What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Nineteen

 Lafayette told him, once he had come to, that he had been out for three days. Which made sense, considering the events he'd been through. And that a doctor had made a visit to the estate, and cleaned Thomas' wounds. Leaving medicine with Lafayette, the doctor had left with a large wad of money in his bag. A payment for his services and silence.

He explained all this to Thomas, sitting next to his bed one late afternoon. "You were lucky, my friend, that the bullet went in and out. Or else we'd be singing a different tune, non?"

The curtains were closed, but the sunlight still shone through, allowing a gentle stream of light to illuminate the room. Thomas noticed his headache had decreased significantly, and he could almost remember what it felt like to be headache-free. These past few months had been filed with only pain.

He grumbled. "A lot of luck I've had." He swallowed against the pain in his body, the pang of grief that remained lodged in his chest.

"Yes, you have had a fair share of bad luck," his friend conceded, but he perked up a little. "But I have good news for you."

"Do share," Thomas said.

"There is a cargo ship, destined to arrive in a week, bringing supplies to France from America. We will get you on it so you can get home."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "How? Did Washington send something?"
Lafayette nodded. "Oui. We received the letter hours before the Bastille descended into madness. I was just preparing to be on my way to you when we heard the commotion. My maids wouldn't let me leave, and I'm thankful for that. Otherwise who knows what I might have done. What might have happened to me."

"I'm glad you didn't get caught up in that mess." Thomas's stomach rolled at the memory.

"Yes, but I'm sorry you did," his friend said sadly.

"It was horrible."

And that was all they said on the matter.

That's when Thomas realized someone was missing. "Lafayette, where is Andre?"

"Ah, your friend?"
Thomas nodded.

"He went back home, to be with his family. We gave him a shower and clean clothes before he left. He wishes you the best of luck, and hopes you make it back to America."

"He saved my life, you know. Without him, I would have died alongside Isabelle and Byron."

Lafayette's shoulders sagged, and he put his face in his hands for a moment, then spoke.. "I'm glad you didn't."

"Me, too." But then again, Thomas wouldn't have complained. Death was an escape he would have welcomed, if he didn't have promises to keep and people to see back home.

"Well, I will let you rest. Please, let me or one of my maids know if you need anything. Just say the word and it will be brought to you. Oh, and these." Out of his pockets he fished the letters Thomas had shoved in his pockets in his hurry to escape the Bastille. "These are the ones from you, correct?"

Thomas nodded and allowed Lafayette to take them with him, too grateful for words. "Thank you, Laf. For everything." The Frenchman nodded and smiled. He left the room, and Thomas with his thoughts.

 In the hours he had been awake, he had forced himself to forget the events of what happened at Bastille. But now, alone and with thoughts too loud for his head, he felt like the room was closing down around him. He had to get out.

With his good arm, he threw the blankets off of him, and painfully dragged his legs over to the edge. Pain kept him there, breath ragged and head swirling. When he managed to stand, he used the back of a chair, the post of his bed, the dresser, to help himself across the room and into the adjoining bathroom.

When he slid onto the tile in the corner of the shower, pulling the handle down and letting the hot water bathe him. He let the grief overtake him, and he broke down. His shoulders painfully shook, but he couldn't stop himself. Fingers dragged through his wet hair as he tried to force the grief out of his head.

The images of Isabelle's hand reaching for him, the scent of smoke, the sound of screams filled his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He instead tried to focus on the feeling of hot water tracing the seams in his shirt, on the memory of Virginia.

And he desperately wanted to smell lavender.

He sat under the hot water until it turned cold. After he had dragged himself out and back into the bed, he remembered feeling guilty at the thought of wasting all of Lafayette's hot water. But it was gone, and that was that. He couldn't do anything about that now. He let sleep claim him again, surprisingly comfortable as he slipped under.

He didn't wake until the next morning, and when he did, he knew he was ill. Chills racked his body, and his cheeks were hot. His wounds ached terribly, and he willed himself to not move. But the nausea arrived quickly, and he had to roll onto his side to avoid staining the bed with bile.

A maid happened to be walking by, and at the noise, she hurried into the room. She didn't ask questions, but threw the heavy blankets off of Thomas and settled him down more comfortably. Then she hurried out of the room, calling for another maid.

What was five minutes felt like an hour before the two maids returned, one with a wet rag and one with a bottle in her hands. Lafayette was trailing behind them, his brow creased in worry.

"Adelaide, sdois-je appeler un médecin?" he asked. Should I call for a doctor?

"Non," the first maid decided. "Juste fiévreux et besoin de bonne nourriture." Just feverish and in need of good food. She turned to the second maid and tasked her with food. Once she was gone, she murmured something about cleaning Thomas' wounds. She uncapped the bottle in her hands to begin tending to him.

Thomas was so, so tired of pain, but he couldn't bring himself to protest. Adelaide's hands were gentle and careful, reminding him of Isabelle. Although it throbbed horribly, Thomas only let out a groan when she was bandaging it.

Lafayette clucked his tongue. "The doctor did well, and he told me that if we keep up a regular cleaning, you'll be at less risk of infection," he told him. Thomas just grunted in response, and leaned his head back further into the pillows. Adelaide moved to his leg wound, and to distract himself, Thomas reached out and grabbed Lafayette's wrist.

"Washington," he rasped. "Has he written back yet?"

"Non. He doesn't know we're planning on putting you on the cargo ship back to America. We didn't want to risk any interference, or anyone finding out about our plan. I've only responded to his letter about delivering supplies to France, and that is it."

"I had letters...." Thomas said, forgetting Lafayette taking his letters with him the night before. "When I came here. Are they-"

"Yes, I sent them back with my letter," Lafayette said patiently. "Not to worry. But I wouldn't expect a response before we put you on a ship."

Thomas cursed. He'd have to wait to hear from Eliza until he reached a hospital in Virginia. At least, he conceded, it would at least be in person.

"How long until I leave?"

"Well, you're not leaving until your fever breaks, and you've rested." He raised an eyebrow. "That means no leaving this bed, ami."

Thomas grunted. That he could do. Adelaide moved to support leg with a pillow, and murmured something about fetching medicine for him. She then left the room, and Lafayette followed her, calling over his shoulder, "Don't get out of that bed, you hear?"

He didn't respond, but instead leaned back and closed his eyes, gingerly keeping his injured arm close to his chest as he slept. His body seemed to sense he was safe now, and allowed for a deeper, restful sleep.