Abernathy: Chapter 15
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 15
January, 1771
Justin
Brian has fallen ill. The doctor was here yesterday, and proclaimed it the lung sickness. Though he calls it that, I know what he means. It’s consumption. I remember the symptoms in my mother-the fever, the sound of blood in her cough. I remember she didn’t survive it.
The doctor has bled him, and we have been instructed to stay out of his room for three weeks, no matter what. Josephine is permitted to bring him food and tea twice a day, but none other. I volunteered to take her place, but the doctor forbade it. He said that since William and I work with the animals directly, we are more likely to carry disease than she.
I realize now that I am utterly terrified. Terrified that Brian will die, alone in his room, and I shall never see him again. And all this time I have wasted! Waited, and for what? I am happy here, yes. I enjoy my work; I am comfortable in this house. And I have that new idea of freedom still in my head-the notion that I can go anywhere, anytime I choose to. And yet none of it matters! Because every element of happiness I have is tied up in him.
I think of the dreams I’ve had recently. I want to visit France, Italy, Spain. See the great masterpieces of Venice, and an opera in London. I want to ride a camel and climb a glacier and learn Greek. But every time I think of those things, I think of him. I want him to show me those places, and teach me those lessons. And maybe I’ll never do any of those things. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life tending a farm on the wild moors of England. And it still seems a perfect life if he’s in it.
Brian’s fever has broken, and the doctor says I might see him today. He asks after our relationship, and I can describe myself only as his assistant. I wait until nightfall, after the doctor has left and the others have gone to bed. This was always our time.
Creeping quietly into his room, I find him asleep. He lies on his back, his face pale. Sweat beads his brow and his breath rattles ominously in his chest. His eyebrows are furrowed, as though his dreams are unhappy, and I cannot help but feel alarmed by his appearance. He is so unlike himself-the proud, strong, beautiful man with whom I’ve fallen in love.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him, willing him in my mind to wake up. Wake up and be well again, Brian. Everything’s changed.
Suddenly, his eyes open, and he gazes up at me.
"Brian!" I whisper, not realizing that I had been crying until his hand reaches up to brush a tear off my cheek. He smiles weakly, not risking speech.
I feel a flutter in my chest, like I have suddenly started breathing after weeks of holding back. Immense relief floods through me, somehow convincing me that everything will be all right. I clasp his hand in mine, and kiss it. Shaking with emotion, I move his hand so that it points to my heart, and look at him with teary eyes.
He closes his eyes and exhales a breath, a tired smile on his lips.
February, 1771
Justin
Though snow still blankets the grounds, I can feel the air turning. Spring is on the horizon, and with each improving day does Brian's health improve comparably. Doctor Marston remarks often at his uncommonly quick recovery. Uncommon that he recovers at all, is what he doesn't say.
Afternoons I spend with Brian in his room. I show him the work I've accomplished in the morning, and he checks over my figures. He says that he needn't review them at all much longer, as my math has become flawless, but I ask him to do it anyway. He's grown restless confined to his bed, and I try to give him any tasks to occupy himself.
Today I asked, could I draw him? "After all," I say with a grin, "You are already sitting still."
"Charming," he says dryly. "But I should prefer not to be immortalized ghostly and gaunt with sickness."
"You are neither ghostly nor gaunt. Perhaps a tad gaunt."
"Thanks ever so," he grumbles.
I chuckle at his surliness. "I never knew you to be so vain."
"I'm not vain at all, merely uncomfortable like this. I prefer you to see me healthy."
"And I prefer to see you healthy. But in sickness you are no less beautiful to me."
He does not answer. Simply looks at me with those thoughtful hazel eyes. I take his hand in mine, and we sit in comfortable silence for a while. This has become regular for us, holding hands. Sometimes at night, when we are talking into the late hours and I grow tired, I will lay my head upon his chest and listen to his rumblings. He never comments about this, but always I can feel the feather touch of his fingertips in my hair.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 15
January, 1771
Justin
Brian has fallen ill. The doctor was here yesterday, and proclaimed it the lung sickness. Though he calls it that, I know what he means. It’s consumption. I remember the symptoms in my mother-the fever, the sound of blood in her cough. I remember she didn’t survive it.
