With a heavy sigh, she picked up her green satin bonnet and tied its ribbons beneath her chin, draping the embroidered net veil over its high crown. Nicholas’s ring was so large on her finger that she had to wear it over her kid gloves, and now she glanced at the shining gold. He had married the wrong woman. He had thought he was dying, but he had survived. Maybe he would survive until they reached King’s Cliff. What then? It was his home, but it was also Augustine Townsend’s home. How could it ever be Laura’s home? She would be an intruder, an encumbrance
—maybe even an embarrassment. She would be completely unwanted and she would also be the object of Augustine’s justifiable loathing. She lowered her eyes unhappily. Whatever the outcome of this voyage, there could never be any true happiness for her.
Two footmen came to take her luggage, and she picked up her reticule, taking a final look at the room she had occupied for the past month. A month. Was it possible that she had only known him for that short time? He was her whole life, and he always would be…. On the first of March she had left this room to commence her visit to Venice, and on the first of April she was leaving it for the last time.
April fool. April fool.
The words echoed in her head as she followed the footmen from the room.
Major Bergmann was waiting in the vestibule, as were many of the hotel staff, and some of the officers she had come to know over the past weeks. The major took her hand. “Farewell, Lady Grenville, I pray that your voyage will go well.”
“I pray so too, Major.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Vie
Gluck.”
“Thank you.”
He walked with her to the steps where the boat was waiting. Nicholas lay on a pallet, drowsy with laudanum so that he did not really know what was happening. The orange blossom still bloomed, filling the air with its sweetness, and the warm water of the Grand Canal lapped softly as it broke into turquoise against the marble steps.
She didn’t look back as the boat was rowed farther and farther away from the hotel.
Almost a month later the barquentine
Cygnet
was in sight of England’s shores, but a continuous storm prevented her from coming into the small Dorset town of Lyme Regis.
Laura steadied herself as the ship rose sharply on another mountainous wave, the boards creaking and vibrating with the force of the storm. The gimbal-mounted candles smoked thickly as they swung from side to side, making the already heavy atmosphere in the cabin even more heavy. Shutters had been nailed to the window, but a short while earlier she had gone out on to the heaving deck to stare miserably across at the shore through a maelstrom of foam and spray. Angry gray clouds scudded across the low heavens and the gale howled through the rigging, making the ensigns lash like whips. The storm had beaten the small ship since she had entered the Bay of Biscay, and it had followed her northward to England. When a calm voyage was what had been prayed for, Dame Fortune chose to inflict her most malevolent gales.
Nicholas tossed feverishly on the narrow, hard bed. An unhealthy flush brightened his pale cheeks and he deliriously muttered words neither she nor Henderson could understand. His skin burned with fever, but he shivered as if ice cold. An ague, the captain had said, contracted because of his weak condition and because of the ill humor in the Mediterranean air…. An ague. But which one? Was it fatal? Could a doctor cure it? Anxiously she paced up and down, her handkerchief twisted in her distraught hands. There was no doctor on board the
Cygnet,
and the only treatment available had been an infusion of vervain leaves. A sovereign febrifuge, the captain had assured her, but it had done little to help. It had not lowered Nicholas’s temperature, nor had it soothed his discomfort in any way. He tossed again and she went to try to restrain him as best she could, for each time he moved she was terrified he would open the wound in his arm once more. As she looked now, though, she saw that her fears had been justified, for the clean dressing was stained with dark red…
.
Please God, please calm the storm.
Nicholas’s dark eyes opened suddenly and he caught her wrist. “Augustine?” He did not know her.
“I’m here,” she said soothingly, although it pierced her heart to hear another woman’s name on his lips.
“You
—must understand. I must do it. King’s Cliff.”
“I know.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He relaxed a little, releasing her hand. “I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I love you too.” Tears were bright in her eyes.
The moment of consciousness was over and a convulsive shiver seized him. The tears welled out and down her cheeks then. “I love you, Nicholas Grenville,” she whispered, forgetting Henderson, who sat on a small stool nearby.
