… I am not certain how to tell you this, and moreover, I am not certain how the news will be received, but Michael and I were married three days ago. I don’t know how to describe the events leading up to the marriage, except to say that it simply felt like the right thing to do. Please know that this in no way diminishes the love I felt for John. He will always hold a special and cherished place in my heart, as do you…
—from the Countess of Kilmartin to the dowager Countess of Kilmartin, three days after her marriage to the Earl of Kilmartin
A quarter of an hour later, Michael was feeling remarkably better. Not well, of course; not by any stretch of the imagination could he have convinced himself—or anyone else for that matter—that he was his regular hale and hearty self. But the broth must have restored him a bit, as had the conversation, and when he got up to use the chamberpot, he found he was steadier on his legs than he would have thought. He followed this task with a bit of a makeshift bath, using a dampened cloth to wash the worst of the
perspiration from his body. After donning a clean dressing gown, he felt almost human again.
He started to walk back to his bed, but he just couldn’t bring himself to slide his body back between those sweaty sheets, so instead he rang for a servant and sat down in his leather wingbacked chair, turning it slightly so that he might gaze out the window.
It was sunny. That was a nice change. The weather had been dismal for both the weeks of his marriage. He hadn’t particularly minded; when one spent as much time making love to one’s wife as he had done, one didn’t particularly care if the sun was shining.
But now, escaping his sickbed, he found that his spirits were buoyed by the sparkle of the sunlight on the dewy grass.
A movement out the window caught his eye, and he realized that it was Francesca, hurrying across the lawn. She was too far away to see clearly, but she was bundled up in her most serviceable coat, and was clutching something in her hand.
He leaned forward for a better look, but she disappeared from view, slipping behind a hedgerow.
Just then, Reivers entered the room. “You rang, my lord?”
Michael turned to face him. “Yes. Could you see to having someone come and change the sheets?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“And—” Michael had been about to ask him to have a bath drawn as well, but for some reason the following words slipped out of his mouth instead: “Do you happen to know where Lady Kilmartin went? I saw her walking across the lawn.”
Reivers shook his head. “No, my lord. She did not see fit to confide in me, although Davies did tell me that she asked him to ask the gardener to cut
her some flowers.”
Michael nodded his head as he mentally followed the chain of people. He really ought to have more respect for the sheer efficiency of servants’ gossip. “Flowers, you say,” he murmured. That must have been what she was holding as she crossed the lawn a few minutes earlier.
“Peonies,” Reivers confirmed.
“Peonies,” Michael echoed, leaning forward with interest. They were John’s favorite bloom, and had been the centerpiece of Francesca’s wedding bouquet. It was almost appalling that he remembered such a detail, but while he’d gone and gotten himself rippingly drunk as soon as John and Francesca had departed the party, he remembered the actual ceremony with blinding detail.
Her dress had been blue. Ice blue. And the flowers had been peonies. They’d had to get them from a hothouse, but Francesca had insisted upon it.
And suddenly he knew exactly where she was going, bundled up against the slight nip in the air.
She was going to John’s grave.
Michael had visited the site once since his return. He’d gone alone, a few days after that extraordinary moment in his bedchamber, when he’d suddenly realized that John would have approved of his marrying Francesca. More than that, he almost thought John was up there somewhere, having a good chuckle over the whole thing.
And Michael couldn’t help but wonder— Did Francesca realize? Did she realize that John would have wanted this? For both of them?
Or was she still gripped by guilt?
Michael felt himself rise from his chair. He knew guilt, knew how it ate at one’s heart, tore at one’s soul. He knew the pain, and he knew the way it felt like acid in one’s belly.
And he never wanted that for Francesca. Never.
She might not love him. She might not ever love him. But she was happier now than she had been before they’d married; he was sure of it. And it would kill him if she felt any shame for that happiness.
John would have wanted her to be happy. He would have wanted her to love and be loved. And if Francesca somehow didn’t realize that—
Michael started pulling on his clothing. He might still be weak, and he might still be feverish, but by God he could make it down to the chapel graveyard. It would half kill him, but he would not allow her to sink into the same sort of guilty despair he’d suffered for so long.
She didn’t have to love him. She didn’t. He’d said those words to himself so many times during their brief marriage that he almost believed them.
