The Rake's Handbook (23 page)

Finally exhausted and heart weary, she lay beside him on the small bed and arranged the covering so he would remain warm. She slid her arm across his and settled in to watch him through the remainder of the night. Watch his chest rise and fall with each whisper of life, knowing that tomorrow, when his mother claimed him, she might never watch him again. With each hourly chime from the hallway clock, she went through the futile motion of stroking his hair back from his brow.

He never moved or registered her touch in any way.

Close to dawn, in a moment of careening desperation, she tried to wake him with words. She told him of her love and teased him with the scandalous banter he enjoyed. Rhyming jests were never Ross's humor, but he was a master of the sly, outrageous remark. These retorts came naturally to him and always brought out his stunning smile. She had been delighted every time she'd cast out a seemingly innocent word into conversation, only to find him rise to the bait with the most brazen innuendo. If only he would do that now. “Ready to read volume two of
The
Rake's Handbook
? I cannot imagine what it suggests.”

No response. No smile. No serene countenance expostulating the naughtiest retort ever. He failed to move.

“I need you awake for chapter ten, dearest, your favorite chapter. Do you think you might like to read it more than once?”

No reply.

With her strength gone and spirit defeated, she stroked his brow. After each soft caress, she whispered, “Please wake, love.”

***

Searing pain ripped Ross apart. He did not recognize the day or the place. Pain ruled, and he must escape its fire-like grip.

Was
he
dying
or
dead?

Gradually, he became aware of his circumstances. He lay on his back upon a high plateau big enough only for him. If he rolled two feet, he would plunge into the watery blackness surrounding him. In the distance appeared several tall ships on fire, and beyond them, the horizon stretched out in every direction, creating a uniform line. Dawn began to break; the morning light forced the black clouds
upward.

He
felt
a
familiar
presence
surrounding
him: John, his younger brother. John, the auburn-haired boy with an infectious smile. Ross welcomed the presence of the brother who remained foremost in his thoughts. Here and now, in this place, his memories became real. He saw John at five years old, twig in hand, protecting Mama from a dragon the knights had failed to kill. Then John at eighteen, fresh from school, joy skipping across his face when Ross agreed he could join him on the Grand
Tour.

And
once
in
Italy, what example had he set for his brother? Instead of setting an example of a true gentleman, or behaving in a discreet manner that was usual for him, he openly acted like the worst of men—a rake. His actions unwittingly confirmed the exaggerated behavior contained in his satirical handbook, written in a drunken wager. Such books were commonly published for the amusement of London's swells. Only John must have never fully understood the satirical part. Proud of his older brother, he likely believed the overblown seductions in the handbook were real, something to emulate. And Ross's appalling actions in Venice were nothing more than a silent confirmation of that vile
behavior.

On
the
Grand
Tour
in
Venice, while he “punted” in a gondola with a raven-haired contessa, what did he expect John to do? Wait alone in their rooms, sit in a café drinking himself into oblivion, or find a woman? A significant female conquest to impress his older
brother.

He
remembered
John
missing
for
days. Then finding him given up for dead at a hospital, the victim of an irate husband's knife attack. Then the memory of John's fallen expression when Ross told him the knife had likely scored his heart and pierced his
lung.

He
remembered
his
desperate
promises
to
save
John. Flee back to England and recover—together.

In
London, he held what remained of his brother's once stout body steady while he was bled. Then the memory of John looking directly into his eyes, without recrimination, pleading for life as his blood flowed unrestrained. John smiled up at him, sighed, and died in his
arms.

Why? Because all John ever wanted was to be like his older
brother.

He
could
join
John
in
his
harbor
from
pain, and free himself from guilt. Hold him in his arms again. All he had to do was roll off the plateau into the blackness of hell's own fire. “John!”

At dawn, Elinor moved to a chair set close enough to the sickbed to hold Ross's hand. She didn't give a shilling if anyone caught her thus, for she had no intention of not touching him, not stroking the top of his fingers or caressing his cheek. He had spent a restless night, calling out his late brother's name, but he never woke. Even with her caress and the new day erupting in violent birdsong and searing sunlight, he failed to regain consciousness.

Berdy entered softly around seven o'clock. “Did he wake?”

“Oh, love,” she managed, rubbing her sore eyes.

He pulled a chair next to her, leaned over, and embraced her.

The warmth coming from his body comforted her, and her head fell to his shoulder. She began to openly sob. “What if he never wakes?”

“Shh.”

Her agony grew with the passage of time, because the illness endured. Obviously breathing and alive, Ross appeared to be sleeping, so she expected him to open his eyes at any moment. Only this was a false expectation. Unlike William's accident, death was not sudden. It lingered in the atmosphere, teased her with its presence, and fed her tears. She had no thoughts about how to save him and no thoughts about what she could do. No thoughts.

They sat in silence until the sounds of a heavy carriage became apparent from the crunch of gravel outside. She pulled back from Berdy's embrace, panic consuming her. Lady Helen would take Ross—take him—and she might never see him again. In desperation, she turned to Berdy for help.

“Come now,” he said. “Dry your eyes. I'm sure his mother would never consider moving him in his current condition. The wound may open.”

