The doctors had expected him to be crippled, yet he had walked about his chamber each afternoon for a week, feeble, unsteady, but on his own feet. He could move his arms freely, if painfully. Miriam’s salves made him smell like a rose garden, the exercises she prescribed made him ache all over, but they worked. Beyond that he must not think.
She looked in on her way down to dinner, a strong-willed, handsome woman with richly red hair. “We shall have you downstairs tomorrow,” she promised.
“I own I’ll be glad to see something beyond these four walls. I know every nick in every beam, every rough spot in the plaster...”
Miriam laughed. “You shall have new beams to study, or even go out on the terrace if it’s fine. Try to eat well tonight to build up your strength.”
Shortly after she left, a footman came in with his dinner on a tray. “His lordship’s back, sir,” the lad reported, helping him to sit upright. “Lord Roworth, that is.”
“Lord Roworth!” What the devil was the man about, returning to torment Fanny again?
“Just come in this minute, quite unexpected, like. Treats Nettledene like his own home, he does,” he added with pride.
Frank pondered the news as he picked at his roast beef, carved wafer-thin to tempt an invalid’s uncertain appetite. Roworth must have come to report his success or failure at winning Lady Sophia’s hand. Success would dash Fanny’s hopes forever, but failure would keep them alive, in all probability to die a lingering death. Frank didn’t know which to wish for. He felt helpless, unable to protect his sister.
Everything would be easier if only Roworth were not on the whole a deuced good fellow.
The footman returned to remove his tray, shaking his head when he saw how little had been eaten. Frank picked up a book of travellers’ tales he had been reading and tried to forget his troubles.
A knock on his door, some time later, was a welcome distraction. “Come in,” he called.
Lord Roworth stuck his head round the door. “Still awake, Ingram? I’ve brought you a brandy. With Miriam’s permission, I hasten to say.” He set two glasses on the bedside table and pulled up a chair.
Taking his glass, Frank warmed it between thin, white hands. “Am I to wish you happy?” he enquired cautiously.
“Not yet. I reached London at an awkward hour to call upon Lady Sophia so I decided to ride on and spend the night here. Now I’m here, I might as well stay a couple of days.”
Nothing settled yet. Frank suppressed a groan. Sipping the brandy, he felt a glow of warmth pervade him.
“Armagnac,” said Roworth. “Isaac takes my advice on his cellar.”
“I haven’t tasted anything like this since one of my men snabbled a couple of bottles after we crossed the Pyrenees.” He grinned. “Naturally, I was forced to confiscate them to maintain order in the ranks.”
“Naturally. Everyone knows Wellington don’t stand for looting. Here’s to your very good health.”
The commonplace toast reminded Frank of his debility. With an effort he responded, “And to yours, my lord.” He drank again, more deeply than the quality of the brandy deserved.
“My lord? As I recall, Captain, you were wont to use my name.”
“My humble apologies, Roworth.” He tried to match the rallying tone. “I intended no insult, I promise you.”
“Then I shan’t sink to the infamy of calling out a sick man, though Miriam and Fanny both think you well on the road to recovery. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? What makes you think anything’s wrong? They are right, I grow stronger every day.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s your privilege, but perhaps I can help.”
The Armagnac loosened Frank’s tongue. “No one can help, or Mrs Cohen would have. I expected too much of her skills. Look at me.” He threw back the covers, pushed himself to the edge of the bed, and stood up, a trifle wobbly. Stripping off his nightshirt--altered at Miriam’s suggestion to button down the front--he revealed a body seamed and knotted with countless scars, white and red and purple, from shoulders to thighs. “What woman will want me now?” he asked bitterly.
Roworth visibly steeled himself. “You appear to be...er...intact where it matters.”
“Would that I were not,” he said in despair, “for then I might not care. Or that at least some sign appeared on my face as a warning of what is below. Better, perhaps, that the blast had blown off my head instead of leaving me like this, a sight to send any female into hysterics.”
“Did Fanny and Miriam run screaming at the sight?”
“They are not ordinary females. They saw only the hurt, not the hideousness.” Shivering despite the warmth of the night, he reached for his nightshirt.
