“Not a disappointment, my dear,” the old man said. “George tells me you are special to him. If you please my nephew, you can never disappoint me. I’m afraid I’ll do all the disappointing.”
“Uncle.” George’s voice had softened. He led the man across the room and sat him beside Wix near the fire.
Jane followed, pulling a chair close to George’s uncle. He seemed harmless. She could not see in him the dangers George saw. “I am Lady Jane Crenshaw.”
The old man's dimming eyes lit on fire. “I know.”
“And you’re Mr. Moreland, George and Martha’s uncle, yes?”
“My reputation precedes me.” Neville’s eyelids fluttered closed, and his body listed to the side.
Jane leaned forward, pulling the blanket from the arm of the chair and wrapping it around his body.
His eyelids fluttered back open. He stared long and hard at her. “Too bad you do not know what a dulcimer is. You would make a better damsel than an angel. Nothing golden about you at all. Call me Neville.”
“Neville. It's lovely to meet you.”
One corner of his lips lifted, then sank. “Will you chat with me awhile? Georgie is a good boy, but not one for conversation these days.” He flicked at glance at his nephew who hovered between them, his muscles bunched, his jaw tense. He waited for some danger, though what danger this sweet old man would present, Jane could not guess.
“What should we speak of?” Jane asked.
“At my age, there are only a few topics that appeal. One of them is particular to me. But since you do not know what a dulcimer is, I doubt you would like to discuss poetry.”
George laughed, a joyous bark that lit the room like an afternoon sun. The ever-ready edge on his body lightened, loosened.
Jane chuckled. “Your nephew likes poetry too. But I have my doubts about it.” Although she could not but admit when he whispered words into her ear and along her skin, she shivered. Poetry spoken into a kiss was the only time it appealed.
“There's another topic,” Neville said. “Old men like to think of their youth.”
“Then let us speak of the past. You tell me your mistakes, and I’ll regale you with mine.”
Neville sank into his seat, his eyelids fluttering closed once more. “I used to be a strong sturdy buck like your George. The ladies adored me, but there was only one I adored.” He chuckled. “Again, much like your George.”
“What was her name? The one you adored?”
The old man's eyes popped open. “Death.”
George stiffened. Though several inches stretched between their bodies, she felt his muscles tense.
Jane shivered. She tried not to flinch or to show her unease. Perhaps they should speak of poetry after all. George had said his uncle's youth had been full of pain, enough of it to send him into the arms of laudanum for good. Till death do them part if not he and his adored wife. What had she been thinking, introducing such a topic?
“G-George,” she stuttered, “enjoys the poetry of John Donne, but I do not like him. Tell me, can you convince me to think otherwise?” She injected as much joviality into her voice as she could.
The old man's head rocked from side-to-side in the armchair, throwing shadowing flickers of flame across different angles of his face. “John Donne. We are all done for.” He chuckled, and the weak sound turned into a full-throated laugh. He laughed so hard Jane thought he might fall into a coughing fit. But instead of coughing, Neville’s laughter turned into tears, his shoulders hitching up and down, his hands clawing at his face.
George jumped forward. “Uncle, don’t.” He seemed poised to restrain his uncle’s arms.
Jane rushed from her chair and slipped between the two men’s bodies to kneel at Neville’s side. She threw a look at George.Stop, it said.Let me.
Would he?
He did, but he remained close.
Jane put a soft hand on Neville’s forearm. “How can I help?”
He continued to weep.
She rubbed the soft, papery back of his hand until his shuddering lessened. “When I am upset, I like to count my breaths. Do you?”
