The People of Dewbrook

Chapter Eighteen

With April of 1891 having begun, Rosemary was supposed to have been married to Oliver already, but there seemed to be no such prospect, at least not for certain. Her mysterious illness had become worse. She could hardly get out of bed or move or breathe, her lungs mercilessly suffocating her with an insidious disease from within. When her eyes were open, reality was but a paling shadow of itself, everything located within her horizons draped with a subtle black curtain. The respite from it all was brief, but when it came, it was exciting beyond belief.

The letters from her secret admirer had not halted, only fastened. She was reluctant to admit it, but her vanity blushed at everything he said to her. Like her, he was a poet, describing the object of his desire in flattering and pathetically romantic terms, telling her that he instinctively knew her to be beautiful and generous and clever and artistic and most lovely to be around. He viewed her more as a flower than as a person, and she could not help but feel that way as well. Before him, she had never thought of herself in those terms, preferring to never think of herself at all, but now, glimpsing her graceful face in the mirror, she could see everything that he, and hopefully everyone else around her, saw.

Having known him as this for several months at the time, she believed she had the permission to imagine a perfectly correct vision of her future with him. Peaceful walks by the lake, running across sunny meadows like children, enjoying delicious pieces of cherry cake, writing poems about each other from the soul, and, as a particularly memorable image, making love to each other with the utmost passion.

Although she had never made love before, as was to be expected from a woman of her peculiar marital status, she had come to know far more of it than people assumed a virgin would, but not so much as to make a complete libertine of herself. She saw it when animals did it in the woods, she heard it when people did it through her window, and she read about it to some extent as well, but not too thoroughly. As with everything else concerning her little romantic plot, she pictured the deed she wanted to do with him as mostly tender and only mildly inappropriate, for it was one of the ways she mellowed that unwanted thought. It would not do any harm if it merely resided in her mind innocously, now would it?

However, no matter how much she might have wanted to do so, she could not reside within her fantasies forever. Her brother came to her every few hours to look at her, searching for something to say, which was not easy for him, and when he did find a topic to talk about, it would not last too long. Those who visited her house and stayed in the drawing room mourned her in advance, believing that she did not hear them, but she very much did. The family doctor stared at her wretched, pale face, wanting to instil hope in everyone, but clearly having no hope himself. It was evident that quite many people cared about her well-being.

Despite her caring about everyone in her vicinity, there was one that stood out amongst all of them. It was her Father. Having never known the love of a mother, she valued his love above everything, for it was vast and sweet. He had always played with her, always consoled her when her nerves consumed her, always made sure to teach her everything she needed to know, always considering her happiness far more important than his own. And, although he had always told her how her beauty and kindness and grace reminded him of his wife, he tried his best to not think about the past too much when he stared at her face. A situation as dreadful as this one changed everything, which she could observe on one random evening.

"Caroline has brewed this for you," he said solemnly after coming into her room unannounced, slowly walking over to her bed to hand her the tray, which contained tea and biscuits. "It is marvellous how thoughtful she has become. I suppose that even someone like her can look at someone like you and feel sympathy. It is a wonder to behold."

She let out a deep sigh. "I appreciate her efforts, but I have not been eager to eat as of late. My mouth is filled with an odd, toxic feeling whenever I consume a substance, any substance, and I cannot bear it."