“Well, then.” Althea took her previous place in the chair next to the bed, a basin of cold water in her lap. Squeezing out a compress, she applied it to the egg-shaped lump just a little behind the marquess’s right ear. “I shall ask Jenny to remove my things to the dressing room and she will bring me my meals here.”
“But you must not wear yourself out nursing the marquess all by yourself,” her grandmother protested. “There are many of us who can do that.”
“Nursing the Marquess of Harwood is far less taxing than anything else I have been doing lately. Grandmother. Besides, you heard Mr. Warboys. He seems to think me a competent enough nurse.” Althea turned her back on them, took another compress from the bowl, and laid it across the patient’s brow. She then proceeded to plump out the pillow and smooth the coverlet as calmly as though no one was staring at her in astonishment.
The dowager frowned obstinately for a moment; then turning her head to hide a sly smile, she beckoned to the housekeeper and they left the room.
The afternoon drifted into evening and then into night. The patient remained as still and quiet as he had since they had lifted him onto the litter and brought him back to the house. Constantly on the lookout for the least sign of change—the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a finger—Althea was too preoccupied to do anything but swallow a bowl of soup. She fiercely resisted all efforts to relieve her and insisted on sitting up with the marquess throughout the night.
When Jenny brought her mistress her chocolate the next morning, Althea’s face looked pale and drawn, but she was as alert as ever. “There has been no change at all, not even the slightest movement,” she remarked sadly. “I fear that if this continues much longer, it is an indication there must be some deeper damage that we do not know about.”
“Do not worry, my lady. He is lucky to find himself in such good hands. You have done all that can be done.” Jenny had never seen her mistress looking so distressed, even over an injured animal, and in general, she worried a good deal more about animals than she did about people. The marquess was a very special man indeed to have her mistress fret over him to such a degree.
“I have certainly done all that I know to do, but is it enough?”
“I am sure it is, my lady.” Jenny left her mistress gently stroking the brow of the injured man and staring down at him as though she were willing him to regain consciousness.
Chapter 25
His head ached horribly and his entire body felt like one massive bruise. His mouth was dry as a dust pit, and try as he would, he could not penetrate the thick black fog that clung to him. He struggled to break free of the pain and the darkness, but nothing happened, and he lay there, trapped, helpless, and frustrated.
Then something cool and soothing drifted across his forehead and he felt his body slowly relax. He was not alone; he was not lost. Someone was there, someone who was kind and gentle. He sensed it rather than felt it, and giving a sigh of relief, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
The next time he became aware of anything, it was a soft, soothing murmur. He ached a little less though all his limbs still felt as though they were held down with lead weights. And his mouth did not seem quite so dry, his tongue less thick and cottony.
“What but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies! Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Wreather of poppy beds and weeping willows!”
Now he could just make out words. If only he could see the speaker. He turned his head and a sliver of pain shot through him. Waves of dizziness washed over him. But then he felt a cool, soft hand on his cheek. Reassured, he pressed against it, content for the moment simply to know he was cared for.
Another hand slowly stroked his hair and he gave himself up to the solicitude of his unknown protector. He knew he should force himself into consciousness, assess his situation, and take back control of his life, but for the time being it was too pleasant to lie there, soothed by the gentle hands and the musical voice. No one in his entire life had made him feel this way—safe, sheltered, and secure—and he did not want it to end, not just yet anyway.
A drop of water touched his lips and he licked it thirstily as he tried to remember when, if ever, anything had tasted so good or been so welcome. Undoubtedly such a peaceful state was all a sweet dream from which he would soon awake, but surely he could allow himself the luxury of a few more hours of blissful delusion, just a few more hours savoring a concern so tender that he had not thought it possible. He reached up with both hands to clutch the hand that laid a cool compress on his brow, cradled his head against it, and drifted off into a dreamless healing slumber.
A soft smile curved Althea’s lips and grateful tears stung her eyes. He would be all right after all. The deep sigh as he had gathered her hand to his cheek, and the heavy, regular breathing were signs of sleep rather than unconsciousness.
