Dem butted his nose against James’s leg and James reached down to ruffle his ears.
“What are you doing up?” Laura scolded in a way that somehow pleased him, another one of the many peculiarities he felt. “You should be in bed.”
“I heard Archie and Patricia.”
“Them,” she scoffed as she steered him toward the bed. “You needn’t have gotten up. I can handle those two.”
“I saw.” He sat down and leaned back against the headboard. He felt as if he’d run a race. “I thought I might have to stop you from laying them low.”
She rolled her eyes and sat down on the bed beside him. “How do you feel?”
“Not dead.”
“Well, that’s to the good.” Her smile was bright enough to make him almost believe he felt better. “You sound . . . you sound here again.”
Laura took his hand, as she had many times before since he’d been sick. But it was different somehow; he no longer felt only the unspoken comfort. He was conscious of her touch now, just as he was aware of how near she sat, how at ease with him she was.
“I think . . . perhaps I am myself again,” James agreed cautiously. “I feel like the devil, but I don’t feel as if I’m trying to hold back the tide.” He paused. “Are you sure? That it’s mercury poisoning?”
“Yes.” She stood up and went into the dressing room, returning a moment later with a battered journal. “My father treated men who had mercury poisoning. These are his notes.” She began to read from the book, listing symptom after symptom so familiar they made his stomach churn. “You see?”
“What happened to those men?”
She looked him square in the eye. “They lived, James.”
“All of them?”
Laura let out a soft noise of frustration. “That is so like you. No, not every single one, but more of them lived than died. You have a better chance than any of them.”
Hope shimmered in his chest, but he dared not grasp it. “What were they like? Did they continue like this?” He circled his hand, indicating himself and the bed.
“No.” She set the book aside and sat down on the bed again, leaning earnestly toward him. “They recovered. The symptoms disappeared. You’re going to be yourself again.”
“Christ,” he muttered, not sure whether he was cursing or praying, and tilted his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes.
He was going to live. It had been so long. He had been so sure. Resigned. He hardly knew how to feel, how to act, what to say. If he wasn’t careful, he thought he might start to shake until he fell to pieces.
Laura moved forward, sliding her arms around him, laying her head against his. James went still for an instant, then wrapped his arms around her almost convulsively, squeezing her to him, and buried his face in her hair.
chapter 19
Laura was sorry when James’s embrace loosened; it was quite wonderful for those few minutes to be close, to share the sudden, sweeping joy and relief. It was as if the two of them had been through some small, fierce personal war together, and the victory was even sweeter because they held it together.
But she hadn’t expected him to hold her long. There was around James some unseen barrier, a layer that stood between him and others. She wasn’t sure why or what it was, but she knew that it would embarrass him to have relaxed his guard. Whatever James felt—and she often found it hard to know what that was—he hated to reveal it.
So when he relaxed his grip, his arms sliding away, she released him and stood up. “You should sleep now.”
“It seems I’ve done nothing but sleep the past few days.”
“You have a good many nights to make up for. You need to heal and regain your strength.” She moved over to the bottles on the dresser and began to measure out a dose.
“Are you going to give me more of that noxious brown liquid?”
“I am. It will help you recover more quickly.” Laura handed him the glass.
“I suspect people tell you they feel better just so you’ll stop pouring it down their throat.” He downed it quickly, his face screwing up in distaste.
“I’ll ring for Owen to bring your cup of hot milk.”
“That, too? Milk tastes bad enough as it is without making it hot.”
“I’m going to take it as a good sign that you feel well enough to grumble.” Laura smiled. “Milk will help you fight the poison.”
Despite his complaints, he drank it down when Owen brought it, and within minutes he was asleep. Laura sat in her chair and let the tears come. She cried silently, not with sorrow but with release, for the first time allowing herself to admit the fear that had lurked in her for days, acidly eating away at her. The fear that it was too late, that James was doomed, that despite everything, he would lose his stubborn battle.