Fran Baker (26 page)

“I do not know,” she answered, “but I do not intend to sit idly back to watch him die.”

The old man flinched from the sting of the words. Helen came to his side. “Come, sir, there is nothing worse than a crowd in a sick room, you know. And Rose is a marvelous hand a nursing.”

For a moment, it appeared he would resist her coaxing, but he glanced at his grandson stirring restlessly and rose with an air of decision.

“Please inform when the doctor arrives,” Rose said as they left. “I wish to speak with him.”

For the next hour she was undisturbed, for once the servants had deposited a stack of fresh towels and a silver bowl filled with lavender water, she had dismissed them. One last tap upon the door had brought her a tray with ratafia and macaroons, sent by the earl.

The refreshments lay untouched, for she was fully occupied in trying to place a towel damped in lavender water upon the viscount’s brow. Each time she laid it gently upon his forehead, Stratford tossed his head.

“Lord Stratford, please do not fight me,” she requested with gentle urgency.

His eyes flickered open, but there was no recognition in the glassy stare. Rose’s heart seemed to stop in the seconds they rested, unseeing, upon her. It was with relief that was interrupted with the message that Dr. Martin awaited her downstairs.

He watched her enter with an air of interest, for he had by now discovered that she was not, as he had at first supposed, the viscount’s fiancée, but his future sister-in-law. He was wondering just what to say without bringing on any womanish hysteria when Miss Lawrence addressed him firmly.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Martin. I desire to know precisely what you consideration of Lord Stratford’s condition is.”
“Well, Miss, it is a physician’s frailty that he can never be too precise,” he answered in a fatherly tone. “The viscount’s progress is not, perhaps, as rapid as we should like, but—”

“Excuse me, Doctor,” Rose cut in, “but as I have been thrust into the role of nurse, I have a need to know what Lord Stratford’s chances of recovery are. I can scarcely place my sensibilities above his needs, and I get that you will not do so either.”

Martin seemed taken aback by her frank speech, but after a few moments he cleared his throat and said more matter-of-factly, “Very well, Miss Lawrence. Though I could wish this had been a good, clean sword wound and not the messy, tearing—humph!—well, the short of it is that though his lordship has lost a great deal of blood and sustained a very high fever, there has been no injury from which he could not recover had he the will to do so. But I very much fear that Lord Stratford does not wish to recover. In short, Miss, there is very little that I can do to save the viscount.”

As the doctor paused for breath, Rose thanked him in her usual calm manner and promptly returned to Stratford’s room where she stood holding her sides and swaying against the door for a full half-minute. Then she dropped her hands and, drawing a deep breath, took her place by his bedside once more.

“Lord Stratford—Colin,” she whispered fervently, “you must listen to me. This is Rose, dearest, and I want you to stop this nonsense now, do you hear me? You can get better, you must! Oh, Colin, please!” she cried softly, burying her head into the covers at his side.

The hand lying beside her bent head moved. She saw this dimly through her tears. When it moved again, she raised her head and stared into Stratford’s eyes. They were focused on her and this time a lucid light shone behind the feverish gloss.

“Rose?” he hoarsely wondered.

“Yes, Colin, yes! I am here, dearest, and I shall not leave, I promise you.”

The light had already faded and Stratford was again tossing, but his hand rested in hers and Rose felt insensibly cheered.

Through the long hours which followed, Rose refused to be spelled from her vigil at the viscount’s side, and as she waited and watched, she had plenty of time to once again review the utter stupidity of her unhappy decision to wed Daniel Baldwin. That he still loved Amelia had been patently obvious to Rose during his brief visit to Willowley. Mama and Nell had, of course, been vastly surprised, but expressed themselves thrilled with the news of her betrothal—Nell even admitting that she’d never thought such good fortune would come to pass. But with each fresh summer day, Rose had regretted more intensely her impulsive action—she had been mad, there was no other explanation—and yet she felt trapped into continuing with her madness.

Now, looking at the beloved figure lying so unnaturally still, Rose knew she could never go through with such a match. Far better, instead, to return home to remain a spinster as soon as the present crisis passed.

If it passed.

