughter into it. Dade cast a sour glance his way.
"Is there something you would like to share with the class, Poll?"
They all turned to stare at Poll.
The entire family (at least those not at sea or imprisoned by bed rest) had wedged themselves into Iris's bedchamber, crowding around her sickbed the same way they used to gather round the large table in the kitchen when a family meeting was called.
Grumbling, Philpot had hauled her old bones to her bed, for she'd taken a turn at nursing Iris the night before and "— need my rest, not like you youngsters, it's about bloomin' time you children showed up to visit your poor mother, and her on her last breath until just this afternoon —"