The valet watched her a moment. He blamed her, and yet was he justified? She had tried to make Sir Nicholas refuse the challenge, and she was obviously under great stress now. And she loved the man she had married, there could be no mistake about that. The valet got up.
“You should rest awhile, Lady Grenville.”
She turned swiftly. “I had forgotten you were here.”
“Reckon I know that, my lady. Reckon too that I should ask your forgiveness. I’ve misjudged you and I had no place even having an opinion.”
She smiled tiredly.
“I’m glad he married you and not that Townsend she-devil.”
She stared at him, taken aback at his outspoken words. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know I’ve no business saying anything, but she wasn’t the wife for him. She’d have only made him unhappy.”
“You think I will not?” she asked drily.
“You
wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt him.”
“Meaning that Miss Townsend would?”
“She’d do anything to have her own way. She was a mean and spiteful child, and now she’s a mean and spiteful woman. She’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw, but she’s evil and black inside. Reckon you won’t find any of the servants at King’s Cliff who won’t welcome you, my lady, for you’ve saved them from her.”
“Oh, surely you exaggerate.”
“No, my lady. You’ll see the truth for yourself soon enough.”
Her heart sank at his ominous prediction. She went to the shuttered window, trying to look out between the uneven wooden slats, but all she could see was the heavy sea. And all the time the howl of the gale in the rigging.
* * *
It was late evening when the storm suddenly abated and at last a boat could be lowered to convey Nicholas ashore. He was still burning with the ague, and yet he shivered as if frozen. She hoped with all her heart that there was a doctor in Lyme Regis, or an apothecary at the very least. The men rowed swiftly over the white-capped waves and the setting sun shone brightly on the cliffs, making the cottages and inns of the small town look very startling, their windows winking and flashing as the boat moved. Lyme Regis spread up a long, steep hill from a pleasant little bay and tiny harbor. Soon the bay would be thronged with bathing machines as fashionable society came to enjoy the sea air, but for the time being it was quiet still.
The boat came to a halt at the water’s edge and the sailors jumped out to drag it further up the beach. Laura got out and stood looking at the stone steps leading up from the beach. A doctor. Please, a doctor….
The waiter at the inn shook his head. “I’m afraid Mr. Harper, the surgeon, has been called away over Bridport way. He won’t be back before tomorrow.”
“Is there an apothecary?”
“Not since old Mr. French died two months back.”
She looked helplessly around the tap room with its stacked barrels and dusty floor. Through the bow window she could see the bay where the
Cygnet
lay at anchor. Dared she wait here for the surgeon to return? What if he was delayed?
She turned to Henderson. “How far is it to King’s Cliff from here?”
“Reckon about twenty-five miles.”
“And where does Dr. Tregarron live?”
“Langford. About five miles from King’s Cliff by road, but only one mile through Langford Woods.”
She looked back to the waiter. “Do you have a chaise for hire? And a good saddle horse?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then have both made ready. Henderson, I intend to go on to King’s Cliff. You must ride ahead and find Dr. Tregarron, or any other doctor if he is not available. Be waiting at King’s Cliff.”
“Very well, my lady.”
She seemed to have been waiting an unconscionable length of time, and the valet had long since ridden off when the waiter at last came to tell her that the chaise was ready.
She sat with Nicholas’s head resting on her lap as the coachman whistled and cracked his whip to encourage the team to greater effort as the heavy old carriage lumbered out of the cobbled yard and turned slowly up the steep hill that led out of Lyme Regis. She steadied Nicholas as the carriage swayed, and she stared blindly out of the window. They were almost at journey’s end and would reach King’s Cliff before dawn. But what awaited her there?
* * *
The chaise came to a standstill again and at first she did not open her eyes, for the journey had involved many stops at tollgates and crossroads, but then she recognized Henderson’s voice and looked out immediately. Lanterns moved by some immense wrought-iron gates and she could make out the windows and door of a lodge. Henderson came to the carriage door and opened it.
“Is all well, my lady?”