Her first elation upon learning she had, indeed, arrived in time had turned to despair upon seeing the fevered glaze of Stratford’s eyes and now had subsided to a numbness touched by an occasional surge of hope or sting of dread.

She eventually nibbled at the supper sent up to her and drank at last a glass of ratafia, but her attention remained fixed upon his lordship. She was rewarded when his breathing no longer sounded like a shallow rattle and his body no longer threshed beneath the covers. Twice he actually took a sip of water and Rose finally began to relax her first fears that he would not live through the night. At last, she fell asleep curled up in her chair, her head laid against her outstretched arm, her hand still clasping his.

A faint pressure upon her hand roused her. She opened her eyes to see Stratford, his lank hair sticking to his damp forehead, staring in amazement.

“My God, I thought I’d dreamed you here,” he rasped weakly.

She drew an audible breath, then released it slowly. “Colin,” she murmured, “thank God, thank God.”

His eyes followed her as she rose, covering her joy with a series of nursely ministrations. She put her hand to his brow, which, though clammy, was wonderfully cool. “It appears, my lord, that you have broken your fever,” she said happily.

He attempted to catch her hand when she removed it, but she was faster than he.

“My dear—” he began.

“I’ll swear you are ready for some food,” she broke in briskly.

“The sight of you is food enough,” he whispered.

A slow smile lit up her pinched face. “I believe, however, that gruel would be more sustaining. For now, my lord, I prescribe a bit more sleep. And later, you will wish to see the earl and Helen.”

“Helen is here?”

“Yes, and Mr. Maret as well, little though you deserve it. You silly boy,” she scolded gently, “you frightened us all with your schoolboy tricks!” She paused, lowering her gaze to where his hands lay still upon the satin coverlet. “Promise me, Lord Stratford, that you shall never again do such a foolish thing.”

She raised her eyes to see his head turned into the pillow, a heavy frown pulling at his lips. Picking up his hand, she said in her nursely tones, “There! I mustn’t be worrying you just yet, but I warn you, sir, I shan’t be leaving without your promise.”

At that, he looked directly at her. “Then you shall never have it. I should much rather keep you here.”

She answered him with a shake of her head, which loosened two of the pins in her hair and sent one lock cascading over her ear. She left the room and he closed his eyes to picture again the delight of that captivating vision.

*****

The news that the viscount had overcome his fever at last and was quite lucid, if still weak, worked like a restorative upon the household. Servants no longer tiptoed through rooms, laughter replaced whispering and everyone down to the least scullery maid pronounced himself certain all along that Master Colin would pull through. The old early seemed inclined to credit Miss Lawrence with having saved his grandson and remarked acidly that she could show that old fool Martin a thing or two, but the lady shook her head and begged he would not be so foolish.

“I only used common sense, sir, nothing more. It was Lord Stratford’s strong constitution that did the trick.” She then retired to her room for the first real rest she had been granted in the last forty-eight hours.

The only member of the house who still seemed distressed was, perhaps, the one thought most likely to be joyous. Helen sat on a rosewood and satin settee in one of the lesser drawing rooms, her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands, frowning at an ornately worked pole-screen standing across the room. She did not stir from her deep brown study when the door opened behind her and only raised her head with a start upon hearing herself addressed in a cool tone.

“My dear Miss Helen,” Maret said as he came forward. “I was about to give up hope of finding you.” He brook off as he saw her woebegone expression and was before her, holding her hands in the instant. “My dear! No one can have told you! Stratford is quite past danger.”

“I know, I know, and I’m grateful, truly I am!” she burst out in distress. “But, oh, Mr. Maret, was there ever such a dreadful coil? Here I am betrothed to Lord Stratford whilst Rose is to be wed to Mr. Baldwin. It only remains for you to solicit Amy’s hand to make the farce complete!”

He placed himself on the sofa beside her, studying the way her dark curls brushed tantalizingly against her neck. “I had wondered,” he mused tonelessly, “just when you would discover what a tangle we are in.”

“You knew?” she asked with a blaze in her eye.

“I . . . suspected. I only learned for a certainty that Stratford loves Rose after the duel.”

