Thomas would have protested, but Saint said quickly, “Jules is right, Thomas. Penelope and her mother are used to having a strong man about to take care of them. The two of you should probably marry immediately.”
Thomas and Penelope were married one day before Saint’s bandage was to be removed. It was a private ceremony at the Stevenson house, and Bunker was carried down by a servant and his driver to give his daughter away.
“I have never seen her so subdued,” Chauncey Saxton said to Jules. “I’m beginning to agree with Del that this is probably all for the best.”
“I certainly hope so,” Jules said. “Thomas is my brother, after all.” Penelope looked lovely, Jules thought objectively, and then realized: She’s now my sister!
It was a rather unsettling thought, given the fact that Jules’s only sister, Sarah, hadn’t played that role with much warmth or caring. Please, she prayed as the two solemnized their vows over the loud sniffling of Mrs. Stevenson, let it work out properly. Let Thomas be happy.
There was, of course, champagne, and heavier drinks for the men. Chauncey had helped with the buffet, and it was impressive. Jules was slowly eating a lobster canapé when she heard Bunker say in his loud, carrying voice to Michael, his speech only slightly slurred, “Well, my boy, here we are, two war horses, shot down! But Dr. Pickett tells me you’ll be eyeing that lovely wife of yours again in no time at all now.”
Sally Stevenson, her mother’s duty accomplished, was smiling now, accepting congratulations. But, Jules thought, she looked ill, her jowls noticeably sagging, as if the shock had aged her five years. She wondered if the shock was about her husband or her new son-in-law. Thomas had never said if his mother-in-law approved or disapproved of her daughter’s marriage to him, a penniless young man. I must tell Mrs. Stevenson how very lucky she is.
Thomas didn’t let his bride out of his sight, his hand always either under her elbow or around her waist. Jules knew about desire and passion and she saw both in her brother’s eyes when they rested on Penelope. As for Penelope, she looked somewhat dazed, her voice and movements mechanical.
Jules couldn’t get near her husband. Friends surrounded him, unwilling to leave him alone. Some were studiously careful to avoid any reference to his blindness; others, like Bunker, spoke freely, then went on to other matters.
She moved closer, hearing Brent Hammond say to Michael, “You’ll not believe how Wakeville is shaping up, Saint.”
“Thackery gives me progress reports. And how is your pregnant wife, Brent?”
Brent grinned. “My own little fat spider,” he said, winking toward his wife. “She says she feels fine and for me to stop driving her crazy, but—”
“I know, the first child and all that.”
“Well, by the time the first perfect child makes his or her appearance, you should be back on your feet and back into your eyes, old man.”
Byrony joined the group. “He is driving me utterly mad, Saint. Would you please tell him that his part in this entire affair is well over?”
“Hell no,” said Saint. He stretched out his hand toward Byrony, and clasped her fingers in his large hand. It took Jules a moment to realize that it was a thoroughly doctorly thing he was doing. She heard him say after a moment, “No swelling. Good, Byrony. How about your ankles?”
“Here I thought you were getting forward with my wife,” Brent said on a chuckle. “Her ankles swell if she doesn’t lie down every couple of hours,” he added.
“Just see, Brent, that she does lie down, then,” Saint said, patting Byrony’s hand. “Alone.”
Brent moaned, and if it was possible for a woman to guffaw, Byrony did.
“It was well carried off,” Jules said to her husband as Thackery drove them back home.
“Yes,” Saint said.
“Do you think Thomas will continue wanting to be a doctor?”
“I don’t know,” came the clipped reply. Oddly enough, Saint was thinking about his rearranged closet. He’d always been neat and orderly with his belongings, but not sufficiently for a blind man. It had galled him to have Jules hand him each item of clothing in the morning. Usually she’d have to rebutton his shirt, for he always seemed to mismatch buttons and holes. He’d said nothing to her, but that morning she’d led him to the closet and had him run his hands over the array of shirts, then trousers, vests, and coats. All in magnificent order now, all arranged with darkest coats first, then the blues and grays. He’d managed to dress himself for the wedding, and he supposed he should feel good about it. But he didn’t.
Jules eyed him with mounting frustration, but said nothing more. When she helped him into bed an hour later, she smiled into the darkness, slipped off her nightgown, and snuggled next to him.
He said nothing, nor did he move to touch her or kiss her.
Jules swallowed her disappointment and leaned down to kiss him lightly on his closed mouth. “I love you, Michael,” she said, kissed him again, and settled beside him to sleep.
She awoke suddenly at the sound of an anguished moan. She blinked, and saw that it was still quite dark.
“No, dammit, no! Oh God, no!”
Saint lurched sideways, tangling himself in the covers, crying out.
Oh God, she thought, and began shaking him. “Michael, wake up! It’s a nightmare, love. Wake up!”