When the first sigh had indicated that the marquess was shaking off his comatose state, Althea had chastised herself severely for experiencing a momentary regret, a regret that vanished as quickly and unexpectedly as it had appeared. Selfishly, she had welcomed the opportunity to observe him unobserved, to run her hand through his thick springy hair, to smooth the straight dark brows, knowing instinctively that at some deep level she was bringing comfort to the unconscious sufferer. She was able to do this without worrying what anyone would think, because no one, not even the patient himself, would ever know what pleasure it gave her to be able to caress the stubbled cheek, to sense that she, and she alone, could give him what he needed so desperately. No person had ever depended on Althea before and, fleeting though it was, it made her oddly proud.
Mr. Warboys, who had complimented her on his most recent visit, had confirmed that she had a right to this pride. “You are doing an excellent job, my lady. While it is true that he has not yet gained consciousness, his color is better and his pulse is stronger, as you have no doubt noticed.”
She had noticed the color and the pulse, but it pleased her to have it confirmed and to be given credit for it.
And now that Gareth had stirred, drunk the water she had dropped on his lips, and pulled her hands to his cheek, she was overwhelmed with a joy and tenderness she had not thought possible. But along with it came sorrow. He would awake and remember the anger of their parting. He would chafe at being nursed by her and demand to be taken somewhere else where he could be cared for by his valet or servants of his own. The masterful, cynical Marquess of Harwood would reassert control over his life, and the helpless patient who clutched her hand for comfort would disappear forever.
“Are you an angel?” The hoarse whisper broke into her reverie several hours later. Althea’s hand had become numb in his, and her back ached from trying to keep her hand in the same position so as not to disturb his slumber.
“No, I am not an angel.” So he had not recognized her, but in the dimly lit bedchamber this was not surprising. She was glad he did not know her yet. Perhaps she could enjoy a few more hours of this intimate anonymity.
“You seem like an angel to me. An angel who held out her hand to pull me out of the darkness.”
“How did you happen to fall into the darkness in the first place?”
He frowned in an effort to remember. “A dog.”
“A dog!”
“Yes. A liver-spotted mongrel. It was chasing a rabbit and I did not see it until I was almost upon it. I think, I hope, I was able to avoid it. Did you happen to notice, to hear how it was doing?” He clutched her hand anxiously.
“Ah. I know that dog. It belongs to Fanner Tubbs. Yes, it is safe.” Althea was both surprised and pleased to know that he was concerned enough about the animal to risk his carriage and himself to save it. But what had caused the moment of inattention in the first place? Surely the owner of such a curricle and such a magnificent team would have been concentrating enough on the road ahead of him that a stray dog would not cause him to suffer such a mishap.
“Thank goodness. I was a blasted idiot not to see it.”
Althea saw the color tingeing his pale cheeks, but put it down to his anger at losing control of his carriage and team. Little did she know that he was recalling the reason for his momentary distraction. He had been looking at Kennington Park, hoping for a glimpse of its new owner, Lady Althea Beauchamp. His dark brows drew together as he focused on the face in the shadows above him. “Althea,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Hardly daring to breathe, Althea waited tensely for his next reaction.
A slow smile spread across the marquess’s face. “Not an angel, certainly, but a most redoubtable woman, nevertheless. How long have I been here?”
“Nearly a week.”
His eyes narrowed in an effort to concentrate as he scanned her face intently. It was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes, but in spite of that, she looked happier and more relaxed than he could ever remember seeing her. “And you have nursed me the entire time.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Yes.”
“A most redoubtable woman, indeed. And a kind one as well.” Odd to think that the capable hand that shuffled and dealt cards so skillfully could be so gentle and so comforting, that a mind clever enough to beat him and a spirit daring enough to risk everything on the turn of a card could also heal. Undoubtedly she had consulted with a surgeon or a physician, but it was her healing presence that had eased his pain, that he had felt pulling him out of the fog of unconsciousness, watching over him and keeping him safe and warm. “Remarkable,” he whispered again as he closed his eyes, worn out with the effort of speech.
