He lurched and staggered to the shed behind the cabin. He wouldn’t have kept the whisky so far away, but one night, as he smashed things in his room, he’d damaged several unopened bottles. The next day he’d moved the whisky for its own protection.
The crates were neatly stacked in the shed, the bottles dully glistening. His heart trilled with relief. He grabbed one bottle by the neck and yanked it toward his parched lips. Something was wrong—it was too light. The bottle was empty. He threw it aside and pulled up another bottle. Again, empty.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
I disposed of the whisky.
She’d been thorough.
He kicked the stack of crates and almost lost his balance completely, banging heavily into the wall of the shed.
“Are you all right?” said her bloodless voice somewhere behind him.
Was he all right? Could she not see with her own eyes that he’d never be all right again?
He tottered out of the shed. “I’m going to the village.”
He was going to have his drink if it killed him.
“It’s going to be completely dark in half an hour. And you have no idea where the village is.”
He hated her reasonableness, her do-good ways, and her stupid assumption that she was helping him.
“I can’t stop you from leaving tomorrow. And I most certainly can’t stop you from falling on the next delivery of liquor. But for tonight I strongly advise that you stay put.”
He swore. Turning—his heart thumping unpleasantly—he went back into the shed and pulled out an empty bottle, hoping that there might be a drop or two at the bottom. But the only thing left was the sweet, alcoholic fume.
Her voice came again, flat, inexorable. “I know the sky has fallen for you, my lord. But life goes on and so must you.”
He threw the bottle against the back of the shed. It didn’t break, but only thudded against the wall and fell with a plop onto a mound of burlap sacks. He stormed out to face her.
“What the hell do you know about the sky falling? This is the life for which you’ve been preparing for years.”
She raised her eyes to him. It was stunning, the intensity of her gaze set against her practically nondescript face.
“Do you think you are the only one who has lost someone you love because of this marriage?”
She did not bother to explain her cryptic statement, but pivoted on her heels and returned to the cabin.
It seemed all right at first, no worse than the bad heads he’d become accustomed to when he woke up. But as the evening ground on, his headache turned ugly, doubling, then doubling again in viciousness. His hands trembled. Perspiration soaked his nightshirt. Waves after waves of nausea twisted his innards.
He’d never ailed so badly. For the first time in his life, pure physical misery drove everything else from his thoughts—except the lovely amber-hued nectar for which he yearned so desperately. He prayed to be given a glass of it, an inch, a sip. It didn’t need to be top quality whisky: brandy would do, as would rum, vodka, absinthe, or even a dram of common gin, the kind adulterated with turpentine for flavor.
Not a drop of distilled spirit sallied forth to his aid. But from time to time he’d vaguely realize that he was not alone. Someone gave him water to drink, wiped away the beads of sweat from his face, and might have even spread open clean sheets beneath him.
At some point he fell into a trouble sleep, his dreams full of thrashing monsters and forced good-byes. Several times he jerked awake, his heart pounding, convinced he’d just fallen from a great height. Each time there would come soothing murmurs at his ear, lulling him back to sleep.
He opened his eyes again to a dim room, feeling as if he’d just recovered from a raging fever: His tongue was bitter, his muscles feeble, and his head annihilated. Sheets had been tacked to the window, making it difficult to judge the time of day. A kerosene lamp cast a dark orange glow on the walls. And was that—he blinked his sore, crusted eyes—a large bouquet of daisies in an earthenware pitcher? Yes, it was, small daisies, with crisp white petals and yellow centers as vivid as the sun.
Behind the daisies dozed his wife on a footstool, her sandy hair in a simple braid that hung over her shoulder.
Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he saw that next to his pallet on the floor was a tray with a fat-bellied teapot, slices of buttered toast, a bowl of grapes, and two boiled eggs, already peeled, covered under a pristine, white handkerchief.
“I’m afraid the tea is quite cold,” came her voice as he reached for the teapot.
The tea was quite cold. But he was so thirsty it barely mattered. And he was hungry enough that his queasiness didn’t prevent him from eating everything in sight.
“How did you manage to make tea?” A lady might pour tea in her drawing room for her callers, but she never boiled the water herself. And certainly she would not know how to build a fire for her kettle.