He's right.
She had not thought of that. Maybe she would have more time, after all.

“Let's go meet her together,” he said.

The Thornburys' large black carriage stood in the drive, framed by the glorious pinks and oranges of the new morning light. Perhaps the chilly air was the reason the older woman failed to exit the carriage. The window dropped, so Elinor and Berdy approached.

A grim Lady Helen faced them, but she was unable to speak at first. A minute or two passed before Ross's mother choked out a response to their perfunctory greetings. “Does my son live?”

Lady Helen's ashen face and trembling hand were visible from outside the carriage, and Elinor regretted the bad feelings the foundry had created between them. “At the moment he is alive, but not conscious. He also lost a fair amount of blood.”

“Will he live? I must know. What did Dr. Potts say?” Lady Helen asked in a broken voice, a sound that indicated the questioner was not strong enough to bear the answer. Looking down, she bunched her cap and hair together on her forehead with a balled fist.

Lady Helen's distress affected her, and she too could no longer speak.

“When brought here,” Berdy said, “the wound was covered in mud and filth. Dr. Potts sewed him up and indicated we should not disturb him. I'm sure Ross just needs rest to heal and will be pluck in no time. It's a gash in the shoulder. People don't die from that, do they?”

Ross's mother said nothing. With her head lowered, she looked like she was inspecting the carriage's floor. After she recovered enough to speak, she addressed Elinor directly. “I insist my son is removed to Blackwell as soon as possible. I've also sent word to our family surgeon in London and requested that he attend my son. I have great confidence in his abilities, since he worked diligently to save John, my youngest. There is no medical man I trust more.”

“Goes without saying you wish the best for your son,” Berdy said. “But if he is moved, the wound might open, and he'd start bleeding again.” He grabbed Elinor's hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

Lady Helen paused. “No. The decision is mine. I want him home.” She scowled at Elinor. “As his mother, I have his best interests at heart and shall attend him until… I must stay with him every minute until he is well.”

She took a deep breath. “I hope in the future you will let Mr. Deane and myself call upon Mr. Thornbury to inquire about his progress?”

The older woman's jaw set. “No. I will not allow you in the sickroom. Your presence cannot assist his recovery in any way. I am the person who cares for him, so all decisions are mine.”

Her breath caught, and Berdy tightened his grip on her hand. She believed a clinging mother's desires for her children were often misguided. But the sight of Berdy, holding her hand and gently kicking the gravel with the toe of his boot, restored her to her senses. The older woman was a mother like her, and she would have acted the same. “Yes, it's such a disappointment, you see. I'd like to see him, well, I'd just like to see him again, that's all.”

Berdy put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Dr. Potts promised to care for him wherever he was, remember? Lady Helen, I hope you do not object if I ride over tomorrow and receive an update on his condition? Ross has many friends, you understand.”

Lady Helen gave a single nod.

Elinor replied softly, “Thank you. Thank you.”

The window squeaked shut, and the black carriage lurched forward on its return to Blackwell.

In the sky above peeked one of the most radiant sunrises she had ever witnessed. The pink sky still claimed the horizon, but farther up it melted into the light blue sky of the new day. She glared upward and silently cursed. Bloody pink sunrise announces a lie; it does
not
promise to be a perfect day.

Ross's ear was pink, not pale like William's.
She clung to that fact. Hours had passed after William's fall from his horse, but she made no motion to leave him. Alone in the road, she held him, vowing never to move. After they were discovered, and Dr. Potts called, she feared never seeing William again. She clutched him tightly and stroked his cheek. Trying to remember every detail about a man of whom she already knew everything. Why? Because they would take him from her arms forever. The same fate befell her now. Ross would soon be lost too.

Within the hour, Dr. Potts arrived, and several servants loaded Ross into his carriage for transport to Blackwell. A breath, a second, a heartbeat, and Ross was gone.

She could think of only one action—wait at Dr. Potts's house for him to return. It was the fastest way to receive the latest information concerning Ross's condition. She grabbed a book and took a seat on a garden bench in front of the doctor's home. Her wait proved a long one, and she failed to remember a single word of her novel. Darkness shrouded the house when Dr. Potts finally returned. She ran to meet him before he had the chance to enter his home. “How does Mr. Thornbury fare?”

“Elinor!” He started, taking a full step backward. “Mrs. Colton, I beg your pardon. I must admit surprise in seeing you here.”

His unknotted cravat and air of weariness—quite unlike him—worried her. “Does he live? Is he awake? How is the wound? Has it festered? Does his mother relent and allow visitors?”

Dr. Potts held his palm high. “Please. The answers to your questions are no. His mother is not allowing visitors and remains by his side. I have done everything for him, believe me, but there is no change.”

“What treatments have you given him?”

“He was bled, of course. I also—” He stopped; a frown appeared on his long, aquiline face.

Her heartbeat began to race. “Since his large loss of blood yesterday, you indicated it would be unwise to bleed him.”

“Bleeding is the standard treatment for cases such as this,” he said in an icy tone, walking around her, heading for his front door.

“Will you treat him tomorrow?”

