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Agnes squeezed the water from the cloth, letting the excess drip into the basin. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, feeling the feverish burn push back at her.
“Edward,” she said as sternly as she could, though her concern was dampening the effect, “you are not allowed to be sick. Do you hear me? You get well.”
She laid the cool cloth on his forehead and sat back in the chair. She picked up his hand and cradled it in hers.
“I wish I knew how long you'd been lying there when I found you. I just am glad I did.”
His body, which she had seen strengthened since his return from the trenches, now lay pale and feeble looking. She had propped him between two chairs, making a bed of them. It had taken considerable effort to move him in his half lucid state. The only beds were upstairs and there was no hope of being able to move him so far. She could only hope that in his semiconscious state, he was unaware enough to not be too uncomfortable.
Edward shivered, causing the blanket to slip from his shoulder. She reached for the corner and pulled it back across him.
Edward tossed, restless in his sleep. Coughing convulsed through his body. Agnes rested her hand on the cloth, testing the temperature. Already, the cloth had turned warm at its application to his scorching skin. Agnes's hand trembled in worry. She dipped the cloth into the water, returning it to its cooler temperature. When cool she pressed it to his head once again, then sat back and clasped her hands in prayer.
“Please, God,” she prayed. They were the only words she spoke, but they were enough. How many times had she prayed those simple words, pouring into them the whole weight of her heart? So often the words were prayed for John, for George.
“Edward,” she said, fearing his temperature was too strong and if she spoke too loudly he would break,
“You have become more of a brother to me than a cousin and I won't bear losing you too.” Despite trying to hold them back, a single stubborn tear fell across her cheek, burning it with the same fiery intensity of Edward's fever.
Gripping his hand, she willed her strength into him. Agnes sat back, her eyes heavy with the pull of sleep.
“Agnes? Agnes, don't be cross. I didn't mean to,” George said, in the land of dreams. The ribbon from her dress, pulled off from his stepping on it, hung tattered in his hand.
“I'm not cross,” she said, pretending to sound stern but unable to conceal the smile rapidly spreading across her face.
“Here, let me see that. I'll sew it back on,” she said, holding out her hand for him to place the ribbon on it. He laid it down but the silken length transformed into a dirtied piece of bandage, muddied and bloodied. She looked to George, but his freshly laundered suit was hanging in shreds making him look like a frightened scarecrow in the fields. Agnes tried to drop the bandage, but in doing so she only succeeded in unwrapping tremendous bolts of used blood-stained gauze. They trailed out from George's body, flapping wildly in the winds. Picking up speed, they churned as one monstrous cyclone engulfing him.
“George,” she cried to him, but he could not hear her. Blood-soaked bandages plastered themselves against his ears.
“Where are you? Are you there?” he cried, desperately. It was then that she saw those same bandages covering his eyes. He shrieked and turned, his body morphing with the tempestuous winds.
“No, no, no!” she yelled, unwinding the bandages with all of her efforts proving fruitless.
“Agnes! Agnes!” George screamed. Violently, she shook awake.
“Agnes,” Edward murmured, in barely a whisper. She shook herself free from the gripping hands of unsettling dread.
“Edward, I'm here. What is it?” she asked, leaning close to him and uncertain whether he was dreaming.
“Agnes, Agnes, Frederick did it,” he said. His words, spoken in the hoarse voice of his raspy cough, set him into another set of body-shaking coughing.
“Shh, Edward, save your voice. It's all right. I know Frederick did it. The woman told us when she read the clipping.”
He said nothing further and lay very still. She was quite certain that he had fallen back asleep and so spoke in confidence that her words would not disturb him.
“I have been trying to figure out how we might help Clara. We know that she did not do it. The great difficulty rests in her inability to remember. If only she could, her case would be so greatly helped. Oh Clara, come on remember.”
Edward stirred and Agnes feared she had spoken too loudly.
“Remember me. Remember. I remember, James, I remember,” Edward said, weakly.
“Shh, Edward, sleep,” she said, smoothing his hair back with a soothing hand. He had never spoken of James, but it was a name that was well familiar. He had awoken with those terrifying night tremors, screaming for James on so many occasions.
He mumbled something that she could not make out. Crouching beside him and pressing her ear nearly to his lips, his hot breath exhaled as she heard him say,
“Dead.”
“No, Edward! You are alive. You are going to live,” she said emphatically.
“Not dead,” he said, hoarsely.
“That's right dear cousin, not dead.”
Exhausted from his speaking, he collapsed deeper into the cushioning embrace of the chair. A quiet settled over the house, with only Edward's strained breathing marking any passage of time in the labored inhalation followed by the raspy exhales. In the dimming light of the evening, as the shadows lengthened and having slept little, Agnes began to doze. The dreams, which had spiraled so vividly around her, mercifully remained absent. An uneasy calm washed over the room, sweeping its rejuvenating rest across the wearied inhabitants.
