glad to be rid of the clothes that no
longer fit him or he them. He cast a skeptical glance at the nightshirt. If it
was formerly his, like the shirt, the armholes would be too tight and he was
tired of the chaffing.
His heathenish habits might shock the household, but who was
to know? Except England in October was not a tropical island in the Caribbean,
so stoking the fire in his bedchamber was a good idea.
After moving the screen aside, he tossed a couple of quartered
logs on the andiron. A puff of ashes tickled his throat and had him coughing.
He tossed on a third piece but didn’t bother to position it.
Averting his head, he replaced the screen then brushed his
hands while fighting the coughs that would only make him lightheaded.
Crossing to the bed, he slid in between the linen sheets and
sank down into the feather mattress. The clean smell of soap, the comforting
scent of the wool, pulled him down into memories of his youth. Memories of
being safe. Memories of life without the threat of vodou priests and their
black magic, curses, and poisons. The brandy, the score of miles walked and the
relief at finally being home had him sinking into sleep more quickly than he
would have expected.
He woke gasping. His lungs closed and the little air that
made it through whistled on a high pitch. The room was gray and foggy. As his
senses returned, he realized it was smoke.
Jerking out of bed he stared through the smog. A piece of
smoldering firewood had rolled out onto the hearth. The screen trapped it
before it rolled onto the rug, but it was too far removed for the chimney to
draw its fumes. Too long used to fire pits instead of fireplaces with andirons,
he’d been careless and was now paying the price.
Fighting the tightness of his chest, he yanked the screen
aside and grabbed the fire tongs to return the smoking wood to the fireplace.
His lungs spasmed. His tingling fingers were clumsy. The
room began to tilt. The burning log crumbled into embers that tormented him
with multiple smoke plumes. He coughed and couldn’t stop. Turning he tried to
find clean air for his lungs, but it was too late. Darkness closed in from the
edge of his vision as his lungs refused to open. It was almost as bad as when
he was in the coffin.
His head spinning, he reached out but found nothing but
emptiness. His first night home and he was going to die. Alone.
*~*~*
Yvette woke at every little sound. The pop of a spark from
the fire in the adjoining room, the creak of a floorboard, and, most of all, every
time Beau coughed. She knew he’d come to her doorway earlier, stood there for a
long time while she held her breath and waited for him to leave or discover
her. His breathing was harsh as if he couldn’t catch his breath. But she feared
any inquiry into his health would be rebuffed, then hated that she was too
cowardly to ask.
She’d lain in one position so long her bones ached but she
didn’t dare shift. If she didn’t get more rest than this fitful sleep allowed,
she wouldn’t be awake at first light to supervise Etienne’s horse riding
lesson.
She could tell from the sounds that Beau was up and fiddling
with his fire. His breathing sounded worse, wheezing and strained as some of
the slaves did when their lungs grew weak from exposure to the sugar cane processing
and the fires. Knowing she might be able to help, she reached for her dressing
gown then pushed back the covers to go to him even though she feared his
response.
Before her feet touched the floor, a loud thump jolted her.
That was more than his dropping a fire utensil.
“Beau?”
He didn’t answer. Instead only the strained wheeze of his
breathing echoed in the silence.
Shoving her arms in the sleeves of her dressing gown she
flew through the sitting room and found him naked on the floor. His stomach worked,
but his struggle to breathe pulled at memories deep in her, memories of slaves
who’d died for being unable to breathe during the burnings. And more raw,
longer fit him or he them. He cast a skeptical glance at the nightshirt. If it
was formerly his, like the shirt, the armholes would be too tight and he was
tired of the chaffing.
His heathenish habits might shock the household, but who was
to know? Except England in October was not a tropical island in the Caribbean,
so stoking the fire in his bedchamber was a good idea.
After moving the screen aside, he tossed a couple of quartered
logs on the andiron. A puff of ashes tickled his throat and had him coughing.
He tossed on a third piece but didn’t bother to position it.
Averting his head, he replaced the screen then brushed his
hands while fighting the coughs that would only make him lightheaded.
Crossing to the bed, he slid in between the linen sheets and
sank down into the feather mattress. The clean smell of soap, the comforting
scent of the wool, pulled him down into memories of his youth. Memories of
being safe. Memories of life without the threat of vodou priests and their
black magic, curses, and poisons. The brandy, the score of miles walked and the
relief at finally being home had him sinking into sleep more quickly than he
would have expected.
He woke gasping. His lungs closed and the little air that
made it through whistled on a high pitch. The room was gray and foggy. As his
senses returned, he realized it was smoke.
Jerking out of bed he stared through the smog. A piece of
smoldering firewood had rolled out onto the hearth. The screen trapped it
before it rolled onto the rug, but it was too far removed for the chimney to
draw its fumes. Too long used to fire pits instead of fireplaces with andirons,
he’d been careless and was now paying the price.
Fighting the tightness of his chest, he yanked the screen
aside and grabbed the fire tongs to return the smoking wood to the fireplace.
His lungs spasmed. His tingling fingers were clumsy. The
room began to tilt. The burning log crumbled into embers that tormented him
with multiple smoke plumes. He coughed and couldn’t stop. Turning he tried to
find clean air for his lungs, but it was too late. Darkness closed in from the
edge of his vision as his lungs refused to open. It was almost as bad as when
he was in the coffin.
His head spinning, he reached out but found nothing but
emptiness. His first night home and he was going to die. Alone.
*~*~*
Yvette woke at every little sound. The pop of a spark from
the fire in the adjoining room, the creak of a floorboard, and, most of all, every
time Beau coughed. She knew he’d come to her doorway earlier, stood there for a
long time while she held her breath and waited for him to leave or discover
her. His breathing was harsh as if he couldn’t catch his breath. But she feared
any inquiry into his health would be rebuffed, then hated that she was too
cowardly to ask.
She’d lain in one position so long her bones ached but she
didn’t dare shift. If she didn’t get more rest than this fitful sleep allowed,
she wouldn’t be awake at first light to supervise Etienne’s horse riding
lesson.
She could tell from the sounds that Beau was up and fiddling
with his fire. His breathing sounded worse, wheezing and strained as some of
the slaves did when their lungs grew weak from exposure to the sugar cane processing
and the fires. Knowing she might be able to help, she reached for her dressing
gown then pushed back the covers to go to him even though she feared his
response.
Before her feet touched the floor, a loud thump jolted her.
That was more than his dropping a fire utensil.
“Beau?”
He didn’t answer. Instead only the strained wheeze of his
breathing echoed in the silence.
Shoving her arms in the sleeves of her dressing gown she
flew through the sitting room and found him naked on the floor. His stomach worked,
but his struggle to breathe pulled at memories deep in her, memories of slaves
who’d died for being unable to breathe during the burnings. And more raw,
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