He sighed and looked skyward. “Lady Helen's surgeon is expected any day. I will attend him until her London man can take over.” He stepped across his threshold and held the door half-open so she could not enter.

She pushed her palm on the door to keep it from closing. “But no more lettings, lest he die from loss of blood? That is possible, correct? My medical books—”

“Of course.” He forced the door shut.

She returned home, her mind fixed on the fact that Ross had been bled again. She knew bleeding was important to relieve bad humors, but surely there was a limit?

The following day began with her desire to pray for Ross's recovery, so she and Berdy headed into town. Once they reached the village's high street, they saw the farmhouse-like church set some distance back from the street. Today the sun glinted off the long windows, sending shafts of light across the small burial ground close to the road. William had been reverend of this beautiful Unitarian church, and now he rested peacefully within its iron gates.

While Berdy set out to call upon the current reverend, she headed inside to visit her husband's monument. The normal cacophony of birds, horses, and rustling trees ended upon entering the chapel and closing the giant oak doors. Silence and heavy cold air surrounded her. As she walked down the aisle toward William's monument, her footsteps tapped loud enough to be discourteous.

Halfway to the altar, she stopped and faced north. Set into the wall was a marble bas-relief of William's side view with his name, date of birth, date of death, occupation, and “beloved husband” carved below. She reached out to touch his likeness. The white marble felt cool under her fingers, and for the first time she noticed a slight darkening from the oil on her hands where they had repeatedly touched the elevated parts of his profile. She stroked the top of his head and then let a finger linger on his jawline. His high-collared coat, which was no longer fashionable, she remembered with a smile as one of his favorites.

She rested all of her fingers on the engraved
W
, stared at his profile, and spoke to the man she would love forever. “William, I love again. His name is Ross, and you would like him. Since we were so in tune, that had our roles been reversed—you survived while I had not—I would be pleased if you had found a second love. I realize you would wish the same and that you are happy for me. I understand that now. William, I need your strength today. Ross may die, and I cannot bear the loss of two—”

She heard a commotion from the direction of the front door and turned to see a group of young girls entering the chapel with their matronly teacher. Many of the girls had been favorites of Elinor's when she helped teach at the parish school. Seeing them again filled her with an aching wish to return to the old days.

“Girls, girls, quiet, please,” the teacher said, corralling one young lady who had already started to march down the center aisle. The teacher clapped her hands several times, and the gaggle of girls moved into a tight herd around her skirt. “Now, girls, Henrietta, pleeeease, thank you. Now, girls, remember, show your respect by being perfectly silent. Susan, did you hear me? Right then, follow me.” The teacher turned to the far aisle from Elinor and headed toward the altar. The shuffle of footsteps mingled with giggles and whispers of almost-obedient young ladies.

Halfway down the chapel, the children caught sight of her. One of them shouted, “Look, it's Mrs. Colton.”

A young girl clutching a bouquet of roses smiled at Elinor, and she returned the smile. The girl started to walk in her direction, but a steady hand from her teacher momentarily stopped her. The small child twisted out of her teacher's grasp and attempted to run toward Elinor, but the teacher got a better grip and stopped the girl from advancing. The child twisted and squirmed again with more effort, determined to reach her. Then taking advantage of the teacher's momentary distraction, she slipped from under her arm and ran to Elinor. The other young ladies took the opportunity to escape, leaving the teacher lunging in all directions for errant children.

Young Margaret reached her before the teacher was able to call out for her return.

“Good day, Mrs. Colton. Do you remember me?”

She tilted her head and gave the child a tender smile. “Of course I do, Margaret. You are dear to me and quite unforgettable.”

A heartwarming smile crossed the young girl's face. Margaret held her roses inches from Elinor's nose. “I've come here today to give Grandfather these roses. He died in the war with the American colonies. But you do not have any flowers for Mr. Colton.” She pulled a perfect bloom from her bunch and handed it to her. “Please take this, as I know Mr. Colton must have a flower. They are for remembrance, right?”

Elinor pursed her lips. “That's right. Yellow is…was his favorite color of rose. Thank you.”

The young girl giggled and skipped back to the group of girls, now moving forward in a collective herd to the altar.

Elinor closed her eyes and mulled over her thoughts. She had once taught Margaret lessons, and now Margaret taught her by example. A lesson about determination, exemplified by the child's steadfast effort to reach her, despite her teacher's demands and physical restraint. Elinor placed William's rose at the base of his plaque before she ran outside to find Berdy.

Berdy was nowhere near the gig, so it cost her precious minutes before she found him. They made their farewells to the reverend, and it wasn't long before they found themselves speeding out of the village in the direction of Pinnacles.

After returning home, she flew into the study, heading for William's books. She resolved to stop depending upon her knights, like Henry, and teach herself about medicine. Ross once told her she could understand the contents if she tried, and she had no intention of letting him down. She charged over to the bookshelves and started pulling out every medical book in her possession. Silently thanking William's passion for books, she glanced at the pile of medical tomes before her:
Quincy's Lexicon
,
Mothersby's Medical
,
Hooper's Compendium
, Hunter's book on gunshot wounds, and many others. She arranged them by relevance to Ross's injury and began to read.