Anita Mills (10 page)

“I will.”

He rose to take his leave and then stopped at the door. “Buck up, ma’am. I can tell you are but newly wed and I know the seriousness of the situation weighs heavily on you, but God willing, he will live to stock your nursery yet.”

“I just hope he recovers,” she managed back.

“Well, it is late and dark, Mrs. Trent, but I will return on the morrow to examine him again.”

As soon as he left, Ellen hurried over to the Bratchers’ and obtained the necessary ingredients for making the poultice. Then, back in the box, she prepared the evil-smelling concoction, stopping often to wipe her streaming eyes. As she stirred it over the fire, she wondered if Trent were indeed ill enough to stand for the application of the mess. When the mixture reached the desired consistency as described on the paper, she dished it up into another bowl. After tearing a bedsheet into strips, she advanced on the marquess with the steaming, strong-smelling poultice and several strips of cloth. He appeared to be asleep on his side, his covers pulled up around his ears.

“My lord,” she called as she shook him awake. “Be pleased to turn over on your back.”

“What the devil?” He opened his eyes as he rolled over, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “What is it?”

“Your poultice,” she told him matter-of-factly as she rolled his bedclothes down to his waist. “Please do not cut up a dust, my lord, as this is necessary if you are to recover. And I find it as distasteful as you will, for I had to make it.”

“Ellen,” he warned, “if you do not take that nasty stuff out of here this instant, I will come out of this bed and outrage your sense of propriety. You are not putting that on me.” He started up and fell back weakly as he gave way to another fit of coughing.

“I am sorry,” she told him calmly, “but not even that would induce me to leave. If you do not care for your own life, you ought to consider me. I am stuck in this abandoned place with you—and you are my only ticket to York, sir. I cannot let you be carried off ‘in your prime,’ as the good doctor said. So if you have any wish to resume a life of raking about and chasing after the muslin company, you will be still and let me follow the doctor’s orders.”

“And what is that?”

“Laudanum. Perhaps after you have had some of this, you will not be so fractious about the other.”

“I should have abandoned you to your fate when you jumped out that window,” he muttered sourly.

“But you did not,
my lord, and I will not abandon you either. Now, open your mouth, please.”

Reluctantly, he did as she asked, and choked on the second spoon of it. When she was about to pour a third, he pushed her hand away. “Enough! Would you have me dead from the opium, Ellen? And if I am not mistaken, you are supposed to stir the stuff into water to make it more palatable. Ugh!”

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, “for he did not say precisely how to administer it or in what amount. He was much more interested in seeing that you were covered with this, if you must know.” With that, she began to pour the hot onion mixture onto his bare skin, spreading it around with a large spoon. It plastered the dark hair on his chest with a thick slime that reeked with the odor of the onions. Once she decided she had put enough on, she applied a layer of sheeting strips over it and tucked them beneath his back. “There,” she told him as she straightened up, “that will do it for a couple of hours. Now you should try to sleep.”

“With this smell? I doubt I can.”

But when she returned in half an hour’s time, she found him sound asleep. And when it became time to clean off the slimy mess and replace it with fresh poultice, he did not even rouse. She touched his forehead then and worried—it was as hot as the mixture she had just heated over the fire.

All through the night and day and next night, Ellen scrupulously changed the dressings on his chest and gave him laudanum to ease his restless tossing. But instead of showing improvement, he seemed to be slipping. His fever seemed to climb even higher, and sometimes he cried out in feverish nightmares while other times he muttered incoherently.

By the dawn of the second day after she began treating him, he did not even appear to recognize her when she ministered to him. Yet, nearly dropping from weariness, she carefully spooned some broth into him, lifting him as best she could to keep him from choking. And she painstakingly dipped a cloth into water and dribbled it into his mouth in an effort to bring the terrible fever down.

At nine o’clock, Mrs. Bratcher came again and insisted that she watch while Ellen slept. Reluctantly, Ellen had to concede that she could not go on without rest, and she allowed the older woman to shepherd her to her bed. She lay down in her clothes and slept soundly for several hours, awaking finally to the sound of voices in the other room. Guiltily, she got up and went to check on Lord Trent. She found the Dr. Cookson and Mrs. Bratcher in earnest conversation, and by the sound of it, things were not good for the marquess.

The doctor looked up and shook his head discouragingly. “He does not seem to be responding, Mrs. Trent, and I am afraid we are approaching the crisis. By tomorrow, we should know if he will make it.”

“But he
has
to make it,” Ellen cried desperately as her eyes filled with tears. “You do not know the half—he has to make it through this!”

