In the Brief Eternal Silence (68 page)

“Oh, that is good!” she exclaimed. “For I
have been waiting for five days now to catch you when you were
completely sober, so that I may adequately voice my
grievances!”

And he threw her up onto her horse and
grinned up at her. “Then by all means, Lizzie. Tell me your
concerns and I will endeavor to come up with a solution that you
may live with.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Saturday Morning

She awoke in the dark for no real reason,
that she could discern, other than that at her age one does not
sleep well. The room was unfamiliar and that came as a shock, for
she had not slept in any rooms but the townhouse in London and
Morningside in Lincolnshire for well over the past quarter century.
And of course, one inn in between, but even they always had a
particular room reserved for her, and it seemed almost a part of
home now at any rate.

And she sighed in the early morning hour as
she remembered that she was in Chestershire, at the home of Squire
Murdock (a Squire, God help her) and that Miss Murdock had not been
there as she was supposed to be.

And she had her concerns. Oh, indeed, she had
her concerns.

The Dowager Duchess lay in her bed, with her
faded eyes staring into the dark and her frail hands holding the
coverlet up close beneath her chin, like a small child who thinks
it has seen a ghost, or a very old woman facing demons in the
night.

What was her grandson about? And surely he
meant that child no harm. Did he? But where was Miss Murdock?

Everything she had encountered since arriving
had unsettled her to the core.

She had arrived at noon as she had spent the
night in an inn and her traveling had been slow. Mrs. Herriot, her
own housekeeper from Morningside, had been there to greet her, and
that had come as a great surprise. And that lady had seemed nearly
frantic and a great deal relieved to see the Dowager. The
housekeeper spoke in disjointed sentences of a drunken Squire and
the unexpected arrival of Ryan Tempton the night before, who had,
most regretfully, begun drinking with the Squire upon arising that
morning. And that they were both even now in the parlor drinking
without compunction.

And although Mrs. Herriot did not say so
specifically, the Duchess was given to understand that there was a
great deal of dire and foreboding talk about her grandson and his
intentions, or lack of them, toward Miss Murdock. “But now that you
are here,” Mrs. Her-riot had beamed, “I am sure that you will be
able to tell the Squire exactly where his daughter is, for neither
of them seem to know, and reassure him that of course your grandson
means to marry her.”

And so the Dowager had been apprised of the
mood of the house and the fact that Miss Murdock, of whom she was
responsible for, was not where she was supposed to be, upon the
very moment that she had been helped from her coach. And she had
leaned on her cane and the forebodings had washed over her in heavy
waves. She could not believe that Dante had intended this
circumstance. It was too damning. Something had gone wrong.

But she grasped tighter the gold handle of
her cane, allowed Mrs. Herriot to assist her up the steps and into
the house, and so forewarned, prepared herself to defend her
grandson until such time that he could give adequate enlightenment
to every one on what was happening.

And defend him she had been forced to do. For
Squire Murdock was of the mind that the repairs and the generous
allowance he was receiving was a buy off for him to cause no
trouble. And young Ryan Tempton was of the opinion that St. James
had induced Andrew to elope with Miss Murdock, just as Lady Lydia
had told him, so that the duke would not be forced to live up to
his responsibility.

“Do not be ridiculous, Squire,” she had told
that man with tartness at his accusation. “For I would certainly
not be here if I thought that your daughter were merely one of his
lightskirts! And as for you, young Ryan Tempton, you should not be
such a boob as to believe any thing my daughter-in-law has to
say.”

And so she bullied them into a semblance of
patience, for she did not doubt that St. James would send word or
that Miss Murdock would appear, and that there would be adequate
explanation.

But then Andrew had shown up that
evening.