She nodded. “He is the same.”
“Dr. Tregarron waits at the big house. My lady…?”
“Yes?” She caught the unease in the valet’s voice.
“I had to wait here by the gates on account of the keeper not believing Sir Nicholas was alive. None of them would believe me at first.”
She stared blankly at him. But how could they think he was dead? How could they know anything of what had taken place in Venice? They could only know if someone had sent word
—but who would do that? She certainly had not, and neither had the valet. Then she remembered the British consulate. Yes, that must be the answer—someone there must have written to King’s Cliff when Nicholas was believed to be
in extremis.
Henderson closed the door again and climbed up beside the coachman. The gates swung open, creaking loudly, and the chaise jolted forward for the last time as the tired team trotted along the gravel drive toward the immense silhouette of the house, so clear in the pale moonlight.
Her heart began to beat more swiftly now and she was suddenly afraid. Soon she would be face to face with Augustine Townsend…
.
Lamps had been lit beneath the tall, marble portico, and as the chaise came to a halt the great doors of the house were flung open and some footmen in dark green and gold livery came out, followed by a dark-haired young man in a fashionable dove-gray coat and beige breeches.
Henderson jumped down to open the carriage door and the young man looked up at Laura. His long-lashed eyes were dark brown and the night breeze ruffled his hair and the rich folds of his silk cravat. “Lady Grenville?”
“Yes.”
He bowed. “Daniel Tregarron. Your servant, madam.”
“Sir.” She was surprised, for he was roughly of an age with Nicholas and she had expected him to be much older.
His eyes lingered on her face a moment more and then he turned his attention to Nicholas. “How long has he been like this?”
“A week.”
“And before that?”
“There was not ague, he was just very weak from his wounds.”
He gestured to one of the footmen to hold a lamp closer. The bright light swayed over the drab interior of the coach, illuminating Nicholas’s pale and yet fevered face quite clearly. The doctor said nothing, but took a long breath as he inspected the bloodstained dressing on the wounded arm. He glanced at Laura again, “It does not look well, Lady Grenville.”
“You must save him, Doctor,” she whispered. “Please, you must save him.”
“I will do all in my power, I promise you,” he said gently, nodding at the footmen. “Carry him carefully now.”
She took the hand Daniel Tregarron held out to her and stepped down from the carriage as they carried Nicholas into the house. The night air was cool and she could hear the soft rustling of trees. An owl hooted somewhere and she could hear the famous King’s Cliff foxhounds in their kennels nearby. She stared up at the ivy-covered walls and then back at the great double doors at the top of the steps. She half expected to see Augustine standing there, but she was not.
Slowly she walked up the steps with the doctor. Black-ribboned wreaths had been placed on the doors and more black ribbons hung from the many paintings lining the hall’s pale green walls. Black and white tiles covered the echoing floor, and high above, the gold ceiling shone dully in the light of the magnificent chandeliers. Gilded plasterwork surrounded the doors and there were elegant statues in the niches on either side of the immense black marble fireplace where the remains of a log fire glowed. Some gun dogs lay sprawled before the fire, sleeping on in ignorance of what went on around them.
But Laura noticed little of this; she saw only the lines of servants, all wearing black weepers on their arms, waiting to be presented to the new lady of the house. All their eyes were upon her, at once curious and nervous as they sought to gain the measure of her in those few seconds. There was still no sign at all of Miss Augustine Townsend.
Daniel Tregarron bowed to her. “Forgive me, Lady Grenville, but I must attend to Sir Nicholas.”
“Of course, Doctor.”
“The Reverend Tobias Claverton is here, waiting in Sir Nicholas’s room. He is vicar of Langford parish and has long been associated with the Grenville family, I felt duty-bound to send word to him the moment I learned what had happened.”
“Naturally, Dr. Tregarron.”
He smiled at her and then turned to hurry up the curved staircase that rose between vast marble columns at the far end of the echoing hall. She looked more assured than she felt as she turned to the man who stepped forward from the lines of servants.