She didn’t have to love him. But she did have to feel free. Free to be happy. Because if she wasn’t happy…
Well, that would kill him. He could live without her love, but not without her happiness.
Francesca had known the ground would be damp, so she’d brought along a small blanket, the green and gold of the Stirling plaid making her smile wistfully as she spread it out over the grass.
“Hello, John,” she said, kneeling as she carefully arranged the peonies at the base of his headstone. His grave was a simple affair, far less ostentatious than the monuments many of the nobility erected to honor their dead.
But it was what John would have wanted. She’d known him so well, been able to predict his words half the time.
He would have wanted something simple, and he would have wanted it here, in the far corner of the churchyard, closer to the rolling fields of Kilmartin, his favorite place in the world.
And so that was what she’d given him.
“It’s a nice day,” she said, sitting back on her bottom. She hiked up her skirts so that she could sit Indian-style, then carefully arranged them back over her legs. It wasn’t the sort of position she could ever assume in polite company, but this was different.
John would have wanted her to be comfortable.
“It’s been raining for weeks,” she said. “Some days worse than others, of course, but never a day without at least a few minutes of moisture. You wouldn’t have minded it, but I must confess, I’ve been longing for the sun.”
She noticed that one of the stems wasn’t quite where she wanted it, so she leaned forward and reset it into place.
“Of course, it hasn’t really stopped me from going out,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I seem to get caught out in the rain quite a bit lately. I’m not really certain what it is—I used to be more heedful of the weather.”
She sighed. “No, I do know what it is. I’m just afraid to tell you. Silly of me, I know, but…” She laughed again, that strained noise that sounded all wrong from her lips. It was the one thing she’d never felt around John— nervous. From the moment they’d met, she’d felt so comfortable in his presence, so utterly at ease, both with him and herself.
But now…
Now she finally had cause for nerves.
“Something has happened, John,” she said, her fingers plucking at the fabric of her coat. “I… started feeling something for someone that perhaps I shouldn’t have done.”
She looked around, half expecting some sort of divine sign from above. But there was nothing, just the gentle ruffle of wind against the leaves.
She swallowed, focusing her attention back on John’s headstone. It was silly that a piece of rock might come to symbolize a man, but she had no
idea where else to look when she spoke to his memory. “Maybe I shouldn’t have felt it,” she said, “or maybe I should have, and I just thought I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. All I know is it happened. I didn’t expect it, but then, there it was, and… with…”
She stopped, her mouth curving into a smile that was almost rueful. “Well, I suppose you know who it was with. Can you imagine?”
And then something remarkable happened. In retrospect, she rather thought the earth should have moved, or a shaft of light come sparkling down from the heavens across the gravesite. But there was none of that. Nothing palpable, nothing audible or visible, just an odd sense of shifting within herself, almost as if something had finally nudged itself into place.
And she knew—truly, fully knew—that John could have imagined it. And more than that, he would have wanted it.
He would have wanted her to marry Michael. He would have wanted her to marry any man with whom she’d fallen in love, but she rather thought he’d be almost tickled that it had happened with Michael.
They were his two favorite people, and he would have liked knowing that they were together.
“I love him,” she said, and she realized it was the first time she’d said it aloud. “I love Michael. I do, and John—” She touched his name, etched in the headstone. “I think you would approve,” she whispered. “Sometimes I almost think you arranged the whole thing.
“It’s so strange,” she continued, tears now filling her eyes. “I spent so much time thinking to myself that I would never fall in love again. How could I possibly? And when anyone asked me what you would have wanted for me, of course I replied that you would wish for me to find someone else. But inside—” She smiled wistfully. “Inside I knew it wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t going to fall in love. I knew it. I absolutely knew it. So it didn’t really matter what you wanted for me, did it?
“Except it did happen,” she said softly. “It happened, and I never expected it. It happened, and it happened with Michael. I love him so much, John,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. “I kept trying to tell myself that I didn’t, but when I thought he was dying, it was just too much, and I knew… oh God, I knew it, John. I need him. I love him. I can’t live without him, and I just needed to tell you, to know that you… that you…”
She couldn’t go on. There was too much inside of her, too many emotions, all desperately pushing to get out. She put her face in her hands and cried, not out of sorrow, and not out of joy, but just because she couldn’t keep it inside.
