Flowers From The Storm (61 page)

Richard did not release her hands. He held them harder. “Come with me now, Archimedea,” he said, calm and steady. “Come away.”

Jervaulx strode toward them. Maddy had a sensation of terror; she tried frantically to speak, to disengage her hands, but she was too late. Jervaulx grabbed Richard, a grip that pushed him; in the opening space the duke’s leather-gloved fist came up fast. Maddy flung herself forward to prevent it. In the power of his onslaught Jervaulx’s shoulder impacted her with a brutal jolt. It propelled her off her feet: Richard’s hands jerked from hers; she heard his agonized cough and hit hard stone, a flash of hot black sensation in her head and arm.

Her vision wavered. She lay stunned, curling up against the shock of pain. Jervaulx dropped on his knees beside her. “Maddy… Maddy,” he was muttering, leaning over her with such a look in his face that she managed to find her breath to speak.

“Don’t. I’m all right.” She tried to sit up.

“Calvin,” he shouted, sliding his hand beneath her head. He bent down close to her. “Still, still…

Maddy… hurt.”

Durham was there, and the nurseryman. Past Jervaulx’s shoulder she saw Richard climb to his feet and stagger a littie. Durham steadied him and let go, leaning over Maddy. “Damn it to hell—is she badly injured?”

“No!” Maddy tried again to push herself up, but her arm kept collapsing under her. “No. Only—the wind knocked out of me.”

Calvin came running up. “Doctor,” Jervaulx snapped. He put his arm around her shoulder, holding her against him.

“I don’t need a doctor.” She tried to pull away, but all her strength had left her. She could not seem to get her breath back. When she moved her arm, an excruciating spasm went from her wrist to her shoulder. A wave of nausea washed over her. In spite of herself, she had to rest back against Jervaulx’s support.

He stroked her forehead and put his face down next to hers. He didn’t say anything, but in each breath there seemed to be the half-shape of a word: her name, and sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Richard?” She tried to sit up a little more, with her weight on her other hand. Her voice came out all trembly. “Art thou hurt?”

He came within her view. “I’m well enough,” he said tightly, but his face was white, and he held one arm across his midriff.

Jervaulx looked up at him. “
Gone
,” he said. “See you again… horsewhip.”

Richard stood unmoving. “I will not leave her alone with thee.”

Maddy felt the tightening in Jervaulx’s body.

“Your Grace!” Butterfield said, thrusting forward. “My most profound apology for the unspeakable insolence of this man. I’d no clue as to the revolting nature of his character, none whatsoever. From this moment, Richard Gill is no employee of mine, nor will he have a letter—from me or anyone else if I can help it!”

“No,” Maddy moaned. “Please.” She struggled, pulling free of Jervaulx, holding her arm against herself.

Her hip ached. She held out her uninjured hand to Durham, who bent instantly to help her.

“Sit down here, ma’am,” he said.

As Maddy hobbled to the garden bench between him and Jervaulx, the chambermaid brought forward a vial of hartshorn. “Thank thee,” Maddy said gratefully. The pungent scent seemed to clear her head a little. She sat cradling her injured arm. “Butterfield,” she said, lifting her chin with what firmness she could muster. “I wish to have a greenhouse—the duke has promised it to me, and I won’t have it designed or supplied by anyone but Richard Gill.”

Richard said, “I will not enter this house while thou remain here, Archimedea.”

She looked up at him, biting her lip against its quivering.

“Come with me,” he said.

“No,” Jervaulx said.

Richard ignored him. “If thou can walk to the bench, thou can walk out of here.”

“No!” Jervaulx took a step forward.

The Quaker turned. “And what will thou do to prevent her? Use a horsewhip?”

He spoke in his quiet voice, with nothing of malice in it— and yet the effect upon Jervaulx was like a whiplash itself. He stood stock still. Then he set one shoulder to the wall. For an instant he was a casual picture, a careless aristocrat— until he turned his face to it, leaning his forehead into the stone.

Maddy closed her eyes. She would not cry. No, no, she would not.

“Come along, Gill.” Butterfield’s voice made a sharp little echo in the court, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Nothing moved. She kept her eyes squeezed shut.

“Gill!” Butterfield snapped.

Richard spoke her name, firm and quiet. She knew it was the last time he would say it.

A liar, a villain, a haughty violent reckless man of the world. He was growing worse instead of better.

Richard was asking her to leave him, supplying a steadfast will to take the place of her own.

But she couldn’t move. Not the tiniest, least certain of moves could escape from her frozen frame.

And she heard the sound of Richard’s footsteps, turning and walking away.

Until the closing door went to silence, she did not open her eyes. When she looked up, the court was empty but for Jervaulx, and Durham standing with his hand on the door. “I think you ought to come inside, ma’am, and lie down.”

“Ye tricked me,” Maddy said. “There was no message from Richard. My father never told me to stay with thee.”

Jervaulx pushed away from the wall, with a bitter half-laugh. “Bastard…
Gill
.”

“It was my idea,” Durham said quickly. “I must take full blame, and beg your pardon, ma’am, from the bottom of my heart. It was bad, very bad. But—” He was crimson to his hair. “Do let us help you inside, where you may be comfortable!”

Maddy stood up. Her stomach still felt strange and weak. Her arm seemed made of India rubber. When she moved it past a certain angle, she sucked in her breath as agony shot through her.

“Maddy,” Jervaulx said, his voice harsh, as if he was angry with her. He put his arm around her waist with a gentleness that belied it, careful not to touch her injured limb. With the black dizziness threatening, she took the necessary steps quickly, passing through the door into the back parlor, where Durham hurried to throw a pillow on the sofa. A footman and the maid hovered inside, and Calvin came from the hall.