“There, ma’am,” the doctor soothed, “you just take some of the laudanum yourself and go back to bed. I cannot see that the poultices are doing any good, anyway, and Maggie can watch him through the night.”

“No!” She turned to Mrs. Bratcher determinedly. “If you can but stay the rest of the afternoon and keep trying the poultices—I’ll pay you—I can take care of him in the night.”

“Not to worrit, mum.” Maggie Bratcher nodded. “I’ll stay.”

Ellen dragged herself back to her chamber and lay back down to endure nightmares of Trent abandoning her and Sir Basil chasing her. But when she awoke again, it was nightfall and the older woman was shaking her.

“Yer’d best eat summat, mum, before yer down yersel’.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Aye, yer are, if yer think on it.”

Ellen forced herself to get up and follow Mrs. Bratcher into the kitchen, where a cold collation had been laid. Slowly filling a plate and pouring herself a cup of tea, she could not adequately express her gratitude.

“I can never repay you for what you have done for us, Maggie.”

“As ter that, yer can remember sometime when th’ rents comes due and we don’t ‘ave it.”

Despairingly, Ellen realized that she would in truth probably never be in a position to help the Bratchers— her entire story to them had been a sham, and if Lord Trent died, he could not purchase Little Islip’s hunting box and they would learn the truth. And Maggie would despise her when she found out.

Sensing Ellen’s dejection, Maggie Bratcher laid a hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “I ‘ave t’ be goin’ now, mum, but yer can call if yer need me.”

“No. I am all right, but I am so frightened, Maggie. Oh, he has to get well—he has to!”

“He will, mum. I can feel it.”

As soon as she was alone, Ellen again began heating the onion mixture as the only hope of breaking up the tightness in his lungs. Then faithfully she began making the applications. In preparation for a long and lonely night’s vigil, she filled the lantern and carried it to a bedside table.

About midnight, Trent became restless and knocked the mess off into the bed. Patiently, Ellen cleaned it up and reapplied some more. As she wrestled him to put clean sheets beneath him, she wiped her brow and allowed to herself that she had even ceased to be repelled by the odor of onions. At two o’clock, his breathing became more labored and she almost panicked and ran for Mrs. Bratcher, but then she calmed herself and tried to ease his breathing by pulling him up on more pillows. It was not an easy task, given that he was a tall man and almost all deadweight.

At four o’clock, there was no change, and she debated on whether to continue the poultices or not. He mumbled incoherently from time to time and was unable to drink the laudanum when she mixed it. She abandoned the attempt out of fear that he would strangle on it. Once more, she thought, I will try once more, and then I do not know what I will do.

As she unwrapped the dressings and prepared to sponge him off for the last application of poultice, it did not seem that he was quite so hot to the touch, but she was uncertain as to whether it was really so, or whether she wanted it to be so much that she imagined an improvement. She went ahead and smeared the mess over his chest and rewrapped him.

At seven o’clock he moved a little and it was not the restless tossing of before. She leaned over him and noticed that small beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. She wiped him dry and murmured a hopeful prayer. In another fifteen minutes, he was drenched with a sweat of such magnitude that even his sheets were wet. Throwing maidenly reserve to the wind, she rolled him to the edge of the bed and uncovered him completely, pulling the sheet from beneath him as she rolled. Putting a dry sheet down, she rolled him back and then wrung out a cloth in a washbasin and began washing him down. She pulled his top blanket from the heap and covered him again to prevent a chill. Exhausted, she sank back into her chair and tried to stay awake.

“Ellen,” he croaked as she was about to doze off, “I was wrong—you are quite beautiful.”

Coming awake with a jolt, she thought at first that she had imagined he spoke, and then she saw that his eyes were open. “W-what?”

“You are beautiful,” he croaked again.

To cover the overwhelming emotion she felt, she reached for the laudanum bottle as though checking its level.

“My lord,” she told him severely, “I fear I have given you too much.”

“Ellie, I am thirsty.”

“That can be remedied, Alex. Let me get you some water. Wait right here.” She brought back a cup of water and braced him while he swallowed it.

Weak from the effort, he leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling faintly. “And just where did you think I’d go, Ellie? I feel as helpless as a baby.”

“I wasn’t thinking, my lord.”

“I know. I have been a sad trial to you, haven’t I?”

“No, but you frightened me nearly to death, my lord. You were so sick and the doctor tried to discourage me.” Her eyes began to fill with tears and she had to look away.

“I owe you a huge debt for this, Ellie. Nothing I could ever do would be enough to repay you.”