Agnes awoke to the strong grip of Edward's hand squeezing her own.
“Lady Pem—” he said.
Agnes blinked back the heavy tide of sleep, trying to make sense of Edward's words.
“The painting... told me... Pem...” his words came as raspy interjections on a sea of wheezing.
Agnes reached for the cool cup of water on the floor beside her and raised it to Edward's lips.
“Try to drink this,” she said softly, allowing the water to trickle into his mouth. He began to cough and it sputtered over his cheeks. Agnes mopped up the spilled water. A knock at the door made her jump.
“Now, who could that be?” she said, standing to cross to the door.
Agnes smoothed back her hair and straightened her cotton dress that had crinkled from her hours of sitting at Edward's side. She switched on the lights, as she approached the door. Opening it, she was met by the face of a stranger. It was a very rare occurrence for a town as small as theirs.
“Hello,” the woman said, a rosy smile spreading from her lips to her cheeks. Though she spoke in English, her words were marked with a heavy accent.
“Hello,” Agnes said.
“I have come, because I was told the owner of this house plans to open an antique shop. Are you the owner?” she asked, stepping into the light.
“No, my cousin Edward is,” she said.
“Oh, is he in? You see, I've traveled some distance, though I know it is late. Perhaps, he will make an exception to allowing a visitor in so late?”
“I'm sorry, but that isn't possible. He's very ill and in no condition to receive visitors.”
Concern clouded the woman's face and Agnes was moved by her visible empathy for a stranger.
“Yes, of course. I understand. I'm sorry to hear of the illness.”
She spoke the words as though preparing to leave, though she lingered in the doorway.
“Is there something else?” Agnes asked, hoping her exhaustion did not make her sound curt.
“Would you mind terribly, I know it must be an imposition, but might I just take a look? You see, I'm searching for a painting. It's for sentimental reasons, really.”
Agnes looked at her, feeling as though Edward was speaking to her though he lay asleep and sick in the room behind her. There was a determination in her eyes that she had seen so many times before in Edward's face. There was little she could do for him now except to wait, but perhaps in helping someone who showed so much of his same spirit, she would be able to accomplish some good. Edward would open the doors wide for her to enter and assist her in this search that was so important to her. Agnes was certain of it.
She leaned back on the door, causing it to open more as she spoke.
“If you are willing to risk exposure and if it is as important as you say, please come in.”
“Oh, thank you,” the woman said, and stepped inside.
“You said you're looking for a painting. I think Edward has gathered them here,” Agnes said, pointing to the room piled high with crates that adjoined the room Edward lay sleeping in.
“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes filled with hunger for the pursuit of the painting. Agnes watched as she knelt beside a crate on the floor and began sifting through the paintings, as she turned away to return to Edward's side.
The cloth on his head had risen in temperature from the tepid water she had left with him. She raised the cup of water to his lips once again.
“Drink it slowly,” she warned. As he awoke to feel the coolness of the water descend his scratchy and aching throat, he struggled to speak again.
“Frederick... Lady Pem... not dead...”
“What Edward? You must be having a bad dream.”
“The painting spoke.”
“You poor man. You are sicker than I realized,” she said, refreshing the cloth and laying it back against his forehead.
From the room where she had left the woman, she heard the scrape of boxes moving across the floor. Edward sat up suddenly, staring straight ahead,
“In the forest... hiding...alive...cottage beside the creek.” A fit of coughing overtook him.
“Edward, please, lie down,” Agnes said in worry, as she gently pushed him back against the chair. His body did not resist her guidance and soon the heaviness of breathing while sleeping coursed through his body, raising and lowering his chest.
Steps approached from the hallway. Agnes turned to see the woman standing there. She clutched a painting to her chest and a look of satisfaction filled her face, though she held back the smile that consumed her eyes out of respect for the sickness that dwelt within this man.
Setting down Edward's hand, Agnes stood and crossed the room to speak with the woman in the hall.
“How is he?” the woman asked.
“Feverish, but he seems to be resting better at least,” Agnes said.
“Would you like me to tend to him? Tiredness is flowing out of you,” she said.
“Thank you,” Agnes said, “but, it's something I have to do.”
“I understand,” the woman said, patting the painting beneath her arm.
“You found it then?” Agnes said.
“I did. Give him this for it when he recovers, would you? It can be his first sale,” she said, as she took a pouch of money from her pocket.
“Oh thank you, yes,” Agnes said, surprised at the weight of the pouch as the woman deposited it into her hand.
“I think it's a fair price,” the woman said.
“Please, what is your name so that I can tell Edward who made the first purchase from his shop? I am Agnes.”
“My name,” she said musically, like a bird's song, “is Marie Régine.”