Roworth failed to deny that Fanny and Miriam were remarkable. His meager strength exhausted, Frank accepted his help to put his arms in the sleeves and return to bed. Lying back, he closed his eyes. “It’s bloody humiliating being so weak,” he said, aiming at wryness.
“Are you too weak to lift a glass? It would be a pity to waste the Armagnac.”
“True. That much I think I can manage.” He sat up and took the glass.
They chatted for a while longer, then, draining the last drop of his brandy, Roworth said, “I’d best let you sleep, or Miriam will be after me.” He hesitated. “The scars are bound to fade over time, you know. And one day you’ll find a woman as exceptional as your sister, who loves you and doesn’t give a damn.”
“Then Lord help her, for I’m not likely ever to be in a position to marry. Roworth, thank you. You’ve been devilish good to us--don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
Both embarrassed, they clasped hands briefly and Roworth left.
At least he recognized that Fanny was special, Frank thought, his head muzzy from the unaccustomed drink. Roworth really was a good fellow. He’d be wasted on the Ice Goddess.
Look at the way he’d reacted to the grotesque horror of the scars: sympathetic, without being pitying. All the same, Frank wished he hadn’t made an exhibition of himself. The brandy was to blame, that and an urgent need to voice his despair. He hadn’t been able to tell Fanny or Miriam, nor even the sober, kindly, intellectual Isaac, of his dread that no woman would ever again respond to his desire.
Roworth was no saint. He’d had a mistress in Brussels. He understood and had done his best to reassure. A good fellow...
Frank dropped into a restless sleep, beset with pretty faces that smiled and flirted--and then snarled rejection with outraged disgust.
* * * *
The two days Roworth had said he was staying stretched to a week. Fanny was happy, and Frank could not bring himself to suggest that she was living in a fool’s paradise.
He was carried downstairs each afternoon, now. Often his sister and the viscount were absent, walking or riding, or taking Anita and little Amos Cohen on an excursion. She’d return rosy-cheeked and laughing. How could he put a shadow in her eyes?
The shadow came soon enough. One evening, as he was about to snuff his bedside candle, she came into his chamber and, though she smiled, he knew at once that the blow had fallen.
“Felix is going to Town with Isaac tomorrow, to propose to Lady Sophia.” Her voice struggled to sound casual. “I’m not sure when we shall see him again, but he repeated that we must call on him if we find ourselves in difficulties.”
“Never!”
She clutched his hand. “No, never. But he has been a good friend to us,” she said pleadingly. He nodded, too full of her hurt to find words. Stooping she kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight, Fanny.” He touched her cheek in a rare, tender gesture. With a dry, strangled sob, she tore her hand from his clasp and hurried out.
He lay and swore silently all the foul oaths he could recall or invent. If it were not for his damnable weakness, he’d call Lord Roworth to account for this! Yet Roworth was not to blame. He had never made any secret of his intention to marry Lady Sophia.
Fanny was quiet the next day, but as always covered her unhappiness with a mask of cheerfulness. In the afternoon, Frank was carried downstairs and walked out to the terrace to recline on a chaise longue in the sun. Fanny and Miriam sat on a bench nearby, with Miriam’s baby. Anita and Amos, black ringlets and red curls, played happily with sticks and stones on the steps down to the garden.
Fanny looked up as the sound of footsteps came from the house. Frank saw her smile a subdued greeting, then saw her expression change to incredulity, hope, apprehension. Before he turned his head, he knew that Isaac had brought Roworth home with him.
Then Miriam turned and at once demanded, “What is wrong?”
Isaac went to take her hand. “Your father, my love. He has suffered some kind of seizure.”
“Oh, poor Papa.” Her voice shook. “I must go at once. Can we leave this evening, Isaac?”
“Of course, if you can be ready. I’ll send to the inn for fresh horses.”
“Yes. There are a hundred things to be done before we can go.”
Frank hardly listened. He was watching Roworth’s face, and Roworth was watching Fanny. Frank had seen admiration in those blue eyes before, had seen shared amusement, concern, even warmth. Now he saw a sort of surprised joy, a passionate hope, that looked to him like love.
But Fanny’s attention was on Miriam, and it was no time for declarations. Miriam handed the baby to Fanny and stood up.
“I’d be happy to take care of the children for you,” Fanny offered, disentangling her hair from the baby’s fist.