“Just get better and take me to York and I am paid, my lord.” Her voice was strained as she fought against the urge to cry in relief. He was alive and his fever had broken and she felt she had won an intense battle.

“You called me Alex earlier, Ellie. I much prefer that to Trent or my lord, my dear.”

“I think your brain has been affected,” she retorted, but she was smiling.

“Probably.” He opened his eyes again and tried to turn his head to look at her. “But since we are to be friends, you might as well learn to use my name. Besides, I like the sound of it.” He tried to pull himself up and found the effort too great. “You look hagged,” he whispered. “Get some rest.”

“Hagged? You have come to your senses, after all.”

“Hagged—but beautiful.”

“And you are too tired to. talk so much. Close your eyes and rest, my . . . Alex.”

“I will rest if you will,” he promised. He watched as she rose to leave and then sank back again. “I’ll never forget this, Ellie—word of a Deveraux.”

“A
UGUSTA
! I K
NEW YOU’D
come.”

“Of course, my dear. Where is he?” Augusta Sandbridge mounted the steps of the leased town house purposefully, her petite figure and her softly curling brown hair belying a woman of incredibly strong will. “And tell him it is nothing to the purpose to avoid me, Eleanor, for I mean to read him a rare peal over this.” She drew off her fine red kid gloves and tiptoed to brush her sister-in-law’s cheek with an impatient kiss. “Really, I cannot believe you allowed him to do such a shabby thing.”

“You know him as well as I do,” Eleanor Marling retorted. “So you know there is no reasoning with him where money is concerned.”

“Bah!
I
shall reason with him soon enough.”

“I doubt it, Augusta, because he is not here just now.”

Lady Sandbridge gave the other woman a knowing look. “I see. Got wind I was coming, did he? You always were a peagoose, Nora. You ought to have let me surprise him with the music. Come to think of it, you should have warned me before he sold the girl. I’ll warrant I could have stopped that soon enough.”

“But, Gussie, there wasn’t time! Brockhaven was so impatient that we did not have above two weeks to collect the brideclothes.”

“Well, done is done, I suppose. Still, I could not credit your last letter about Ellen. Has no one heard from her since? I cannot like the story with a girl alone in a city like this.” She stopped abruptly and nodded disgustedly at the tall, thin woman that had followed her in. “You remember Sandbridge’s sister, Lavinia Leffingwell, I believe? She insisted on coming in spite of everything.” She bent closer and murmured low, “Drives me to distraction— should never have told her she could live with me after Leffingwell died.”

The object of her irritation did not seem to notice Augusta’s remarks as she put forth her hand in the most affected manner. “Dear Mrs. Marling,” she gushed, “of course you remember me. You and I were used to be girlhood companions, were we not, Nora? But I could not credit your letter to dear Gussie. What an ungrateful child your Ellen has proven to be. La! I remember Sir Basil from my Season—a fine figure of a man!”

“Cut line, Vinnie!” Augusta Sandbridge brought her up short. “That was a good twenty years ago, and you obviously have not seen the old roue since. Well, I have, and I daresay he weighs twenty stone or more and he is old enough to be the girl’s father, if I may remind you. Not to mention that he’s buried two poor wives already.”

Lavinia Leffingwell lapsed into uncustomary silence, stung by her sister-in-law’s sharpness. Eleanor looked uncomfortably from one to the other. She had heard that the living arrangement whereby Lady Leffingwell made her home at Greenfield was not an entirely cosy situation. Knowing that the two of them had never been particularly fond of each other, Eleanor had been surprised when the two widows had decided to share the commodious Sandbridge estate. That they were as different as night and day did not seem to occur to them until after the circumstance was effected. And then the sprightly, energetic, take-charge Augusta found the flighty, sour, and highly opinionated Lavinia a trial much of the time.

“As I pointed out to Gussie,” Lady Leffingwell found her voice at last, “I could not but come to support you in this dreadful scandal. But how you are. to fire off two more daughters after this, I am sure I cannot imagine.”

That was too much for Eleanor. “Really, Lady Leffingwell,” she retorted stiffly, “there is no scandal as yet. No one knows besides us and Brockhaven, and I am sure he is not telling. After all, it is scarcely a story to his credit, either.”

“Not to mention that Amy is but seventeen,” Augusta added comfortingly, “and has plenty of time on the Marriage Mart yet. As for dear Lucinda—or is it Lorinda?—she has years in the schoolroom before you have to give that a thought.”

“Lucinda.”

