Just Another Unambitious Woman

Chapter 4: Decision

"Master David!"

He was in the middle of a great dream, involving one of Nael's red-headed sisters doing things she'd probably never do in real life, when all of a sudden, the family's butler appeared in the picture, shaking him violently by the shoulders. Quite at loss at his sudden appearance, David could not fathom why his subconscious would create a replica of their butler for the sole purpose of stopping the most marvellous dream he'd ever had.

He had to concede it was not his subconscious but reality calling.

"Mr. Beatson, what on earth is it?" mumbled David, rising his palm to shield himself from the attack. The butler stopped at once, but his shaking voice revealed that the situation must be urgent.

"Master David, your Father...," the butler had to swallow hard to keep his voice from shaking, "It appears he'd had another attack."

It only took a second for David to be completely awake - he kicked the blanket away, jumped from the bed in one swift movement and grabbed his dressing gown in the other. He reached the door before the butler could react, leaving him with no choice but to follow him hurriedly down the hall.

The dark room, where his father rested, was illuminated only by a candlestick, so nothing much could be seen. What could be seen however, was a whole another story, a story of fight between life and death, loyally executed by his sister, Diane, who pressed her hands and pushed at their father's ribcage with force and determination that was bordering on despair.

David set the lamp near the headboard and sat down on the other side of the bed, taking his father's hand in his own shaking one. He felt for the pulse. Weak, but steady. The worse must have been over. Father, however, had not regained consciousness, he seemed limp and lifeless, bouncing on the bed under the heavy blows Diane was dealing him. David feared for his Father's ribcage dearly, so he grabbed Diane's hands and stopped her in mid-movement.

She seemed stunned, like a deer caught in the hunter's trap, blinded by the lanterns. For a moment or two, she didn't even blink, but when she did, it seemed that the outside world started seeping slowly through the cracks in her consciousness.

"It's over, Diane," whispered David softly and, seeing the desperate look on her face, quickly corrected himself. He put his Father's wrist in her hand: "The attack is over. It should be fine now... so go and sit down. You look terrible."

Diane pushed a strand of messy hair behind her ear in a gesture so weak it had him reconsider what he just said. The black skin under her eyes was even more visible in the faint glow of the candles and the eyelashes kept dazedly closing and fluttering open again, as if she were resisting sleep for a fortnight. She probably did, thought David and stood, jerking her in an upwards position, towards the door.

"You can't be serious," Diane protested feebly, while being dragged across the hallway to her room, "I'm not leaving him alone!"

"Does it look like I'm giving you a choice?" David almost felt his voice echoing down the empty hallways, "It's been enough, Diane. How long have you been keeping watch by his bedside? A year?"

Being pushed into the bed, though gently, didn't sit well with her. She stood up again only to be reinstated in a position of a thoroughly ill patient with instructions not to leave her out of bed till noon to the sleepy maid. "You don't understand," whispered Diane with such a pained look that he had to stop and sit down by her. He touched her paled cheek gently, feeling the coldness of his hands against her face. Her skin seemed tired and hungry somehow, as if she spent too many hours keeping her vigil, neglecting herself in the process. "After the first attack...," she took his hand in hers and squeezed it weakly, "The doctor said the next one could kill him. Or leave his legs or other parts of the body dysfunctional. Only if the attack were prevented soon enough, was there a chance to save him... I cannot let Father die... I couldn't... and with you, nowhere to be found..."

"But now I'm here," said David with a tone of finality to his voice.

Diane closed her eyes and for a fleeting moment, there seemed to be something akin to a smile on her lips, but it passed too quickly and the next thing he knew, she was fast asleep, like Ophelia in the water, a mirage of paleness against the white-washed linen.

"I'm here," he whispered to no one in particular and kissed her on the forehead.

At least for a few days, he was.

Closing the doors gently behind him, even though he knew that nothing could wake her from her tired dreams, he crept across the hall to his Father's bedroom. The candles were left burning and Beatson kept staring anxiously at them and at the still body of his Master, watching as wax slowly meandered down and clumped precariously near the bottom of the candle-holder.

"Any signs of life yet?" said David, forcefully cheery and drew out one of the raggedy old chairs that his Father kept near the bed for visitors, when he was too under-the-weather to receive them in his study. Beatson flinched and shook his head. "He ain't dead, eh?" he asked, eyes wide, but never raised from the bed.

"Not yet, no," replied David and felt a sudden heaviness settle on his body, making it hard to lift his hand. He did, anyway, and carefully smoothed the rumpled sheets on the bed, adjusting it over his Father. The body breathed steadily, in and out, and the sheets raised ever so slightly with each intake of air. But deep inside, David knew that his Father was not awake and could not awaken from his deadly slumber - for he had seen too many men like him and knew how it would end. "On the inside, he is long dead," he said carefully, avoiding eye contact with the butler, "On the outside... it is just a question of time."

As expected, Beatson sighed heavily. "If it weren't for mistress Diane...," he said with a quivering voice. "But, ah... how 'e hated every minute of it!"

Nothing more really needed to be said, David thought pensively. The butler had summed it all up. Maybe Father had been right. Maybe time has come to ease his suffering and put an end to it all, the whole wretched story that had dragged on for far too long.

Maybe.

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When I've found this picture by Carolus-Duran from 1861, I felt like it was perfect for this chapter. The title is L'homme endormi though, so just imagine he's unconscious ;).