No one could.
Not the physicians, not the crazy elixirs which made my eyes whirl.
Not Papa’s brandy swirled in tea.
Not even the suggested dover pills—opium. Thank goodness, Mama had said no to that.
Nothing stopped the tremors once they started. The terror rattled everything in my mind, my body. It curled an invisible hand about my mouth, dragging me backward as it squashed my screams. Even as I tried to resist, it raped my soul. It kept stealing me, those bits of my spirit that made me strong and funny and fearless.
I wiped my damp gloves along my cheeks. I was getting worked up. My composure was slipping, and I wasn’t even out of the house.
“I’m here, Ruth. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She put her arms about me, and I held on to her.
I am grateful for her, for my family, for clothes, food, and my Chris.
Her strength filled me. I took Ester’s hand. “A few minutes in the warm sun with my beautiful, pushy sister should happen. Let’s go.”
Good. I sounded normal, not confused or scared. Good.
Ester steadied me and led me out into the hall. “Will you introduce the baron to Mr. Marks? How do you think he’ll like your cousin?”
Tightness clenched my stomach again. I couldn’t tell if this was defensiveness or Wycliff or that back door coming at me. “He should like him just fine. You should, too.”
“He’s not my cousin.”
I looped my arm tighter about Ester’s. “Marks and Wycliff are both handsome men, are they not?”
Ester didn’t respond. That meant Wycliff was good-looking. Nothing was wrong with having a handsome cousin, was it?
I lifted my head as we came to the threshold. I couldn’t press my sister for her thoughts on Wycliff, not with the whitewashed doorframe beckoning me. I glared at the plaster-cast acanthus leaves on each side of the entry. They taunted me.Safe inside, danger outside.
“No need to answer, my fretting sister.” I forced a laugh. “I’ve my spectacles. I’ll be able to fully examine Wycliff, head to toe.”
“In front of your friend, Mr. Marks? Ruth, you can’t do that.”
“Can’t do what in front of me?” John Marks, the tall barrister, tall like Papa, stood near. My suitor, an answer from a newspaper advertisement—rumpled chestnut hair matching a wrinkled coat and cravat, soulful brown eyes with crusts of sleep in each—had arrived. Had he slept in his office again? The man worked so hard.
He reached for my hand and took me away from Ester.
“You came directly from work, didn’t you, sir?”
His steady eyes widened. “Yes. My latest trial is very taxing, but I said I’d be here this time. Perhaps showing you I’m a man of my word will induce you to accept my offer. I want to marry you, Mrs. Wilky.”
“I need more time. My parents need to see you more.”
“Then let’s go to them.” He had a strong hold on my hand, not threatening, but not slack.
The next I knew, he’d whisked me through the door.
The motion was fast.
The change in light from dim to blindingly bright made my head spin.
My chest pounded.
My bosom sounded hollow.
I hooked my arm tighter about his.
