Hush Now, Don't You Cry(51)

“I’ve been a bit jumpy these last few days,” she said. “This whole visit didn’t seem natural from the beginning, and then you and your man turning up like that.”

I nodded again, wishing she would go. Frankly I had no desire to sit chatting with her while my husband tossed and turned in his fever.

“And now that the master has been taken from us—well, I’m all of a tizzy. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

“I’m sure it will all turn out just fine.” I put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Whoever inherits the house will want you to stay on.”

She nodded. “Ah, well,” she said at last. “I’d best be going. I’ll send one of the local girls round in the morning to look after you. You’ll not be wanting to cook and clean with your man lying in this state.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m often awake during the night.” She went quietly down the stairs as if trying not to wake a sleeping child and I got the impression that this was a woman whose nerves had been on edge for some time—long before Brian Hannan had announced that he was bringing his family to the cottage for an October stay.

I turned my attention back to Daniel and sponged his forehead. “Can you try to take a drink, my darling,” I whispered and attempted to lift his head. Again he fought me off, thrashing so that he kicked off his covers. Dutifully I replaced them. Another bout of coughing followed, then more rasping breaths. He was fighting for air now.

As I sat on the bed beside him, watching him, other pictures flashed into my mind. I saw myself as a fourteen-year-old standing at my mother’s bed, watching her die. And the Irish patriot Cullen Quinlan dying in my arms as he spirited me to safety after the failed Dublin uprising. And each time that feeling of utter hopelessness, of anger and frustration that I wasn’t God and I couldn’t save them, whatever I tried. Now the thought struck me that I was to be a widow before I even had a chance to learn what it was like to be a wife, before Daniel and I really learned to love and appreciate each other, before there were children …

I had resisted marrying Daniel, even though I knew I loved him, because I wanted to savor my independence for as long as possible—thinking, of course that we had all the time in the world. And now I knew with absolute clarity that I didn’t want to be alone and independent anymore. I didn’t want to struggle and deal with danger. I wanted to be part of a joint life, with someone at my side, someone on my side. I squeezed back tears. I was not going to cry. I had been strong in situations as tough as this and I was not going to give in now.

“You can beat this, Daniel,” I said loudly. The sound echoed around the small room, bouncing back at me from the slanting ceiling. “You’re a strong man. Fight it. Keep fighting, do you hear?”

I looked around and started in terror as a tall figure in black with a skeleton’s face stood in the doorway watching me. My first reaction was that it was Death, come to claim Daniel. But then he said softly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but the door was unlocked so I thought I’d let myself in and save you the trouble of coming downstairs.”

He stepped into the circle of lamplight and I saw that it was Father Patrick, dressed formally now in his priests’ robes and wearing a stole. “I came to see if I could be of any comfort,” he said, “and to offer the last rites to your husband.”

“He’s not going to die,” I said fiercely.

“Let us pray that he won’t, but knowing the terrible reputation of the disease would you not want him anointed anyway, just in case, so that his soul goes straight to his maker?”

A battle raged inside me. I had renounced my religion long ago when I had clashed with narrow-minded, judgmental priests, seen the injustice and suffering in the world and all those prayers going unanswered. But Daniel’s Catholicism meant more to him. He had insisted that we marry in a church. And I got the feeling it wasn’t just to please his mother and the family friends. Deep down I felt that he still believed. So could I deny his soul the right to be washed clean of its sins? Could I condemn him to years of purgatory because of my stubbornness?

I took a deep breath. “Very well,” I said. “It’s probably what he would want.”

“I think you’ll find there is a lot of comfort in the sacrament—for the receiver and for those who witness it,” he said and brought out a little silver box, opened it and set out various little vials. Then he made the sign of the cross and commenced to mutter the prayers. The familiar Latin words hung in the air like incantations. I kept expecting Daniel to open his eyes, sit up and say, “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?” but he didn’t. He didn’t react at all when Father Patrick anointed him with the holy oil of the sick. The sacrament was finished. He started to put the vials of oil back in the silver box, then stepped back.