Julia Quinn - Just Like Heaven

For several minutes, she stood motionless in the center of the room, feeling strangely limp and lost. There really wasn’t anything to do. She had been just as scared that morning, but at least then she had been able to concentrate on treating his leg. Now all she could do was wait, and her mind, denied of a specific task, had nothing but fear to fill it.

What a choice. His life or his leg. And she might have to be the one to make it.

She didn’t want the responsibility. Dear God, she didn’t want it.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sighed, finally walking over to the chair at his bedside. “How did this happen? Why did it happen? It’s not fair."

She sat and leaned down against the mattress, folding her arms and resting her head in the crook of one elbow.

She would, of course, sacrifice his leg to save his life. That was what Marcus would choose if he were sensible enough to speak for himself. He was a proud man, but not so much so that he would prefer death over handicap. She knew this about him. They had never talked about it, of course—who talked about such things? No one sat at the dining table talking about whether to amputate or die.

But she knew what he would want. She had known him for fifteen years. She did not need to have asked him the question to know his choice.

He would be angry, though. Not at her. Not even at the doctor.

At life. Maybe at God. But he would persevere. She would make sure of it. She would not leave his side until he . . . Until he . . .

Oh, dear God. She couldn’t even imagine it.

She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Part of her wanted to run out of the room and beg Dr. Winters to remove his leg right now. If that was what it would take to guarantee his survival, then she would hold the damn saw. Or at least hand it over to the doctor.

She couldn’t face the thought of a world without him. Even if he wasn’t in her life, if he stayed here in Cambridgeshire and she went and married someone who lived in Yorkshire or Wales or the Orkney Islands and she never saw him again, she would still know that he was alive and well, riding a horse, or reading a book, or perhaps sitting in a chair by a fire.

It wasn’t time to make that decision yet, though, no matter how much she hated the uncertainty. She could not be selfish. She needed to keep him whole as long as possible. But what if, in doing so, she waited too long?

She closed her eyes tight even though her head was buried in her arms. She could feel her tears burning against her eyelids, threatening to burst forth with all the terror and frustration building within her.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered. She rubbed her face against her forearm, trying to wipe away her tears, then settled back down in the cradle of her arms. Maybe she should be pleading with his leg, not with him. Or maybe with God, or the devil, or Zeus, or Thor. She’d plead with the man who milked the cows if she thought it would make a difference.

“Marcus,” she said again, because saying his name seemed to bring her solace. “Marcus."

“ ’Noria."

She froze, then sat up. “Marcus?"

His eyes did not open, but she could see movement beneath the lids, and his chin bobbed ever so slightly up and down.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sobbed. The tears poured forth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be crying.” She looked helplessly for a handkerchief and then finally just wiped her eyes on his bedsheet.

“I’m just so happy to hear your voice. Even though you don’t sound at all like you."

“W-w-wa—"

“Do you want water?” she asked, jumping on his broken words.

Again, his chin moved.

“Here, let me sit you up just a bit. It will make it easier.” She reached under his arms and managed to straighten him a few inches.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A glass of water sat on the bedside table, the spoon still in it from the last time she’d tried to give him a drink. “I’m just going to give you a few drops,” she told him. “Just a little at a time. I’m afraid you’ll choke if I give you too much.” He did much better this time, though, and she got the better part of eight spoonfuls into him before he signaled that he’d had enough and slumped back down to horizontal.

“How do you feel?” she asked, trying to fluff his pillow. “Other than terrible, I mean."

He moved his head slightly to the side. It seemed to be a sickly interpretation of a shrug.

“Of course you’re feeling terrible,” she clarified, “but is there any change? More terrible? Less terrible?"

He made no response.

“The same amount of terrible?” She laughed. She actually laughed. Amazing. “I sound ridiculous."

He nodded. It was a small movement, but bigger than he’d managed so far.

“You heard me,” she said, unable to contain the huge, trembling smile on her face. “You mocked me, but you heard me."

He nodded again.

“That’s good. You can feel free. When you’re better, and you will be better, you’re not allowed to do that, and by that I mean mock me, but for now, you may go right ahead. Oh!” She jumped to her feet, suddenly bursting with nervous energy. “I should check your leg. It hasn’t been long since Dr. Winters left, I know, but there’s no point in not looking.” It took only two steps and one second to see that his leg was unchanged. The wound was still an angry, glistening red, but it was no longer tinged with that sickly yellow, and more importantly, she saw no red streaks sneaking up the limb.

“The same,” she told him. “Not that I thought there would be a change, but as I said, there’s no point in not . . . well, you know."

She smiled sheepishly. “I already said it."

She held silent for a moment, content just to gaze at him. His eyes were closed, and indeed, he didn’t look any different than he had when Dr. Winters had been examining him, but Honoria had heard his voice, and she’d given him water, and that was enough to bring hope to her heart.

“Your fever!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I should check that."

She touched his forehead. “You feel the same to me. Which is to say, warmer than you should. But better than you were. You are definitely better than you were.” She paused, wondering if she was speaking into the proverbial mist. “Can you still hear me?"

He moved his head.

“Oh, good, because I know I sound foolish, and there is no point sounding foolish for no one."

His mouth moved. She thought he might be smiling. Somewhere in his mind, he was smiling.

“I am happy to be foolish for you,” she announced.

He nodded.

She put one hand to her mouth, letting her elbow rest on the opposite arm, which was banded across her waist. “I wish I knew what you were thinking."

He gave a tiny shrug.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not thinking of much of anything?” She pointed a finger at him. “Because that I will not believe. I know you far too well.” She waited for another response, no matter how small. She didn’t get one, so she kept on talking.

“You’re probably figuring out how best to maximize your corn harvest for the year,” she said. “Or maybe wondering if your rents are too low.” She thought about that for a moment. “No, you’d be wondering if your rents are too high. I’m quite certain you’re a softhearted landlord. You wouldn’t want anyone to struggle."

He shook his head. Just enough so that she could tell what he meant.

“No, you don’t want anyone to struggle, or no, that’s not what you’re thinking about?"

“You,” he rasped.

“You’re thinking about me?” she whispered.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, barely even audible, but she heard him. And it took every last ounce of her strength not to cry.

“I won’t leave you,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Not until you’re well."

“Th-th—"

“It’s all right,” she told him. “You don’t need to say it again.

You didn’t need to say it the first time."

But she was glad that he did. And she wasn’t certain which of his statements had touched her more—his two words of thanks, or the first, his simple, solitary “You.” He was thinking about her. While he was lying there, possibly near death, even more possibly at the brink of an amputation, he was thinking about her.

For the first time since she had arrived at Fensmore, she wasn’t terrified.

The next time Marcus woke up, he could tell that something had changed. First of all, his leg hurt like the devil again. But somehow he suspected that wasn’t such a bad thing. Secondly, he was hungry. Famished, in fact, as if he had not eaten in days.

Which was probably true. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d fallen ill.

Lastly, he could open his eyes. That was excellent.

He wasn’t sure what time it was. It was dark, but it could just as easily have been four in the morning as ten at night. It was bloody disorienting, being sick.

He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat. Some more water would be nice. He turned his head toward the bedside table. His eyes still had not adjusted to the dark, but he could see that someone had fallen asleep in a chair by his bed. Honoria? Probably.

He had a feeling she had not left his room throughout the ordeal.

He blinked, trying to remember how she had even come to be at Fensmore. Oh, yes, Mrs. Wetherby had written to her. He could not imagine why his housekeeper had thought to do so, but he would be eternally grateful that she had.

He rather suspected that he would be dead if not for the agony Honoria and her mother had inflicted upon his leg.