Faces of the Wind

Chapter 25

STEVENTON – 1848

"Ugh! A rodent must have died in here!" Lydia grunted, snatching the quilt from over Adrian.

He was in dirty breeches and a stained, yellowish linen shirt that was once white. Frailly and grudgingly, he sat up and glared at his cousin with half-open eyes and a faintly grimacing mouth. His beard has grown like a caveman's and dark halos overshadowed his once-glimmering eyes. His twenty-five-year-old face looked at least a decade older.

"I thought I told Mrs. Dusteby not to let any Blackford in," he grunted, his voice heavy, "or any living being for that matter."

"People die all the time," she said in her usual cool tone, which often made people wonder if her motive were mockery, "we can't bury ourselves in bed for eternity every time someone passes away."

He lay down on his side and squeezed his face into the pillow.

"Get up!" She snapped, "I am not leaving until I've made sure you've scraped that coat of dirt off your skin and burnt this witch's broom; it must be riddled with crawlers!"

"And for the record," she added, "I have Papa, Oscar and Brenton waiting downstairs to manhandle you in case you decide to stay in your rut."

"My father died because of me," he said and began sobbing into the pillow but the sob ended with a giggle and he suddenly lifted his head. "Your father – manhandle me? Pffft."

"How melodramatic!" She scoffed and rolled her eyes, "If being mean in your rhetoric would kill people, I would have gladly said many mean things to half of Hampshire." Her eyes looked skyward and she smiled deviously at the thought.

He buried his head in the pillow again and covered his ears.

"Get up before the water in your bath cools!" She yelled, placing her fists on her waist.

He sat up, sniffed and ran a dirty hand over his face.

"I remember Mama made you a dozen handkerchiefs," she sighed, watching him, then added in a calmer tone, "Uncle Jeffrey had been ill for a while, which was why he resigned and moved to settle in Steventon. And from what I know, he was not a romantic man."

Adrian sniffed. "Romantic?" He furrowed his brows.

"Obviously you think he died of a broken heart," she wrinkled her nose as she spoke in a cool tone, "your father died of an illness that was making his whole body very weak and giving him bad headaches, but you, my dear, were very busy with your mischief you paid no attention whatsoever and he did not tell you because he thought you'd worry." She threw her hands into the air, "Voila! Here is something to feel guilty about."

"Did you come here to console me or insult me?"

She crossed her arms and raised her brows. "Both," her face creased into a wide, close-mouthed smile.

***

"I can't wait to go upstairs and drag him into the bath like we used to drag him into the cold pond when we were kids," Oscar said with so much enthusiasm, feeling ten again.

"Leave him to Lydia," Brenton replied, turning to look at his father, who rubbed his French beard and seemed preoccupied with thought. The three sat in the sitting room waiting for Lydia to request their assistance.

Mrs. Dusteby offered them tea with milk without uttering a single word. She sniffed frequently and was clad in black, making her blotchy pale face shine like a candle flame struggling to illuminate a spacious dark hall.