And on that signal, Trevor Kirby entered his mother’s room.
He had been made handsome again, in a gray suit with black pinstripes and a gray waistcoat. The suit of a successful lawyer, donated by the Herrald Agency. The black, highly glossed shoes, likewise. Hudson Greathouse had thrown a fit, but Matthew was adamant and when Matthew got adamant time ceased to move on the silver watch he’d retrieved from Simon Chapel’s battered body. The watch had also taken a licking, but…
It still worked.
With a bath, a shave, a hair trim, some decent food, and a few nights-and days-of relatively peaceful sleep, Trevor had lost some if not all of the gaunt fever in his eyes and the hollowed-out sharpness of his cheekbones. He looked to all the world, with his thick black hair combed, his fingernails clean, and his stride purposeful, as far from being a thrice-time murderer as Simon Chapel from being a university’s headmaster.
Matthew saw Trevor’s purposeful stride falter, in spite of what Trevor had planned to do when he came into the room. He stopped, a cloud of indecision passing across his face. His gaze caught Matthew’s, and only Matthew would know the depth of shame and anguish that he saw displayed there in Trevor’s eyes.
Mrs. Swanscott gave a gasp. She was looking past Matthew at the apparition. Her spine seemed to go rigid for a few seconds, as she clenched and released and clenched and released the armrests of her chair.
Then, slowly, she relinquished her throne and began to stand up.
As she stood, her eyes streamed the waters that had been dammed up by the mind’s necessity, and she said, very clearly, “My boy.”
Ramsendell and Hulzen stepped forward to catch her if she fell, for she trembled so violently all in the room feared it. Yet she stood steady and firm, like a willow that bends and bends but does not, never, ever, never does it break.
Without a word Trevor came the rest of the way, and Matthew always would remember that it was not far, but oh it was such a distance.
Son clasped mother, and mother laid her head against her son’s shoulder and sobbed. Trevor wept also, unashamed and unafraid, and if any man had said there was not true blood between them, Matthew would have struck him down even if it had been ten times a Hudson Greathouse.
He had to turn away, go to the window, and stare out at the same garden that had been the lady’s salvation. The Queen of Bedlam was no more; God rest her.
“I think,” Ramsendell said as he came up beside Matthew, “that I’ll go fetch everyone some tea.”
In time, Trevor helped his mother into a chair beside the bed and pulled a second chair over for himself. He held both her hands between his, and listened while she dreamed awake.
“Your father,” she said. “He’s gone for a walk. Out just a little while.” Fresh tears welled up. “He’s been so worried lately, Trevor. It’s because of…because of…the…” A hand floated like a butterfly to her forehead. “I can’t… think very well today, Trevor. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Trevor answered, his voice infinitely kind and even more patient. “It’s I who am sorry. For not coming when I said I would. Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive…you?” she asked, as if puzzled by the very thought. “What is there to forgive? You’re here now. Oh…my throat is so dry. I can hardly speak, it’s so dry.”
“Tea,” said Ramsendell, as he offered both of them a cup.
Mrs. Swanscott looked at the doctor and frowned, trying to make out who he was. Then she cast her gaze around the room and even Matthew could tell that some image in her mind was coming loose from its scroll. Unraveling, like a long spool of thread along a dark and unknown corridor. To find her way back to what she knew, she simply stared at Trevor and took a sip of tea. “Your father,” she tried again, when the tea had gone down, “will be back soon. Out walking. A lot on his mind right now.”
“Yes, I know,” Trevor said.
“Look at you!” A smile came out, though the sadness in her face would not be banished. “How handsome you are! Tell me…how is Margaret?”
“Margaret is fine,” he decided to say.
“A beautiful day.” She had turned her head so as to view the garden once more. “The baby is buried right out there. My little one. Oh.” Something had struck her deeply, for she lowered her head and her shoulders sagged as if under a tremendous, crushing weight. She remained in that posture, as everyone in the room waited.
“Just stay as you are,” Ramsendell suggested, keeping his voice casual.
Fifteen or twenty seconds crawled by. Then suddenly Mrs. Swanscott took a breath as if she had forgotten how to breathe, lifted her head, and smiled at her son, her eyes scorched and empty. “Your father is out walking. Soon, very soon. You can tell him all about Margaret. Oh.” Matthew had thought it was another strike of anguish, but Mrs. Swanscott had just touched Trevor’s knee. “Your sea voyage. The King’s Reply. Was it a comfortable ship?”
“Yes, very comfortable.”
“I’m glad. Now…you were coming to visit for…I can’t think clearly, Trevor. Really. I’m getting so old they’re going to have to put me in a box.”
“Mother?” He took her teacup, put it aside, and again held both her hands in his. “Listen to me.”
“All right,” she said. Then, when he hesitated: “Well, what is it?”
“It’s about me, Mother.”
“All right.”
He leaned closer. “I’m not going to be able to stay very long. I have some business to attend to. Do you understand?”
