Читать книгу The Wicked Redhead - Beatriz Williams - Страница 23

THE SUN’S long set by the time we arrive back at the villa in the blue Packard, and for an instant I’m bemused to see a small figure running from the shadow of the house, calling my name.

Patsy. I plumb forgot my baby sister.

I sink on my knees in the gravel and take her sobbing body against mine. Tell her it’s all right, I’m here, everything’s fine, what’s the matter?

“She wouldn’t go to bed until you came home,” says Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who stands nearby in a pale dressing gown like a ghost, doing her best not to sound reproachful.

I don’t dare look up at her face. The one pressed against mine is bad enough, cheeks all wet and hot, breath coming in tiny, desperate pants. She sticks to me like a burr, like a marsupial, like I am a kangaroo and she is my kangaroo baby enclosed to my chest and belly by some invisible pouch. Her small back shudders under my hand. I keep saying I’m here, I’m fine, I would never leave her, but my words ring hollow, don’t they? Not once did the thought of Patsy enter my head as I took off across the dangerous blue sea with Anson. Not once did I think of her left behind. Not once did I imagine some kindly person telling Patsy that her sister has been split clean apart by a Rum Row pirate, and she has no kin remaining to cherish her.

“W-where w-were you?” she hiccups out.

“I was with Mr. Marshall. Out in a boat.”

“Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“Because …” Because I forgot all about you, cherub. Because it was too dangerous, anyway. Because there is no sister in the world so bad as I am, nobody in the world less capable of looking after you, poor baby, poor darling, I’m so sorry.

I start to pull away from her, because I can’t stand the weight of her terror, and also I’m starting to cry myself, tears leaking out the corners of my eyes at this terrible, terrible day that started out in such peace. My arm hurts, my back hurts. Maybe every bone in my body hurts, every tendon and joint, every fingernail. A weight falls next to my left shoulder. Anson, crouching beside us in the gravel.

“Patsy,” he says quietly, “do you know what your sister did today?”

She peers out over my arm.

“Your sister saved my life.”

“She did?”

“She saved my life, and her own life, and the lives of a shipful of men. In fact”—he takes his finger and carefully parts her damp hair from her face, one side and then the other, so he can look in her eyes—“I think your sister’s about the bravest person I know.”

“That so?”

“That’s so. Ginny’s the kind of sister who will do anything to keep you safe.”

I let my arm fall away, so Patsy leans against me, turned toward Anson.

“But who’s going to keep Ginny safe?” she asks, terribly small.

“Well, I guess that’s my job, isn’t it? As best I can.” He holds out his arms. “And now I think it’s time you went to bed, sweetheart. You and Ginny, you need your sleep.”

Patsy goes so willingly into his embrace, I think my heart stops. Lays her head on his shoulder while he lifts her up with one thick, exhausted arm and takes my hand with the other. By the time we reach the stairs, her eyes are already half-closed, and her wet eyelashes stick together at the tips, and I can’t help recollecting the way we entered this house not twenty-four hours before. Just like this, except we have fresh, new bruises and hurts atop the old ones, and though the house is exactly the same, pale and peaceful, and our hosts make identical noises of relief and welcome, I am overcome by this swift, terrible vision that we are stuck on a wheel, the three of us, a nightmare Ferris wheel that turns over and over and never lets us off.