Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (9 page)

“Betty, you may go,” Flavian told the maid.

“Don’t you leave,” Abella screamed. “Don’t you leave me alone with them!”

“Contain yourself.” Flavian cast a nervous glance at the servant who moved to the gap leading from the room.

Abella, pale and delicate beneath the pile of ragged quilts, extended a slender arm. “Betty, hold my hand. Don’t let her make me sick again.” The girl raised herself on an elbow and glared at Claire. “I see you stirring in kitchen. Stirring and dropping little powder in pot.”

Flavian’s mouth dropped open. “Surely you’re not suggesting Lady Claire had anything to do with the household becoming ill?”

“Where this sickness come from, if not her?” Abella said. “One day we fine. Then she start this cooking, this brewing. ‘Drink’ you all say, and then everyone get sick.”

Claire couldn’t believe her ears. Of all the outrageous accusations! “But you were the only one who took my medicine.”

Focusing her attention on Betty, Abella continued her tirade. “In what pot she put her herbs? Call Apple Bess. Ask if she use pot for dinner. Is a witch’s brew and make us sick!”

Betty shivered and held her arms.

A worried look from Flavian made Claire’s stomach tighten.

“I did use one of the pots … ”

“You see!” Abella cried.

Betty’s hand fluttered to her throat.

“But I personally washed it afterwards, and besides, the herbs I gave you wouldn’t cause sickness.”

Abella’s mouth quirked skeptically. “Maybe you pick something bad in fields,” she said, her chin high in defiance. “You probably get something by accident.”

His features stiff with anger, Flavian retorted, “I was there. Lady Claire gathered St. John’s wort and valerian root, nothing more.”

“Ha! Before she come, you don’t know what those herbs look like. How you know she tell you truth?”

For just a fraction of a second, Flavian looked down.

Dear God, he doubted her!
“But what would I gain from poisoning everyone?” Claire heard the desperation in her own voice. She went directly in front of Flavian, piercing him with her gaze. “I would never, ever do such a thing.”

His mouth opened to respond, but Abella cut him off. “Maybe you a little upset at Vav. Maybe he do something you don’t like.”

Guilt dashed unbidden through her heart. For an instant, she flicked her eyes away from his face. His kiss in the field, and the shuttered way he’d treated her afterwards — the memories pressed against her rational mind. “I wouldn’t … ”

Betty stepped closer to the room’s cave-like exit. She stared at Claire, mouth open, and eyes wide. Then she ducked her head, bobbed a curtsey, and darted from the bedroom.

“Look what you’ve done, Abella,” Flavian growled, “within seconds every servant on this estate will be in an uproar.”

Claire wrung her hands. “Oh God, I swear I would never bring anyone to harm.”

“You did nothing wrong.” He glared at his ward. “Apologize at once.”

“I said was probably accident.”

“There was no accident! Lady Claire did not harvest the wrong herbs.”

Abella’s face turned red and she pounded her fists on the bedspread. “I no care what you say. On pain of death, I never drink that potion again. And I no drink this either!” In one violent gesture she hurled the chicken broth across the room. China smashed against the wallpaper, splattering soup onto Claire’s fresh gown.

“Great God Almighty,” Flavian grabbed the bedstead and lifted the structure off the floor. Terrified, Abella scrabbled for a hold on the mattress. He dropped the bed with a crash. “What has gotten into you?”

Abella shrank in horror behind the bed sheets, but inside her mask of fear, Claire saw it again: that little glint of calculation.

The girl was up to something, but to what possible end?

Flavian yanked the bell pull furiously, and then paced the floor until Marlow squeezed into the room. “What is it, my lord?” the servant said, still pale and swaying from the morning.

“Get the servants into the great hall at once.”

“But they’re all sick, my lord,” the butler blurted.

“Please let them rest,” Claire cried, gripping Flavian’s arm.

He shook her off. “I command you to have everyone in the great hall on the double.”

With a frightened bow, the butler scuttled through the dark hole — the only escape from Abella’s miserable, clogged bedroom.

• • •

Within minutes, the household was as active as a village green on fair day. Claire heard whispers, the movement of feet slowing as the servants approached the great hall, each with the word “poison” fresh on their lips. Hurriedly dressed in livery and aprons, many so sick they could barely walk, they peered at her, some with flashes of hatred and resentment lighting their exhausted features.