The doctor has bled him, and we have been instructed to stay out of his room for three weeks, no matter what. Josephine is permitted to bring him food and tea twice a day, but none other. I volunteered to take her place, but the doctor forbade it. He said that since William and I work with the animals directly, we are more likely to carry disease than she.
I realize now that I am utterly terrified. Terrified that Brian will die, alone in his room, and I shall never see him again. And all this time I have wasted! Waited, and for what? I am happy here, yes. I enjoy my work; I am comfortable in this house. And I have that new idea of freedom still in my head-the notion that I can go anywhere, anytime I choose to. And yet none of it matters! Because every element of happiness I have is tied up in him.
I think of the dreams I’ve had recently. I want to visit France, Italy, Spain. See the great masterpieces of Venice, and an opera in London. I want to ride a camel and climb a glacier and learn Greek. But every time I think of those things, I think of him. I want him to show me those places, and teach me those lessons. And maybe I’ll never do any of those things. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life tending a farm on the wild moors of England. And it still seems a perfect life if he’s in it.
Brian’s fever has broken, and the doctor says I might see him today. He asks after our relationship, and I can describe myself only as his assistant. I wait until nightfall, after the doctor has left and the others have gone to bed. This was always our time.
Creeping quietly into his room, I find him asleep. He lies on his back, his face pale. Sweat beads his brow and his breath rattles ominously in his chest. His eyebrows are furrowed, as though his dreams are unhappy, and I cannot help but feel alarmed by his appearance. He is so unlike himself-the proud, strong, beautiful man with whom I’ve fallen in love.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him, willing him in my mind to wake up. Wake up and be well again, Brian. Everything’s changed.
Suddenly, his eyes open, and he gazes up at me.
"Brian!" I whisper, not realizing that I had been crying until his hand reaches up to brush a tear off my cheek. He smiles weakly, not risking speech.
I feel a flutter in my chest, like I have suddenly started breathing after weeks of holding back. Immense relief floods through me, somehow convincing me that everything will be all right. I clasp his hand in mine, and kiss it. Shaking with emotion, I move his hand so that it points to my heart, and look at him with teary eyes.
He closes his eyes and exhales a breath, a tired smile on his lips.
February, 1771
Justin
Though snow still blankets the grounds, I can feel the air turning. Spring is on the horizon, and with each improving day does Brian's health improve comparably. Doctor Marston remarks often at his uncommonly quick recovery. Uncommon that he recovers at all, is what he doesn't say.
Afternoons I spend with Brian in his room. I show him the work I've accomplished in the morning, and he checks over my figures. He says that he needn't review them at all much longer, as my math has become flawless, but I ask him to do it anyway. He's grown restless confined to his bed, and I try to give him any tasks to occupy himself.
Today I asked, could I draw him? "After all," I say with a grin, "You are already sitting still."
"Charming," he says dryly. "But I should prefer not to be immortalized ghostly and gaunt with sickness."
"You are neither ghostly nor gaunt. Perhaps a tad gaunt."
"Thanks ever so," he grumbles.
I chuckle at his surliness. "I never knew you to be so vain."
"I'm not vain at all, merely uncomfortable like this. I prefer you to see me healthy."
"And I prefer to see you healthy. But in sickness you are no less beautiful to me."
He does not answer. Simply looks at me with those thoughtful hazel eyes. I take his hand in mine, and we sit in comfortable silence for a while. This has become regular for us, holding hands. Sometimes at night, when we are talking into the late hours and I grow tired, I will lay my head upon his chest and listen to his rumblings. He never comments about this, but always I can feel the feather touch of his fingertips in my hair.