Page 39 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Oliver stood at Pearl’s shoulder, watching and waiting. He kept thinking she’d turn back to him at any moment. As soon as Maxwell’s ragged gasps for breath became smooth. When his arms stopped twitching and rested easily at his sides. When the skin of his face regained some color.

But nothing improved, and Pearl’s attention remained riveted on Max.

Logs snapped in the fireplace. Rain rushed down the window glass. Pearl kept her silent vigil, and Oliver was sure he was once more in the way.

Pearl didn’t ask him to leave, but did she even realize he was still in the room? After the conversation they’d shared, he knew they’d made progress. He’d practically told her he adored her. That he had considered—hoped—the two of them would have a future together.

Of course, he didn’t say the words, not yet. They still needed to get to know each other. This wasn’t a hundred years ago when people met at a ball and became engaged the following day.

Oliver was a modern man, exploring the many facets life had to offer him, but the problem with modern life was that nobody had ever experienced it before. All was mystery.

Thirty years ago, his uncle would never have sought employment as Oliver had, and therefore Arthur missed out on some of the physical and intellectual opportunities Oliver now enjoyed.

Without his work, Oliver would not have been able to see first hand the skeletal structure of some of England’s most miraculous contemporary buildings.

He’d never have climbed a scaffolding and looked down over the city from new heights.

Oliver’s grandfather wouldn’t have considered selling the family house and creating something useful out of it. Fifty years ago, what was more useful than one’s own property, after all? The age of industry changed lives in the best of ways, and Oliver enjoyed stepping into the future.

When he’d searched his heart as carefully as he searched his mind, he’d become more and more aware how much he’d like to take those steps with Pearl at his side. But did she—could she—feel the same?

There was so much Oliver wished to say to Pearl, but the time for talk had passed, at least for now. She seemed to need to stand as close to Maxwell as possible. Now wasn’t the time to speak of his own feelings, but he could demonstrate them.

Oliver considered himself a man of action, and it was time to act, even if acting was only being a literal support.

He placed both hands on Pearl’s shoulders and ran them gently down her arms. With a sigh, Pearl leaned her back against his chest, then took his hands in hers and folded them across her waist.

They stood that way, his heart beating into her back, as they watched the boy in the bed.

No words passed between them, but Oliver hoped they were thinking the same things. Maxwell whimpered and stirred, proving whatever unconscious sleep he was experiencing was less than restful.

Finally, Pearl spoke. “It’s been a long time since Max had a fit this exhausting.”

Oliver knew he must not interrupt, even though his mind filled with questions. He would let her speak for as long as she wished to.

“There are regular coughing fits like the first one you saw, but those are somewhat controlled. At least he can make eye contact with me as his lungs press his air away.” Pearl took a deep breath, and Oliver felt her posture change.

He wondered if she was subconsciously breathing deeply on Maxwell’s behalf, as if her breathing could fill his weak lungs.

“I help him try to calm himself, and he sees me standing by. I don’t think my presence actually makes his stiff airways any looser, but he knows I’m close to him. That I haven’t left him.”

She moved one of her hands to wipe at her cheek, then returned it across his once again, sealing both their arms around her.

“The lung attacks frighten us both, but I know the end result will be easier breathing. Sometimes a steam tent helps. Sometimes sitting beside an open window. When he manages to catch his breath, he begins to improve.” She clutched at his fingers.

“But, Oliver, last night was nothing less than terrifying.”

Oliver thought of the coughing fit he’d witnessed during one of his early nights at Shadowbrook.

Horrible wheezing sounds. Maxwell’s staggering steps as he clutched at his chest. The helpless fear Oliver felt on behalf of his little cousin.

It startled him to think whatever happened the night before had been so much worse.

“Every stolen breath takes him to a place I cannot follow. His eyes roll back in his head. Each muscle in his body tightens and shakes. When it’s over, every part of him is left aching for days.”

She reached out and stroked Maxwell’s hand, his fingers spasming. Oliver understood now the boy’s muscles were still reacting to their ordeal.

He whispered in her ear. “There must be a doctor who understands how these illnesses affect a little body. Surely we can get him safely to the city and into proper care.”

Pearl let her arms fall to her sides and stepped out of Oliver’s embrace.