“Well, whatever. My point is that I doubt she will be much bothered by even a scandal, if it comes to that. My concern just now is Ellen.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Eleanor wrung out. “Gussie, we have heard nothing!”

“Now, Nora—she is a sensible girl—she’ll come about.”

“But if Brockhaven can be believed, she would have had to jump fifteen feet in the dark and then just disappear. I cannot credit it.”

“Ten to one, she had it planned and is but waiting for news that Sir Basil intends to divorce her,” Augusta soothed.

“Divorce!” Lavinia was scandalized at the thought. “But she could not want that. She’d be ruined and no one would ever receive her.”

“There are worse things than being divorced, Vinnie— things like living with someone you cannot even like,” Augusta reminded her grimly.

Newell, the Marling butler, coughed apologetically from the hallway. “I believe Lord Brockhaven’s carriage is in the drive, madam. Shall I give out that you are not at home?”

“Oh, dear, and here we are standing like a flock of hens in the hall. No—yes—well, he is bound to see us, but I . . . Oh, dear me, I do so hate seeing that dreadful man.”

“Show him in, Newell,” Lady Sandbridge ordered briskly. “We shall be pleased to take tea in the drawing room with his lordship.” She eyed her flustered sister-in- law with amusement. “And do collect yourself, my dear, for he will not do anything dreadful while I am here to support you.”

The ladies barely had time to be seated and to arrange their skirts before Basil Brockhaven was ushered in. He surveyed the women with a scowl until he recognized Augusta.

“Lady Sandbridge, is it not?” he beamed. “I’d recognize you anywhere, even after all this time.” After a portly bow, he got down to business with Eleanor Marling, demanding almost uncivilly, “Where’s Marling? I would have a word with him in private, if you please.”

“I think he has gone to Somerset, sir. He was not particularly precise in his direction,” she told him doubtfully.

“What she means to say, Brockhaven,” Augusta cut in, “is that Thomas bolted rather than face me.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “Not a little thing like you.” Turning back to Eleanor, he announced, “I shall wait, Mrs. Marling, for I do not believe he is not at home.”

“But it is true,” Lavinia chimed in, “for we came to see him and he was already gone.”

“Eh? And who the devil are you?”

“You cannot say you do not remember Lavinia Rowell? For shame, Sir Basil,” she tittered. “You stood up with me many times during my Season.”

Brockhaven gave her a closer look through his quizzing glass and then shook his head. “Well, I daresay you must’ve changed, ma’am.”

“It was in ’95,” she reminded him patiently, “and I was wed to Lawrence Leffingwell before my Season was out”

“Now,
him
I remember—quite plump in the pocket, I believe.”

“That’s the one,” she encouraged, “and I was a blonde then, with blue eyes that you once complimented.”

“Well, I daresay the gray hair has me confused now.”

Newell interrupted to set a tray of glasses and a decanter of ratafia in front of the ladies. He bowed respectfully in the baron’s direction and inquired, “Some Madeira for you, sir?”

“Yes, yes.” Sir Basil impatiently waved him away and focused again on Eleanor Marling. “And now, madam, what is this nonsense about Marling being away from home? Damn it, er, dash it, I have business with the man.”

“We know,” Augusta told him matter-of-factly, “and that is precisely why we are come to town. We wish to salvage the situation if at all possible.”

“Yes,” Lavinia agreed eagerly, “we have come to help you, Sir Basil. We cannot imagine what possessed that foolish creature to act in such a rash manner. I can only suppose that she did not recognize her good fortune.”

“No doubt,” Augusta agreed dryly.

“Then you will tell me what I am to do,” Sir Basil responded in an aggrieved tone, “for I cannot forever give out that she is ill. You cannot imagine the gibes I’ve suffered in the clubs already.”

“Brazen it out,” Augusta encouraged, “and we shall support you. Tell me, do you drive out or go to the opera?”

“What’s that to the purpose?”

“Well, if you are seen with her family, that should spike the tattlemongers’ tongues. By the time we are through, you will be congratulated for your patience in coping with a wife suffering from consumption.”

“What consumption?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Really, I had no notion you were a slow-top, my lord,” Augusta told him in exasperation. “We must endeavor to save your reputation somehow. You said it was already becoming an
on-dit
that there is something wrong between you and my niece. Consumption is the answer. It is a disease that discourages visitors and certainly prevents the sufferer from attending public functions. You will be lauded for taking her under such circumstances.”

“Dash it! People die from consumption.”

“Well, it gives you time to wait for her to reappear. You can give out that you have sent her to the country, where the air is more salubrious. Then, when it is no longer of interest to anyone, you may divorce her and seek a more amenable wife,” she explained practically.

