Aftermath

38. Lathering

I couldn't keep two thoughts tied together, but flashes of Montgomery, both alive and swaying grotesquely from the tree, appeared intermittently in my mind's eye as if they were attempting to form themselves into a cohesive pattern, although I couldn't quite determine what it was. 

I was still puzzling over it when I suddenly felt a hand lay itself gently on my right shoulder. A firm, warm and solid hand. 

For a few moments, I thought it was Father and I reached up to rest my hand on his. But the hand I felt under mine was much larger, and much younger.  I looked up.

And saw James. 

"Come along. Dinner needs preparing and you're in the way," he said, gently.

I looked around for a place to set my teacup, and realised that I wasn't holding one any longer. Someone must have taken it out of my hands without me noticing. 

"Where is Agatha?"

"Attending to business. I'm to take you to one of the smaller parlours."

"That's my job," I said, standing up and following him out of the kitchen and down the corridor  like a lamb. "Attending to business."

Why was he here? 

In Edward's salon, I stood feeling like a cancelled stamp as he pushed up the door behind us and gathered some pillows to pad out the back of a sofa for me to rest against. It was clear to me that I wasn't acting like myself, but I wasn't an invalid, for heaven's sake. Wasn't it my job to take care of things? Why had it all been taken out of my hands and James sent to nanny me?  

He sat down on the sofa, propping his crutches up against the end. The shine on the wood and the curve of it was wonderfully crafted. I'd have to remember to ask who'd done that order and trust them with more. 

"Come and sit down, Olivia. They said you've had a nasty shock and shouldn't be left alone."

I nodded. "Correct. Anyone who needs soothing isn't left alone. . .but I don't need soothing. I need to get to organising things."    

"Why not sit for a while? Just a while before you get to organising things. We can have a nice chat." He patted the sofa, as if I was a child who needed encouragement.

"I really don't have the time," I said, but I sat down anyway. But only the edge of the sofa. "Why did they call you?" 

"Maybe they thought I was the right man for the job. Who knows?"  He smiled slightly, those grey eyes more like harmless clouds now. 

"Well, you can leave if you want. I'm perfectly fine." 

And I was. Perfectly fine. 

But he didn't go. He stayed right where he was, taciturn, watching me out of the corner of his eye as if I might leap up and start shrieking at any moment. I didn't know what was worse, being nannied or being treated as if I were an explosive. Couldn't he see I was just fine? 

We didn't speak and after a while, the patterns started to reappear, this time in a jumble of sounds, images and snatches of conversation. Suddenly, I realised I was speaking. Thoughts were bubbling up and simply expressing themselves in a one-sided conversation. 

"There's always a danger of it. I try to keep them occupied, focused on work and on improving skills. I've even managed to find one of the wheelchaired Hutch men a job yesterday, well Morris did. I was so happy one of them would get another chance, and then I come back to this. . . What happened? He wanted to go back to his cabin, but he was willing to wait. An answer would turn up. It couldn't be that difficult, could it? Local pranksters, but it hasn't been long enough. I don't understand. He was agitated but coping. Something must have happened while I was away. . . Something got to him again. Something must have happened! Something must have happened! Something happened! What happened?"

I didn't notice I was growing louder until James put his hand on my arm. "Shhh, it's alright."

"Something happened, James! While I was gone! What happened?" I stared at him, demanding he tell me. He had been there, I hadn't. "What happened here while I was in London?"  

"I don't know, but sometimes there is no  --" 

Suddenly, the patterns shifted into place and it all made sense. ""You! You wanted him dead! You wanted to see him hanging off that tree, didn't you? And you got what you wanted! Happy now?" 

I simply couldn't stop the wave of anger that was taking control of me. Roughly shoving his hand off my arm, I grabbed one of the cushions and bashed him in the side with it, hard. A cloud of fine dust blossomed from the fabric. 

" You wanted to see him dead! You promised you'd kill him and now look what you've done!" 

Jumping up on my knees, I began bashing away at him as hard as I could, the rising of the dust somehow making it terribly, bizarrely satisfying. It was as if I could finally see the effects of my actions, and it spurred me on.  

"You wanted this to happen! You drove him to it! Murderer!" 

James deflected the following blows with his arm, and attempted to grab the cushion and pull it way from me, but that only made the anger boil hotter. As we fought for control of the pillow, I shifted so that I could kick him and make him let go.    

"Right, that's enough of that," he said, as he lunged for me. 

I flew backwards and landed on the floor, James' full weight laying diagonally over me. I continued to fight -- although we'd lost the cushion -- but he'd pinned my arms. My legs were still free, so I began kicking upwards, hoping to strike his hip. 

"Murderer! You damned murderer! You made this happen!" 

"Stop it, Olivia! Stop thrashing! I did no such thing!"  

James shifted, attempting to get my legs under control but I was kicking too wildly. 

"Olivia! Stop! Stop fighting!" James grunted through clenched teeth as I kept after him. "I had nothing to do with! I don't know what happened to the poor sod, but it wasn't me." 

I wasn't listening. It felt too good, the anger, the body to fight against, and I didn't -- couldn't-- stop. 

I began to roll my weight from side to side as much as I could under his weight, and stuck upwards, finally connecting my knee to his hip. His eyes widened in pain and shock, and his grasp on my arms loosened just enough to me to get free. 

And suddenly, we were fighting in earnest. 

I punched him in the stomach, then jumped on top of him, making an effort pin his arms but was met with a stinging slap across the face. I slapped back and then punched, hoping to hit something vulnerable. He got his left hand in my hair and forced my head back, trying to force me over to pin me down again, but I kept punching at him, landing a good one once or twice.   

A quick jab to the gut that sent waves of pain all the way up and down my back was all the encouragement I needed to bite at his hand, managing to bring my teeth down on the bottom of his palm. He cried out and another slap almost made me see stars. I swung one arm around and punched him hard in the stomach before he threw me off and we lay wrestling, kicking and shouting at each other.  

I don't know for how long we fought there on the rug, and I don't know how or when we stopped our thrashing about and trying to cause each other pain. All I know is that I after a while, I was aware of an itching line down the side of my left cheek running towards my ear. I brought my hand up to scratch, and my fingers came away with blood on them. 

Virtually every part of me hurt, and I was out of breath. 

It occurred to me that we'd just given each other a fairly good lathering. 

From my left, I heard gasps and the sound of jerky breathing. Turning, I saw James, laying on his back, streaks of tears glistening like crystal in the growing dusk.  

"Why don't you love me?" he whispered between sobs. "It's so unfair. Oh, God, it's just so bloody unfair."   

I didn't have an answer for him. So I simply closed my eyes and focused on the pain.