Without turning to look at him, she said, “I appreciate that you think you’ve seen enough to allow you to understand what Max needs.

But you don’t. You can’t. There is more to Maxwell’s situation than a bit of coughing and some muscle twitches.

Your city doctors and surgeons would not have time in their busy schedules and with their dozens and hundreds of patients to come to know the boy.

They’d study his symptoms and learn about his illness, but no visit to an infirmary’s bedside would allow a medical team to understand what makes him Max. ”

With her back still turned to him, she wiped at her face again.

Lower, softer, Pearl spoke again. “Not that any of this detail matters. Mr. Ravenscroft will never allow Maxwell to be taken away from Shadowbrook.”

Oliver placed a hand lightly on Pearl’s arm. She did not turn, but neither did she shake off his touch. “My uncle didn’t allow me to come back here, either. I wanted to come, so I came. Some things are too important to wait for permission.”

“You’re wrong about this. Your uncle knows Maxwell’s situation better.” She didn’t look at him. Every bit of her attention was focused on the boy in the bed. Oliver understood she wished to be alone with Max.

“I’m going to leave you two together for a while. I’ll come back.”

Oliver quietly stepped out of the room and into the hallway. Looking up, he saw Madame Genevieve standing at her bedroom door, as if she’d spent the night’s hours waiting for Oliver to leave Maxwell’s room.

“Young man, you look a fright.”

The woman’s frank assessment of Oliver’s appearance might have offended a certain kind of person, but the blunt analysis amused him.

He ran a hand over his disheveled hair. He could use a shave as well. His waistcoat and jacket were rumpled, as he’d been wearing the same clothes since Madame Genevieve’s performance. His collar wilted beneath his chin.

“Perhaps I will be more appealing after some rest.”

Madame Genevieve pointed toward Maxwell’s room. “Stayed in there all night, did you? How’s the boy faring today?”

Not a hint of her warbling, wailing tones floated around this conversation. Neither was there any false depth or breathy whisper. This more genuine speech gave Oliver the impression that her question was sincere as well.

Oliver rubbed his forehead, hoping he could push away an ache forming above his eyes. “I wish I could tell you he’s improving, but I don’t know anything about his illness or his recovery. Pearl is on alert, so there must be something to watch for.”

“She didn’t rest, did she? Poor girl. It was an emotional night for her.” Madame Genevieve glanced over Oliver’s shoulder toward the closed door of Maxwell’s room as if she could see Pearl through the wood. “She works as hard as anyone I’ve ever met not to feel her difficult feelings.”

The words surprised Oliver. How would this stranger know something like that? Was it true? Was Pearl’s calm demeanor merely a way to avoid thinking about what was too painful for discussion?

Nothing in the woman’s tone suggested she found fault with Pearl for attempting to mask her hidden pain, but he felt the need to defend her.

“She takes excellent care of Maxwell.”

The woman nodded, and her cloud of orange-brown hair floated around her face. “No doubt about it. She’s very good at her work. The girl was made to love people. Protection and affection are woven in the very fibers of her character.”

Oliver thought that might be a version of a line Madame Genevieve used in her performances, but he wouldn’t disagree with the sentiment. How had this stranger come to understand Pearl so well?

“Have you spent a great deal of time observing Miss Ellicott, then?”

Madame Genevieve’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Not as much time as you have.”

He felt the skin of his cheeks heat. “She is a fine, intelligent, and genteel woman.”

“And rather beautiful. I should think you’d have noticed.”

“Of course I have.” Oliver was unsure how the conversation had taken such a rapid shift.

“Your uncle was lucky to find Miss Ellicott to care for the boy.”

“He was indeed. Having Pearl here allows him to disappear and still have someone look after Max.” If Oliver was trying to hide his resentment, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Madame Genevieve tugged at the end of one of the scarves around her neck. “It’s true young Maxwell needs the kind of care Pearl can provide. Not like you when you were small. You managed on your own.”

Shocked, he said, “Did you speak to my uncle about my time here? Did he tell you I managed ?” It wasn’t a word he would have used. Struggled, maybe. Endured.

“One picks things up in a house like Shadowbrook.”

“One does indeed. Gossip and a forced familiarity with solitude.”

She made a humming sound of agreement. “Not to mention an occasional cold from the drafts.”