Dancing at Midnight

"Thank you," he said abruptly.

"She is my daughter."

He swallowed, remembering when he had been sick as a child. His mother had never come to visit him. His mouth opened and closed, and then he nodded.

"It is I who should thank you," Caroline continued.

John looked up sharply, his expression clearly asking the question, "Why?"

"For loving her. I couldn't ask for more. I couldn't hope for more." She left the room.

Belle soon fell into a deep sleep. John scooted her over to the other side of the bed, where the sheets weren't so sweaty. He leaned down and kissed her temple. "You can fight this," he whispered. "You can do anything."

He walked back over to his chair and slumped into it. He must have dozed off, because when he next opened his eyes, it was past dawn, although one could barely tell for sure through the driving rain. The weather was intensely bleak, and the rain didn't show any sign of letting up. John's eyes searched the scene, trying to find one small piece of the cityscape which might give cause for optimism. And then he did something he hadn't done in many years.

He began to pray.

***
Neither Belle's condition nor the weather improved for several days. John remained ever vigilant at his patient's bedside, forcing her to drink water and broth whenever possible, and giving her laudanum when she grew hysterical. By the end of the third day, John knew that she would be in serious trouble if the fever did not break soon. She hadn't eaten any solid food, and she was getting thin, much too thin. The last time John had bathed her with the damp cloth he'd noticed that her ribs had become painfully prominent.

The doctor had come every day, but he hadn't been especially helpful. They could do nothing other than wait and pray, he had told the family.

John swallowed down his worry and reached out to touch Belle's forehead. She seemed completely unaware of his presence. Indeed, she seemed unaware of anything other than the nightmares which plagued her fever-ridden mind. John had been calm arid purposeful when he began to care for her, but now his even temper was beginning to deteriorate. He'd barely slept in three days, and he hadn't eaten much more than Belle had. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was gaunt, and a look in the mirror told him that he looked almost as bad as his patient did.

He was getting desperate. If Belle didn't pull through soon, he didn't know what he would do. Several times during his vigil he let his head fall limply into his hands, not even bothering to try to stem the tears that ran down his face. He didn't know how he would be able to make it from day to day if she died.

His face bleak, he crossed over to her bedside and perched on the mattress next to her. She was lying there quite peacefully, but John detected a slight change in her condition. She seemed still, unnaturally still, and her breathing had grown shallow. Panic gripped John like a hand around his heart, and he leaned down and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Are you giving up on me?" he demanded harshly. "Are you?"

Belle's head lolled to the side, and she whimpered.

"Damn you! You can't give up!" John shook her even harder.

Belle heard his voice as if it were coming to her through a long, long tunnel. It sounded like John, but she couldn't imagine why he would be with her in her bedroom. He sounded angry. Was he angry at her? Belle sighed. She was tired. Too tired to deal with an angry man.

"Do you hear me, Belle?" she heard him say. "I will never forgive you if you give up on me."

Belle winced as she felt his large hands squeezing her upper arms. She wanted to moan at the pain but she just didn't have the energy. Why wouldn't he leave her alone? All she wanted to do was sleep. She'd never felt this tired. She'd just like to cuddle up and sleep forever. Summoning up all of her strength, she managed to say, "Go away."

"Aha!" John shouted triumphantly. "You're still here with me. Hang on now, Belle. Can you hear me?"

Of course she could hear him, Belle thought irritably. "Go away," she said with a little more force. She shifted restlessly, burrowing back under the covers. Maybe he wouldn't keep on bothering her if she hid underneath the quilts. If she could just keep on sleeping, she'd feel so much better.

John could see the will slipping out of her even though she'd managed to speak. He'd seen that look before, on the faces of men he knew during the war. Not the lucky ones who died in battle, but the poor souls who had fought fever and infection for weeks afterward. Watching Belle slowly letting go of life was more than he could take, and something inside of him snapped. Fury rose within him, and he forgot all of his vows to be tender and considerate while nursing her through her illness.

"Damn it, Belle," he shouted angrily. "I'm not going to sit here and watch you die. It isn't fair! You can't leave me now. I won't allow it!"

Belle made no response. John tried wheedling.

"Do you know how furious I'll be with you if you die? I'll hate you forever for leaving me. Do you want that?" He desperately searched Belle's features, hoping for some sign that she was rallying, but he found none. All his grief and anger and worry converged inside of him, and he finally grabbed her brutally and lifted her in his arms, cradling her as he spoke.

"Belle," he said hoarsely. "There's no hope for me without you." He paused while a tremor shook his body. "I want to see you smiling, Belle. Smiling happily, your blue eyes full of sunshine and goodness. Reading a book, laughing at its contents. I want so much for you to be happy. I'm sorry I wouldn't accept your love. I will. I promise. If you, in your infinite goodness and wisdom, have found something in me worthy of love, well then… well, then, I suppose I'm not quite as bad as I thought.