Relief washed over Althea. It seemed that he was going to allow her to care for him a little while longer. Still holding his hand, she laid her own head back in the chair and, for the first time since the accident, allowed herself to fall into a true sleep.
When she awoke, it was daylight, or the beginning of it at least. Guiltily she looked over at her patient, but he was sleeping quietly, a smile on his face. A ray of sunlight slanted across the bed throwing into relief the high cheekbones and the hollows in the unshaven cheeks. It was such a sensitive, intelligent face. How could she have thought it arrogant or mocking?
His gray eyes opened as he regarded her seriously. “You are still here.”
“But of course I am still here.”
“Thank you.” He did not seem inclined to talk, but lay there surveying the room and his injured leg, assessing the situation.
“We sent a groom to your lodgings in London, but no one was there. All that could be discovered was that you had left for the country and that your valet had preceded you.”
“Poor Ibthorp. He must be wondering where the devil I am. He went to Harwood to prepare things for my arrival. It is not too far distant from here, near Newmarket.”
“We can send Jem to fetch him for you. I am sure you will feel much more the thing when you are cared for by a proper valet.” So he had been heading for his estate. What madness had allowed her to indulge in the crazy hope that he had been on that road because he knew it ran by Kennington, because he knew she would be there? It must be the lack of sleep, she told herself. Why else would she entertain such foolish thoughts? She had certainly never indulged in such absurd fantasies before.
“Thank you, but I have no complaints about the care I have received thus far.” He seemed happy to lie there quietly, accepting the quirk of fate that had brought him into her care.
And indeed he was content. A queer sort of lethargy had overtaken him, and the man who ordinarily would have been struggling to be up and about, attending to his affairs, taking care of everything, found it more pleasant than he ever could have imagined possible to let someone else look after him.
Once he had returned to full consciousness, Gareth spent a good deal of time over the next few days sleeping, but as he healed, he begged her to read to him.
“What shall I read?”
“Whatever you were reading when I first awoke.”
“Keats’s
Sleep and Poetry.”
“Yes, I enjoyed that. So soothing.”
Althea looked at him curiously. The Marquess of Harwood did not seem the sort for poetry. Indeed, sometimes, when she looked-up and found his eyes fixed upon her, she wondered whether he was even listening at all, so lost in thought as he appeared to be.
But as his strength slowly returned, so did his energy. He moved more restlessly in bed and struggled to see out of the window as she plumped his pillows for him. Althea began to bring up the
Times
to read aloud to him, and invariably they would fall into discussions of one topic or another.
A few days after the marquess regained consciousness, Ibthorp arrived to relieve Althea of a good deal of his master’s care, bringing with him a groom to look after his horses. “They are merry as grigs, sir, and eating their heads off,” the groom reassured his injured master moments after he had looked over the team. “No need for me, sir. They are in excellent hands here.”
Althea could not help shooting a triumphant look at her patient when they heard this.
From the moment he had regained consciousness, the marquess had fretted about the welfare of his thoroughbreds, and no amount of reassurance on her part could convince him that she and Jem were capable of looking after them adequately.
In fact, despite his groom’s reassurance, Gareth continued to concern himself with their welfare until Althea, thoroughly exasperated by his lack of faith, wrung permission from Mr. Warboys for his patient to visit the stables on the same litter that had carried him from the site of the accident.
Chapter 26
The very next morning, after the surgeon had given his permission, the marquess was carried out to the stable to see for himself the state of his team. Gripping the shoulder of his valet as Jem and Tim supported the door he reclined on, he turned toward Althea as they approached the stable. “I want you to know that I do appreciate your care of my team, but naturally I have been concerned, for they are so high-spirited that it is difficult even for me to approach them close enough to discover if anything is amiss. Truly, it would take someone with whom they are very familiar to do so, and even then it is a risky business indeed.”