“I know. I’ll get her undressed, and you do the same for yourself. You’re as wet as she is”
He nodded, thankful that someone knew what to do. He didn’t leave his bedroom, merely stepped back and methodically began to strip off his wet clothes, dropping them on the floor at his feet.
He heard a gasp from the door, and turned to see Felice holding a bucket of hot water in each hand. He didn’t realize that he was quite naked.
“In the tub,” Maggie said. “Help me, Felice, and don’t gawk at Mr. Hammond. Lord knows, he’s just a man, and you’ve seen enough of them.”
Brent shrugged into a dressing gown. He stood helplessly as Maggie and Felice lifted Byrony into the tub.
“I hate to wash her hair, but we’ve got to,” Maggie was saying to Felice. “Quick, hand me the soap. I don’t want her in here any longer than necessary.”
“Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t worry. Saint will be here soon.”
He’d wanted to see her body ever since the first time he’d met her, so long ago, it seemed. But he didn’t look. His eyes remained on her shadowed face. She was so damned pale. “I’ll kill that bastard,” he said.
“You’re not going to do violence to anybody, Brent. Get me another one of your dressing gowns. The burgundy velvet one.”
Felice wrapped Byrony’s wet hair in a thick towel while Maggie quickly dried her. Brent handed her the dressing gown.
“All right. Put her into bed, Brent.”
She’s thin, he thought as he lifted her into his arms.
They covered her with three thick blankets.
Felice removed the towel from her hair and began to untangle the strands, smoothing them away from her head onto the pillow.
“That’s fine, Felice. Thank you. Please see to it that Dr. Morris comes straight up when he arrives. And, Felice, not a word, all right?”
“But who is she, Maggie? What’s she doing here?”
“None of your business, Felice. Be on your way now.”
“Why is she unconscious?” Brent asked again when they were alone.
“For God’s sake, I don’t know. I do know she has a fever. It’s probably the influenza. Now, Brent, this is your Byrony. Who is she?”
My Byrony. The Byrony whose name he’d yelled when he’d taken his pleasure with another woman. “Byrony Butler,” he said.
“Ira Butler’s wife?”
“Yes. Dammit, she’s nothing to me, Maggie. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a long time. I have no idea why she was alone and—”
“Obviously she was coming to you.”
“No,” he said. “She wanted me to leave her alone. She wanted peace. She told me to go to hell.” No, you were the one to say that.
“Then where was she going?”
“I don’t know. All right, something obviously has happened to her—”
“Something awful, I should say, and she was coming to you because she had no place else to go.” Maggie fell silent a moment, then laid her palm on Byrony’s forehead. “She’s so young,” she said. “Are you going to send someone for her husband?”
“Hell no. That is, when I told her outside that I was taking her home, she yelled at me that she didn’t want to go. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Well, let’s see what Saint has to say,” she said as he came through the door.