“Sit, sit,” Flavian told them. He waited until the room quieted.

“A terrible accident has befallen our home,” he told them. “We don’t know the cause of it. Bless the Lord, no one died, and I pray you all fully recover. To that end, our guest, Lady Claire, has made us a strengthening broth. I want you all to have some now.”

A murmur of alarm filled the room.

“I shall take the first swallow,” he shouted over the din, “as a token of my absolute trust in Lady Claire’s healing abilities.”

“Would you ladle some broth for me?” he asked Claire.

Hands shaking, Claire poured the liquid into a mug and gave it to Flavian.

Every eye in the hall fixed on him as he blew across the top of the cup — wisps of steam disappearing with each expelled breath. The room grew deathly still as Flavian pressed the mug to his lips. He tipped it and opened his mouth. The Adam’s apple moved up, then down, then up and down, again and again. He polished off the mixture in one long draught.

“Delicious,” he said, thumping the mug on the long wooden table as if issuing a challenge.

Claire ladled some for herself. Head high, she lifted the cup. “I swear to you all, this is nothing but salted chicken broth. It will make you feel better.” Exaggerating each gesture to make sure the servants saw, she drained her mug to the last drop.

“Marlow,” Flavian said, looking hard at the butler. The servant rose reluctantly and walked like a condemned man to the pot. An angry buzz filled the hall. “Just a little ma’am,” he said.

“Fill it,” Flavian commanded. “Now drink it, please.” The noise in the room grew.

Marlow pressed his lips to the edge of the mug.

“A little more, perhaps,” came Flavian’s voice, tinged with impatience.

The crowd hissed and glared dangerously at Claire.

A helpless look suffused the butler’s face. He locked eyes with his wife, as if saying a last goodbye.

“Eech, can’t you leave the man alone,” a voice called from the assembly. It was impossible for Claire to tell who spoke.

“The broth is fine, man,” Flavian said, running out of patience. Still, Marlow didn’t move.

“It’s a guinea for the first man that drains his glass — a pound for those that come after,” Flavian added.

In a trice, Marlow’s mug was empty, a wide smile planted on his face as Flavian handed him the coin.

Soon everyone was drinking the broth. An air of merriment filled the great hall. Most important to Claire, the sickest ones didn’t object when she poured them a second round and pressed another pound in their palm. Carrying a tray of mugs to a group huddled near the door, Claire noticed a slight movement in the balcony at the far end of the hall. Kneeling behind the balustrade, Abella watched the festivities. When the girl noticed Claire’s eyes on her, she scurried backwards, disappearing into the shadows.

The butler was the last to leave the great hall. Flavian occupied himself by wiping a bead of soup off the table, but he looked up as the servant backed away. For just a fraction of a second, their eyes met and he knew the rumors wouldn’t end. They’d say his lordship paid them to stay hush on the poisoning. But he knew Claire had nothing to do with the sickness in his home. Brooding, he took a sip of chicken broth.

Claire pulled out a bench and sat at the long wooden table. She seemed tired. “They’ll still talk,” she said. “They’ll speculate.”

“Perhaps so, but they’ll forget, too.”

“I wonder.”

“Anyone caught spreading lies about you will be sacked.”

“Please don’t do that; it would only make things worse for me.”

“It could be a whole lot worse for them.” He clunked his mug on the table.

She pressed a hand to her heart, resignation tipping toward tears in her tight face. “Perhaps it’s time I went on to London.”

Flavian shook his head “No.” He didn’t know why, but having her leave would be unbearable. “It’s the wrong thing to do. Then everyone will say it’s true.”

She turned from him, forlorn and vulnerable. “How can you protect me if the whole household distrusts me?”

“I tell you, nothing will happen.”

But the look of exhaustion deepened. Without thinking, he touched her head, just to comfort her, just to caress her hair so she didn’t feel so alone. How he longed for her. All the hardship of being at sea and all the bloody battles he’d fought hadn’t prepared him for the pain of not being able to possess her. He bowed his head and exerting all his self-control, commanded his fingers to let go of the last strand. Pacing to the massive hearth, he said, “I would lay my life upon your goodness, Claire. Let me prevail on you to stay a little longer. It would mean the world to Abella.”
And to me
, he added in his mind.