“John,” she gasped. “I love him. And I think this is what you would have wanted. I really do, but—”
And then, from behind her, she heard a noise. A footstep, a breath. She turned, but she already knew who it would be. She could feel him in the air.
“Michael,” she whispered, staring at him like he was a specter. He was pale and gaunt and had to lean on a tree for support, but to her he looked perfect.
“Francesca,” he said, the word awkwardly passing over his lips. “Frannie.”
She rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. “Did you hear me?” she whispered.
“I love you,” he said hoarsely.
“But did you hear me?” she persisted. She had to know, and if he hadn’t heard her, she had to tell him.
He nodded jerkily.
“I love you,” she said. She wanted to go to him, she wanted to throw her arms around him, but somehow she was rooted to her spot. “I love you,” she said again. “I love you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I do. I have to say it. I have to tell you. I love you. I do. I love you so much.”
And then the distance between them was gone, and his arms came around her. She buried her face against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. She wasn’t sure why she was crying, but she didn’t really care. All she wanted was the warmth of his embrace.
In his arms she could feel the future, and it was wonderful.
Michael’s chin came to rest on her head. “I didn’t mean that you didn’t need to say it,” he murmured, “just that you didn’t have to repeat it.”
She laughed at that, even as the tears kept flowing, and both of their bodies shook.
“You have to say it,” he said. “If you feel it, then you have to say it. I’m a greedy bastard, and I want it all.”
She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I love you.”
Michael touched her cheek. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you,” he said.
“You didn’t have to do anything,” she whispered. “You just had to be.” She reached up and touched his cheek, the gesture a perfect mirror of his own. “It just took me a while to realize it, that’s all.”
He turned his face into her hand, then brought both of his up to cover it. He pressed a kiss against her palm, stopping just to inhale the scent of her skin. He’d tried so hard to convince himself that it didn’t matter if she loved him, that having her as his wife was enough. But now…
Now that she’d said it, now that he knew, now that his heart had soared, he knew better.
This was heaven.
This was bliss.
This was something he’d never dared hope to feel, something he never could have dreamed existed.
This was love.
“For the rest of my life,” he vowed, “I will love you. For the rest of my life. I promise you. I will lay down my life for you. I will honor and cherish you. I will—” He was choking on the words, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to tell her. He just wanted her to know.
“Let’s go home,” she said softly. He nodded.
She took his hand, gently pulling him away from the clearing, back toward the wooded area that lay between the churchyard and Kilmartin. Michael leaned into her tug, but before his feet lifted from the earth, he turned back toward John’s grave and mouthed the words, Thank you.
And then he let his wife lead him home.
“I wanted to tell you later,” she was saying. Her voice was still shaky with emotion, but she was starting to sound a bit more like her usual self. “I’d planned a big romantic gesture. Something huge. Something…” She turned to him, offering him a rueful smile. “Well, I don’t know what, but it would have been grand.”
He just shook his head. “I don’t need that,” he said. “All I need… I just need…”
And it didn’t matter that he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, because somehow she knew, anyway.
“I know,” she whispered. “I need the exact same thing.” Epilogue
My dear nephew,
Although Helen insists that she was not surprised at the announcement of your marriage to Francesca, I shall own up to a less clever imagination and confess that to me, it came as a complete shock.
I implore you, however, not to confuse shock with lack of acceptance. It did not require much time or thought to realize that you and Francesca are an ideal match. I don’t know how I did not see it before. I do not profess to understand metaphysics, and in truth, I rarely have patience for those who claim that they do, but there is an understanding between the two of you, a meeting of the minds and souls that exists on a higher plane.
You were, it is clear, born for each other.
These are not easy words for me to write. John still lives on in my heart, and 1 feel his presence every day. I mourn my son, and I shall always do so. I cannot tell you what comfort it gives me to know that you and Francesca feel the same.
I hope you will not think me self-important when I offer you my blessing. And I hope you will not think me foolish when I also extend my thanks.
Thank you, Michael, for letting my son love her first.
—from Janet Stirling, dowager Countess of Kilmartin, to Michael Stirling, Earl of Kilmartin,
June 1824 Dear Reader,
I have subjected the characters of When He Was Wicked to more than their fair share of medical misfortune. Researching the conditions of both John and Michael was complicated; I had to make sure that their disease processes made scientific sense, while at the same time revealing only what was known by medical science in 1824 England.