“He loves Rose? Oh, that makes it even worse!” Helen cried, rising to her feet. “You see, I’ve only learned—it’s been plain to see—that Rose feels . . . deeply about him. But that
he
should love
her
! Oh, whatever can we do?”

“For a start, my pet, you can sit calmly down.” His air of tranquil authority had its effect. Helen returned to her seat and summoned up a tremulous smile for him. Maret tilted her head up with his fingertips and lightly brought his lips to hers. “Now Helen . . . my sweet . . . beautiful . . . child,” he murmured as he punctuated his words with a series of light kisses, “you are going to tell Stratford you are releasing him of his obligation to you, because, quite frankly, my little love—”here he set a kiss upon the tip of her nose—“I am quite bored with being patient and honorable. I fully intend, dear heart, to marry you myself.”

His kisses were now returned with a fervor which would have astonished the viscount, who had begun to fear his bride-to-be was of a frigid nature. Maret found Helen far from lacking in passion and it was quite some time before the original object of their discussion reasserted itself.

“But, Jacques, even so,” Helen said a little breathlessly, “it will not do Rose or Stratford the least good, for there is Mr. Baldwin to be thought of. And poor, poor Amy!”

“Ah, as to that, my love, I begin to perceive that I must bestir myself on the behalf of my future relations. Am I to understand that Miss Thacker has a
tendre
for Daniel Baldwin?”

“Yes. And he was to have married her, but there was some misunderstanding whist we were here before and—and Rose ended up betrothed to him. I thought at the time it was most odd, but only now do I understand it had nothing to do with love.”

“Ah . . . I confess, I had wondered what had set Colin on,” Maret admitted to his bewildered love. “Well, you are to leave this problem to me, Helen. Do not, as yet, broach the subject with your sister, however.”

“You do not wish to have her hopes raised? Oh, Jacques, if you could only set the matter to rights! Then my happiness would be utterly complete!”

Women who knew of Mr. Maret’s antipathy to having his clothes disarranged the slightest degree would have been astounded at how meekly he accepted the crushing embrace which quite thoroughly destroyed the intricate folds of his cravat.

*****

It was not until two days later when Dr. Martin pronounced his patient was fit to receive brief visits that anyone other than Rose and the earl was allowed into Stratford’s room. But at the first opportunity, Helen, with her hair pulled into a charming Grecian knot and tied with a ribbon as yellow as her buttercup gown, entered the room with her chin held high.

The viscount was supported by a vast pile of monogrammed pillows, his dark hair gleaming against the whiteness. His burgundy brocade dressing gown accented the pallor of his face, but his black eyes were alert and he appeared transformed from the deathly ill person of three days ago. Upon seeing her, he smiled crookedly, looking much like the schoolboy Rose had termed him, and held out his hand. As she came to take it, he spoke with a seldom-heard solemnity.

“I’ve been anxious to see you, Helen. I very much wish to make you my apologies—again! It must seem to you that I’m forever bringing some fresh scandal down upon us—”

“No, indeed!” she interrupted quickly. “There is no need for you to apologize to me, my lord. I’m just thankful you are on the way to mending. It—it was a frightful scare.”

“But I am sorry, Helen, for the gossip you will have to bear,” he persisted. His eyes swept the room, then finally came back to rest upon her face. “I shall not put you through such straits again.”

“My lord, please! There is something I must say, and then I think it shall be I who have to beg your pardon.” He looked quizzical, and she found she could not meet his eyes. Removing her hand from his, she played nervously with the lace ends of her sleeves. “I find that I must do what I ought to have done months ago. My lord, I must release you of your obligation to me. Wait, please! Let me finish! There are two reasons—”

“There is no need to explain, Helen,” he interjected.

“—why we cannot marry,” she continued, forcing herself to stare squarely at him. “Jacques and Rose.”

A myriad of emotions crossed his face. Gradually, an understanding smile touched his lips. “Has Jacques spoken?”

“Yes. I—I’ve loved him from the first, you know.” She bent her head rather shyly. “I am afraid that between the two of us we very nearly made a rare muddle of it.”

Stratford captured the nervous hand. “May I offer you my sincere congratulations, Helen? Jacques is . . . unique.”