A bitter little laugh came from her. “I’m not certain Abella will miss me at all.”

“She’s always had her dark moods.” Even as the words left his lips, he realized how trite they must sound to someone in Claire’s position. If he could only get Abella well. In that, he could find redemption and repay his debt to Hernando and to the beautiful cinnamon-skinned, Valencia.

Passing a hand through his hair, Flavian left the fire and walked the great hall. “She does odd things — sometimes hurtful things.” His voice resounded in the lofty room. “I’ve hired women to watch her, and they’ve left. Suddenly, abruptly. Even those in the direst circumstances with no other means of support. I’ve never found out why, but she’s still innocent — like a child playing tricks on a governess.”

Claire held her head in her hands. “Why do we always, always speak of Abella? Have our own feelings no place in this house?”

Her question startled him. Though it was reasonable, feelings, in his experience, were the one topic that was never discussed. She banged her forearms on the table and looked at him with exasperation.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“What are you sorry for? I’m not sorry at all. So tell me, please tell me, why you’re sorry.”

“For my lack of control.”

“When have you ever lost control, my lord?”

It pained him that she’d reverted to his title instead of calling him by his first name. But he deserved it. Unable to look at her, he said, “When I let my emotions get the better of me and I kissed you in the field that day.”

She left the table and swept close to him. “Then I’m guilty of the same transgression.”

The simple brown frock she wore was adorned with a brooch of pearls and gold. To avoid Claire’s searching eyes, he concentrated on the jewelry. “I have led you to false hopes.”

“How so?” Her delicate hand rested on his lapel.

He removed it. “I can never be married.” Before she could see the agony those words cost him, he tore away and went to the empty hearth. With barely controlled violence, he tossed a half-burned log on top of the cold pile of ashes. “Worshipers of Zoroastrianism believe fire purifies.”

He heard Claire breathe out a long whistle of air filled with shock, disappointment, and a touch of impatience. “What could you possibly need to burn?” she said.

Tossing a charred scrap into the center of the fireplace, he fought a surge of bitterness. “The many wrongs I’ve committed.”

• • •

Outside of Lady Monroe’s apartment, Claire knocked on the heavy wooden door. She’d brought soup in the hopes of speaking with the dowager about Flavian. Perhaps she could shed light on his rejection.

“Who’s there?” called the timorous voice of a servant.

“It’s Lady Claire. I’d like to visit with her ladyship and check on her health. I’ve brought broth.

A bolt scraped in the lock.
Odd that the dowager felt compelled to lock herself in
… To Claire’s surprise, a second, lower bolt screeched from its strike plate. The door opened a few inches and the well-worn face of the lady’s maid poked out. “Her ladyship isn’t well enough for visitors,” she said.

“If I could just take a minute of her time … This is a healing broth.”

The maid stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, intentionally blocking any view Claire might have had of the interior. “I’ll take the broth to her. She’ll appreciate it, and I’ll be sure to say you delivered it yourself.”

Before Claire handed over the covered bowl, she said, “Will you let me know when Lady Monroe is feeling better? She invited me to see her whenever I wanted to talk.”

“I’ll do that, madam,” said the maid, bobbing a curtsey. Without another word, the servant disappeared behind the door, and the locks slid to.

• • •

“Mrs. Gower, how are you feeling?” Claire closed the door behind her to the chaperone’s chamber.

The elderly woman moved a chalk-white cheek off the pillowcase. “Oh,” she moaned, “the torments of hell. I have suffered the devil’s own torture.” Her skin sagged at the jowls, ragged as ripped paper.

“Poor lady.” Claire set a bowl of soup on the bedside table. “I brought you something to make you feel better.”

“Not another of your distressful potions, I pray.”

A splinter of pain pierced Claire. “It’s soup,” she said, clearing her throat.

“What’s in it?”

“Chicken, some vegetables, and salt.”

“Your recipes always sound innocent, and then … ”

Claire closed her eyes a moment, fighting to master her impatience. It stung to have her chaperone believe she had anything to do with the illness that swept the household. “This is just chicken soup,” she said gently. “And if you recall, all I made Abella was a sedative, at Lord Monroe’s specific request.”