John died of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Cerebral aneurysms are congenital weak spots in the walls of blood vessels within the brain. They
may lie dormant for many years or they may rapidly enlarge and then rupture, leading to bleeding in the brain, which can be followed by unconsciousness, coma, and death. Headaches brought on by ruptured cerebral aneurysms are sudden and explosive but can be preceded by a lingering headache for some time prior to the actual rupture.
Nothing could have been done to save him; even today approximately one- half of ruptured cerebral aneurysms lead to death.
During the 19th century, the only way to make a definitive diagnosis of a ruptured cerebral aneurysm was at autopsy. It is extremely unlikely, however, that an earl would have undergone a postmortem dissection; there- fore, John’s death would have remained a mystery to those who loved him. All Francesca would ever know was that her husband had a headache, lay down, and died.
The turning point in the treatment of cerebral aneurysms came with the widespread use of angiography in the 195Os. This technique, which consists of the injection of radiopaque dye into the vessels feeding the brain to give an X-ray picture of the vascular anatomy, was developed by Egas Moniz in Portugal in 1927. An interesting historical footnote: Moniz won the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1949, but not for his work in the groundbreaking and life-saving field of angiography. Rather, he was honored for his discovery of the frontal lobotomy as a treatment for psychiatric illness.
As for malaria, it is an ancient disease. Throughout recorded history, it has been observed that exposure to warm, moist, humid air is associated with periodic fevers, weakness, anemia, kidney failure, coma, and death. The name of the disease comes from the Italian for “bad air,” and reflects the belief of our ancestors that the air itself was to blame. In When He Was Wicked, Michael cites “putrid air” as the source of his illness.
Today we understand that malaria is in fact a parasitic disease. The hot, swampy conditions themselves are not to blame, but rather serve as breeding grounds for mosquitoes of the genus Anopheles, the vector of the infection. During an insect bite, female Anopheles mosquitoes unwittingly inject microscopic organisms into the hapless human host. These organisms are single-celled parasites of the genus Plasmodium. There are four species
of Plasmodium that can infect people: falciparum, vivax, ovale, and malariae. Once in the bloodstream, these microorganisms are swept into the liver, where they multiply at a furious pace; within a week, tens of thousands of parasites are released back into the bloodstream, where they infect red blood cells and feed upon the oxygen-carrying hemoglobin inside. Every two or three days, through a synchronized process that is poorly understood, the offspring of these parasites erupt from the red cells, leading to high fevers and violent chills. In the case of falciparum malaria, the infected cells can become sticky, and glom onto the inside of blood vessels in the kidney and brain, leading to renal failure and coma—and death, if treatment is delayed.
Michael was fortunate. Although he did not know it, he suffered from vivax malaria, which can persist in patients’ livers for decades but rarely kills its victims. The exhaustion and fevers caused by vivax malaria, however, are severe.
At the end of the book, both Michael and Francesca worry that a higher frequency of attacks might indicate that he was losing his battle with the disease. In truth, with vivax malaria, this would not have mattered. There is little rhyme or reason to when a vivax patient might suffer an episode of malarial fevers (except in the case of immunosuppression, such as cancer, pregnancy, or AIDS). In fact, some patients experience a complete cessation of fevers and remain healthy for the rest of their lives. I’d like to think that Michael was one of the lucky ones, but even if not, there is no reason to think that he did not live to a ripe old age. Furthermore, since malaria is strictly a blood borne disease, he could not have transmitted it to members of his family.
The cause of malaria would not be understood for decades after When He Was Wicked took place, but the fundamentals of treatment were already known: A cure could be achieved by consuming the bark of the tropical cinchona tree. This was usually mixed with water, yielding “quinine water.” Quinine was first sold commercially in France in 182O, but its use was fairly widespread for some time prior.
Malaria has been mostly eradicated from the developed world, in large part because of mosquito pontrol efforts. However, it remains a leading cause of
death and disability among people who live in the developing world. Between 1 million and 3 million people die of falciparum malaria every year. That averages one death every thirty seconds. Most of the dead are in sub-Saharan Africa, and most are children under five years of age.
A portion of the proceeds of this book will be donated to malarial drug development research.
Sincerely,