“I do not seek a divorce,” he told her stiffly. “I want my wife, and I believe that this family is sheltering her in her unlawful flight from my home.”

“Nonsense,” Augusta dismissed the notion. “I cannot imagine anything less comfortable than a wife who does not want to live with you. Of course, you will have to make up your own mind on that head. In the meantime, your mother-in-law, Lavinia, and myself will exert ourselves to appear publicly with you until the gossip dies down.”

“Now see here—”

“No.
You
see here. We are as wishful as you about avoiding scandal. You will do it, or you will be the laughingstock of the
ton
when the real story is heard.”

They haggled over her suggestion for several minutes while Lavinia and Eleanor looked on in shock. But when Basil Brockhaven took his leave, he was surprised to find that he had engaged himself to take all three ladies to the opera that evening. He was uncertain about Lady Sandbridge; she was either the most interfering busybody or a dear, and he could not tell which. But she was right about one thing: he could not continue to go about without Ellen unless the chit’s family supported him, and he certainly had no desire to sit at home alone.

“Well, I never!” Lavinia sank back in her chair after he had left. “I repeat, I have never heard of such a tale, Gussie. Consumption! How could the wretched girl have done such a thing to that poor man when he is worried half out of his mind over her?”

“Is he, Vinnie? I rather think he is far more concerned about his own reputation. If he were truly worried, he would have called in the Bow Street runners by now. And you did not hear him say anything about her being alone and defenseless in a city like this, did you?”

“You do not think he has harmed her?” Eleanor asked in alarm.

“Brockhaven? Of course not! I was merely telling Vinnie that if I were a loving husband, I should be more concerned for my wife and less for what people would-think. I believe he is merely piqued that she escaped his clutches before he had his way with her.”

“Augusta, must you be so plainspoken?” Lavinia complained.

“Pooh. We are none of us green girls,” Augusta snapped back.

Thus it was that Lord Brockhaven returned to the Marling residence with considerable trepidation some six hours later. The thought of spending an evening in the company of three middle-aged females was beginning to give him indigestion. And that thin thing looked dashed boring to him. It was no wonder Leffingwell had popped off.

“Hallo, Newell.” He handed his hat to the butler with blunt affability and asked, “Are the ladies down yet?” Without waiting for an answer, he preened himself in an entrance mirror. He was certain of one thing: he was fine as fivepence. His yellow satin waistcoat gleamed beneath his navy brocade swallowtail coat, and his yellow satin pantaloons clung to his plump thighs without so much as a wrinkle. And his valet had managed to find him a pair of navy-and-yellow pin-striped stockings that set the ensemble off perfectly. His pattens clicked against the marble- inlaid entry as he followed Newell into the drawing room.

Augusta Sandbridge looked up coolly as he was ushered in and had to fight the urge to snicker. Mrs. Marling took in his clothing and blinked to hide the fact that he looked the veriest quiz. Lavinia Leffingwell, on the other hand, beamed in admiration as he bowed stiffly over Eleanor’s hand.

“Ohhh, Sir Basil,” she gushed, “you will cast all of us in the shade tonight. Don’t you think so, dear Nora?”

“Uh, yes, I think so,” Eleanor managed finally.

“Quite, I am sure.” Augusta nodded.

“But what of Miss Amy? Surely she would enjoy an evening’s entertainment,” Sir Basil suggested.

“Amy is still in the schoolroom,” Augusta announced firmly. “And it would be most improper for her to appear in public before she is presented.”

“But we are family. Surely—”

“No, I think not.”

“But I cannot see the harm,” Lavinia ventured, and then quailed beneath the scathing look she received from her sister-in-law. “But if she is not presented, I suppose you are right,” she finished lamely.

Once they actually reached the opera, the evening passed fairly agreeably for all four of them. To Basil Brockhaven, it was something of a credit to have
grande dame
Augusta Sandbridge in his company. And if she were a trifle distant in public, he decided it was because she was dreadfully high in the instep. Mrs. Marling said very little to him, but then she was kept busy explaining her daughter’s sudden decline. To his chagrin, Lavinia felt it incumbent to entertain him at every lull in the program.

“La! Is that not Maria Cosgrove over there?” she chirped. “I have not see her in an age, but she looks a complete dowd now. I cannot fathom how she could let herself run to fat like that. Dear Sir Basil, do you suppose we could go over during the intermission?”

“I do not know the lady well enough to visit her box,” Brockhaven told her happily, “but I shall be pleased to provide a footman to escort you over there.”