Oddly enough, he had ridden in his carriage.
His double team of horses were blown, and his driver and footman
were tired, but none looked as bad as he upon alighting. And when
he found that Miss Murdock was not in residence, he looked a good
deal worse. And as it had been Andrew that had left with Miss
Murdock the night of her disappearance, and even he had no idea
where she was, it only served to bow the old Dowager's back
further. He refused to speak of where he had last seen the Miss in
question or what their business had been, but he swore that his
cousin had better have a very good explanation for misleading him
into thinking that Miss Murdock had been on her way home to her
father.

And the Dowager had been too flattened by
this latest development to even argue further. For with Andrew's
angry disillusionment, the Squire and Ryan's simmering discontent
of course boiled back up. She had left them then, to their drinking
and their growing dissatisfaction, and only retired to her bed at
that point, with very different worries on her mind.

Something had gone badly wrong, she was
certain of it.

Now, hours later and the house in silence,
the Dowager lay in the dark and thought back over these events and
she was old and frail and feeling very helpless. She worried that
St. James was into something so deep and so dangerous that even she
would not be able to help him. And that in some manner or another,
Miss Murdock had become enmeshed in it also.

So it was that she was still awake when she
heard the sound of horses' hooves on the lane outside her window,
and her faded eyes widened, and she struggled to sit up in the
bed.

She had brought Soren with her, that poor
lady, for she was nearly as old as her employer, and Jeannie also,
for she had expected Miss Murdock to be in need of her lady's maid
as well as a good deal of Miss Murdock's clothing. But she called
to no one, only looked at her watch upon the night stand and saw
that it was after four in the morning.

She took her cane from where it leaned, put
her trembling legs upon the floor, and struggled to her feet,
something she had not done without assistance for several years,
and then stumbled the few feet to the window, caught herself on the
sill of it, and peered down between the drapes and into the drive
below.

And there was St. James, as recognizable to
her as her own husband had been so many years ago, for they were
very much alike in stature and build as well as in eye-color and
temperament. He slid from his saddle, his great coat opened, and he
raised a hand to Miss Murdock who sat with primness upon her
sidesaddle in what appeared to be a man's coat, and with black silk
falling from beneath it in the form of a riding habit that the
Duchess did not recall being one of their purchases (for hadn't
they agreed on red velvet?)

With considerable relief she saw a third
rider, and from the size of his girth, and the shock of red hair
gleaming in the moonlight, she recognized him as that faithful
partner in the nefarious deeds of her grandson: Bertram
Tempton.

“Thank the Lord,” she whispered to herself.
And then more techtily, “But why they must insist on dragging that
poor child around in the middle of the night, I will never know. I
could cane him for this!” And she knew that her old heart could not
take any more uncertainty, and that whatever Dante thought he was
protecting her from could not be as bad as worrying over all the
possibilities. She would get it from him in some manner if it were
the last thing she did.

But St. James was handing his reins over to
Bertie, and Miss Murdock's reins over also, and there was an extra
horse, unmounted, and she saw that Lord Tempton was receiving the
dubious honor of riding to the stables with these three horses on
lead and rousing a groom. Then Dante took hold of Miss Murdock's
elbow and escorted her to the steps and the old Dowager lost sight
of them.

She remained where she stood for another
moment, and then struggled to turn and stumbled back to collapse in
the bed, and although there had been nothing to upset her or to
exalt her in that little show, there had been something about the
way that St. James had taken Miss Murdock's arm that had the old
Dowager's heart hammering in her chest.

She was desperate to go below, to demand
explanation, and to observe the two of them together, to settle in
her mind once and for all what was between them, but she did not
think she could manage the steps alone, and she was so loathe to
have someone help her. But as she half sat, half lay, debating, she
heard quiet footsteps come in tandem up the stairs, and then soft
treading in the hallway, and then the door next to her own room
opened and closed with softness.

Surely they had not both entered the same
bedchamber?

But then Miss Murdock's muffled voice came to
her from the other side of the wall: “I can not believe you had the
temerity to order staff hired and improvements made! Bad enough I
am in to you for the expense of my coming out, but this is beyond
all bounds of decency.”