Miriam turned to her. “Thank you, Fanny dear, but I shall take them with me. I cannot tell how long I shall be gone.” She glanced at Isaac, who nodded. “Fanny, Frank, we had not meant to speak so soon, but Isaac and I have decided we should very much like to adopt Anita.”
“No!” cried Fanny instantly, horrified. “No, it is excessively generous of you, but I cannot give her up.”
“It would make your lives much simpler,” Isaac pointed out in his sober way, “and I believe she would be happy here. Take some time to consider and talk it over.”
“I don’t need to.” Fanny cast a look of frantic appeal at Frank.
Isaac was right: their lives would be easier without Anita. Though Roworth was fond of the little girl, even if he truly loved Fanny, he might well balk at accepting a love-child into his family. If he did not his parents would, and Fanny had enough counts against her already. Rather than let Anita ruin his sister’s hope of happiness, Frank might find himself trying to bring up the child single-handed.
Miriam and Isaac would give her a loving, stable home. Yet if Isaac had logic on his side, Fanny had sentiment on hers.
Frank glanced at Anita, so busy with her sticks and stones and the fallen rose-petals she had collected. As if feeling his gaze, she looked up, beamed, and waved to him, then returned to her game. So many honorary uncles had come and gone in her short life. He and Fanny were her family.
With a somewhat rueful grimace, Frank made up his mind. “It’s not that we don’t think she’d be happy, but her father was my friend and she’s been part of our family pretty much since she was born. It wouldn’t be right to hand her over, even to you, as if she were a foundling.”
“Bravo!” Felix exclaimed, with such heartfelt relief that Frank knew his decision had not harmed Fanny’s chances.
“We expected you to choose to keep her,” said Miriam with approval. “Fanny, Hannah will go with us to London, but you are accustomed to taking care of Anita yourself. If you wish to have a truckle bed for her moved into your chamber, just tell Samuels.”
“But we ought not to remain here when you are gone,” Fanny protested. “I cannot believe it is proper to stay on in one’s hosts’ absence.”
“My dear, pray do not be nonsensical. Where else should you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t seem right.” Frank had to agree, but more to the point, with the Cohens going Roworth had still less excuse to stay at Nettledene. He and Fanny must not be parted before all was settled between them. Frank was prepared to continue to insist on the unsuitability of remaining in the absence of their hosts until his lordship took the hint.
Fanny looked at him, at Anita, and back. “We have no real choice, Frank.”
For a moment Frank feared she had sabotaged his plan, but in fact Roworth seized the opening.
“Yes, you do,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ll take you to Westwood.”
The others were all stunned into silence. Frank, his aim achieved, hid a grin.
After a moment, Miriam said calmly, “An excellent solution. Now I really must go and make arrangements for our departure.” She went into the house.
Following her, Isaac turned on the threshold and said, “If you don’t mind waiting until tomorrow, I shall send back our carriage to take you to Somerset. It’s more comfortable than anything you can hire around here.”
Roworth thanked him, just as Fanny found her voice. “But your family!” she protested. “Lord and Lady Westwood--”
“I told Connie about you and she’s eager to meet you,” Roworth interrupted.
Noting the evasive answer, Frank assumed that the Earl and Countess of Westwood were unlikely to welcome the Ingrams. Too bad. He wasn’t going to let qualms about their reception stand in Fanny’s way.
Unfortunately, Fanny had also noticed Roworth’s evasiveness. “And your parents?” she insisted.
“Any family in England should be proud to welcome a wounded hero of Waterloo.”
“Quite a hero!” said Frank. “Blown up by his own shell.” He grinned. “Come on, Fan, I’m sure Lord and Lady Westwood are too polite to throw us out on our respective ears. Let’s take our chance to see how the nobility lives.”
“Good, that’s settled then,” Roworth said quickly. “Frank, let me help you in. You’ll want to be rested for tomorrow.”
They escaped before Fanny could voice any further objections. As Roworth supported his shaky steps up the stairs, Frank had sudden doubts. Suppose he had misread Roworth’s expression? In that case a visit to Westwood could only prolong Fanny’s misery.
“Was your trip to London successful?” he said. “Am I to wish you happy?”
“Wish me...? Oh, no, I’m not going to marry Lady Sophia.”