“I’ve sent for a physician.” He had a lap robe and another pillow. Maddy, grimacing, let him adjust them around her. “There—Mistress—no need to sit up. Keep the arm quite still.”

“Go away,” Maddy said feebly. “I’m all right.”

Calvin didn’t take offense. “Here are the salts, next to your hand.”

“Go away,” she said again. “Everyone.”

“Yes, Mistress. Just call out when you want us.” The butler withdrew with the other servants. Durham, bowing, followed them out with alacrity.

“Go away,” Maddy said.

Jervaulx didn’t move from his place. He stood with his hands locked behind his back, staring out at the barren garden court.

“Please,” she said.

He turned his head, as if he heard her. But he did not go.

It was only a very bad sprain, the doctor said, and immobilized it in a sling. He had her moved into bed, and put her to sleep with laudanum.

During the examination on the couch in the back parlor, she had made no sound in spite of his manipulations, until he’d asked her how it had happened. “A fall on the stairs?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Outside,” she said in a dull voice.

“A stumble, then? What was the cause?”

Maddy was silent.
I did it
, Christian thought, and felt himself crumbling inside.

“A little spell of light-headedness, perhaps?” The physician was one Christian had never seen before, a benign, schoolmasterly sort. He seemed inclined to prod. “Have you been feeling any faintness lately?”

“I just… fell,” she said.

“You must try to be more careful of yourself,” he said. “I expect you haven’t been married long? This kind of seemingly minor accident can sometimes have more serious consequences. I must appear to be a little indelicate, now, and ask if there is any chance that you may be with child?”

Oh God. Christian closed his eyes.

Maddy didn’t answer. The doctor peered over his glasses at Christian, brows lifted in a silent masculine inquiry. Christian gave a terse nod.

The doctor patted her uninjured hand. “I think we will move you into bed, young woman, and just keep a close eye on matters, in that case.” He smiled. “Here, here—don’t start to weep now, my dear, after you got through all my poking and prodding so brave! I’ve seen nothing so far to cause us any concern.

Nothing at all. Poor thing—you’ve been a Trojan, haven’t you? Let’s have you upstairs where you can go to sleep snugly.”

He marshaled Calvin and a footman to take her up. By the time the doctor came back down, Christian was pouring his third brandy. He turned around as the door opened.

The physician came in and sat down unceremoniously with his bag, pulling out a notebook. “The arm has suffered an uncomplicated wrench of the ligament. The bone doesn’t appear to have been injured. It’ll be mightily painful, but time and stability are the answers to that.” He made a calculation, and frowned over it. Then he looked up at Christian. “Sit down, sir. Sit down. I want to talk to you. Would you describe your wife as of a nervous disposition?”

Christian sat down. He thought of Maddy—staunch Maddygirl.

Not nervous. No. He shook his head.

“The present state of her emotions is not steady. Quite possibly it’s the distress of the injury, although she bore the examination with the greatest fortitude. You’ll forgive my directness—lability of the emotions might also be an early sign of pregnancy, which concerns me, with this fall. She was not forthcoming about either the fall or her menses. Were you present when she had the accident?”

Christian looked at the Oriental carpet between his feet, and nodded.

“Did she appear pale, or in any way faint?”

He stood up, walking. Going nowhere, just walking the room.

“Sir—I’m a physician,” the man said evenly. “I realize these matters seem—”

“I… did it.” Christian stopped at the window, staring out.

There was a short silence. “You caused her to fall?”

He turned to the doctor. “Yes.”

The man nodded slowly, without taking his eyes from Christian. “I see.” His face had grown more grim.

“You don’t feel that any disequilibrium of hers contributed, then.”

“No,” he said.

“She told me that you have only been married for a few weeks?”

“Month.”

“With what little information I could coax from her, I calculate that she’s just barely late. I could wish this fall had not occurred at such a time. If she begins to bleed, we’ll hardly know if we’ve lost something, or if she was barren, but I don’t scruple to say, sir—my instinct as a physician tells me that you’re a father.”

Christian took a deep drink of brandy.

The doctor stood up. “I’ll look in this evening. I’m Beckett, by the way. Only just moved into the neighborhood last week. I’m afraid your man brought me along so quick that I didn’t properly learn your name.”

“Jervaulx.”

He offered his hand. “Well, Mr. Chervo.” He gave Christian one merciless shake. “I’m not going to mince words. I advise you to practice a more careful tenderness with your wife, and not cause her any more falls, sir.”

Maddy had never been an invalid in her life. She was angry at this doctor, who must make such a matter of it. He was even worse when he’d come back in the evening. He’d begun calling her “Your Grace” by then, clucking over her like a hen with one chick: chiding her for not taking the laudanum he’d left, for getting out of bed to sit up, for any movement whatsoever—not to protect her arm, but to prevent this imminent tragedy he seemed convinced must occur.

And to her great exasperation, she did begin to bleed in the night. She slept little—propped up against pillows to support her arm. Her unfortunate timing could not be hidden from the doctor when he arrived in the morning. He shook his head with a mournful regret, prescribing complete bed rest for three weeks.

He didn’t even inquire about her arm before he went out.

Maddy pushed her feet from beneath the bedclothes. She held her aching arm against her in the sling, sitting up on the edge of the bed, her feet resting on the bedsteps.

Ignorant man! Trying to make a tremendous fuss, so that he might up his fee over nothing more than a wrenched muscle.

The bedchamber door opened. She saw Jervaulx’s white ravaged face.

“It isn’t true!” she exclaimed. She gripped her injured arm to her. “It’s only what happens every month—thou didst not cause it, dost thou hear me?”

Her voice had risen. For no reason at all, she began to weep, watching his taut face blur until she couldn’t see it. She shook her head fiercely and reached out her free hand.

“Christian—thou didst not cause it.”