“And so is my being in your bedchamber,
Lizzie,” Dante's amused voice came to his grandmother. “But I do
not see you throwing a fit over that.”

“Oh, do shut up, for you are trying my
patience again, as you are so wont to do. I had not known you for
more than two minutes before I wanted to box your ears over your
highhanded manner,” she admonished him. And then, shocking the
Duchess, “Well, do not just stand there but you shall have to
remove your coat and your shirt.”

“You have what you need on hand?” he asked,
causing the Duchess to raise her eyebrows at this odd question.

“Yes. For I keep a supply in my room for
household use. So please just hurry so I can get this done before
the house awakes and finds you in my bedchamber. I can not believe
that in my own home, of all places, that I have to worry about a
gaggle of gossiping servants! My father must be beside
himself.”

“You were worried of who should take care of
him. I was just seeing that he were taken care of.”

“You presume too much. Oh, here, let me get
those buttons, for frankly you are making a mess of it!”

“Damn it! My arm has gone numb, you impatient
lass.”

“And it is no wonder, for although you have
lost no where near the blood you did two nights ago, you have been
bleeding steadily for hours now. You should have never been out of
bed, Dante, and you very well know it.”

And the Duchess, perceiving that there was
nothing untoward going on in the other room, struggled to her feet
with renewed vigor, and picking up her cane, shuffled to the door,
for even she could make it the short distance down the hallway to
the next room, and she did so, heart pounding but refusing to be
denied. If Dante were injured she would have the how and wherefore
of it, and if he were helpless beneath the ministrations of Miss
Murdock, it meant that he could not avoid her easily.

She reached the bedchamber door in time to
hear Miss Murdock saying, “This will hurt, as I am sure you
remember, but I will be as gentle as I can.” Then the Dowager
opened the door, and the sight that met her eyes made her face
redden.

Dante lay naked from the waist up, half
propped on pillows on the bed, one arm stretched above his head in
more relaxed languor than was seemly for a sick room. Miss Murdock
knelt beside him and as she tied off a strand of thick, black
suturing thread to a needle, his hand caressed down her face in
such a tender and intimate gesture that the Dowager nearly
retreated. But at her entrance, Miss Murdock looked up, her solemn
eyes startled and big, and her face flushed rosily, and St. James
made a quick movement with his other hand and a pistol appeared
from beneath the propped pillow behind his head and was pointed
with disconcerting swiftness at the Dowager.

And that old lady, recovering quickly, only
said, “Rather difficult to make love to a female with a pistol in
one hand, Dante,” and for the first time in her life, she saw St.
James blush.

Miss Murdock bowed her head and said in a
small voice, “You had better come in and close the door, ma'am, or
I'm certain the rest of the household will be in here as well.”

The old Dowager did as was suggested, and
settled into a chair across from Miss Murdock with her grandson
between them.

“What the devil are you doing up at this time
of the night?” St. James asked, and then added, “ouch,” as Miss
Murdock ran her needle through him with perhaps more force than was
necessary.

“Lying awake worrying,” the Duchess told him,
her hands crossed over the head of her cane. “As I am sure you
realize is quite my normal occupation when it comes to regards to
you, but quite a new experience for me to also have to worry about
Miss Murdock,” she chided.

“I am sorry, grandmother. It was not my
intention for you to worry at all. I should have guessed that you
would come traipsing off here after her.”

“But of course,” she returned, taking some
satisfaction from the pained look upon St. James' face as Miss
Murdock continued her stitching. “For I did not believe for an
instant that she had eloped with Andrew. I did expect her to be
where her letter placed her, however.”

“Things went rather awry,” St. James said
with what the duchess could only deem a good deal of understatement
considering that he was even now having his chest stitched.

The Duchess was silent for a moment, and St.
James only lay frowning in concentration to not voice his pain. The
old lady said, “You had better tell me why Miss Murdock has need to
sew up your chest, St. James, and I will not be put off for I
gather that you have reopened a prior injury.”