Elsie started to respond, but the effort was apparently too much, and she closed her eyes, her breathing far too shallow. Laying a finger on her lips, Alexander whispered, “No more talk. Go to sleep and get well. I’ll not leave until you are better.”
She nodded without even opening her eyes, and Alexander stood, bending to kiss her on the forehead. “I love you,” he said, and saw the faintest stirring of a smile on her lips.
Elsie knew she was dying. Knew it in her bones, knew it as her breathing became more and more difficult, and thought: This is a terrible way to die.
After Alexander left her, she squeezed her eyes shut because having them opened only revealed to her how sick she truly was. She could not see anything but a blur of objects, as if she were looking through a very old pane of glass. The only thing she could be positive about was that the nausea and stomach pain were nearly gone. But now, each breath, each swallow, was becoming agonizing. She feared if she fell asleep, she would not awaken.
Elsie knew from the look on the doctor’s face that she was going to die and wished someone would simply tell her. She was going to die and see her sister. That made Elsie nearly smile, and she wondered if Christine was still a little girl in heaven or would she be grown like her? Or when she died, would she become a little girl? Would she see her mother?
Or would there be nothing. Just blackness. Just fear and then nothing?
She didn’t want to die to find out. She wanted to live forever with Alexander and have his children and go away to some cottage where he would paint masterpieces and they could be alone. Once a year, they would all go to London. Perhaps during the Season. And he would display his artwork in the Royal Academy of Arts, where he would receive accolades and be forgiven for not taking up the duties of his title with vigor.
Elsie struggled for breath, trying to calm herself, trying to stem the panic that was building in her breast.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
But one gasp at a time, one inhale, one exhale, she kept breathing, kept pushing air into her lungs. Tears seeped from her eyes and her hands weakly clutched the blanket.
I can’t breathe.
Missy entered the room, her eyes filled with concern. “Having a tough time of it, are you, miss?”
Elsie nodded, her head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton.
“You’ll get better,” she pronounced. “I had a dream and you were visiting, a married woman you were. A duchess. Did I ever tell you about my dreams?”
“No,” Elsie gasped.
“They’re not always right, you know, but the important ones is. I dreamed I had a nice big piece of roast beef but that night cook served us all boiled chicken.” She wrinkled her nose. “Tasteless, that. But when I was younger, I had a purely awful dream. You were just a little girl, then, and I dreamed that you were playing alone and very sad. Two days later, little Christine passed on. Scared me to death, it did. But then, I dreamed of little Mary being born and it seemed to me that was a good thing, even if the lady did slip away those weeks later. So you see, Miss, you’re going to get better.”
Elsie struggled for breath, wondering if she had the energy to ask the most important question. “Who was the duke?”
Missy looked at her as if she’d asked the most ridiculous question. “You know, now that you mention it, he wasn’t in my dream. But you did seem happy, Miss.”
Elsie closed her eyes. “Thank you, Missy.”
Her maid touched her arm. “You’re welcome, Miss.”
For three torturous days, Elsie struggled to breathe, lapsing in and out of consciousness at her worst, which was, quite frankly, a relief to whoever was watching over her. For to see Elsie fight for each bit of air, to wonder if the breath you heard would be her last, was torture in itself. More often than not, it was Alexander, counting her breaths, feeling sick inside when she reached the pitiable number of six breaths in a minute. Six breaths. Then five.
He prayed, even though he hadn’t spoken to God in years, even though he wasn’t even certain God listened to ordinary people. It was all he could do, so he did it fervently and constantly, whispering into hands folded and pressed against his mouth. He lost track of day and night, falling asleep where he sat, waiting.
“How is she?” Lord Huntington asked on the third night, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anguish.
“The same,” Alexander said, though in his heart he felt as if she were far worse. She would open her eyes and look at him, but she hadn’t the strength to speak or even to move her hands to hold his.
“If I have a doubt of who you are, you should know that I have no doubt you love my daughter,” her father said, his eyes filling with tears.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Elsie? It’s Papa,” Lord Huntington said, and smiled when Elsie’s eyes opened. “You seem better. Your color is better.”
Her eyes drifted closed as she struggled to breathe, and the two men looked at each other with hopeless misery.
“The doctor will be here in the morning. Perhaps he’ll be able to do something to ease her ...”
“She will live,” Alexander said softly.
Lord Huntington dropped his head and nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “Yes. I daresay she will.”
All that night, Alexander held her hand, drifting in and out of slumber, awakening in a panic when he couldn’t immediately tell if she lived, during those long periods between breaths. Each time he awoke, he would count—one, two, three, four, five breaths—as he looked at his pocket watch. She was so pale, so incredibly fragile looking, that he could hardly look at her without crying. How could the woman who’d loved him so passionately be this invalid struggling to live?
“Elsie, come back to me. I need you, my heart,” he said. “Who shall I play Chopin for if you remain sick?”
Toward dawn, Alexander drifted off again, awaking only when Elsie’s maid poked her head into the room. “She should be gettin’ better today, then,” she said with an odd assurance that made him unaccountably angry.
Indeed, Elsie did seem to have better color, and it seemed as if her breathing wasn’t quite so labored. He took out his watch and flipped it open, counting a miraculous eight breaths before the minute was up. That was nearly normal.
“Elsie,” he said, rather more loudly than he intended, and Elsie startled before opening her eyes.
“Good morning, sir,” she said softly, and smiled. Really, truly smiled, for the first time in days.
“You are better.”
“I am a bit,” she said with wonder. She swallowed and smiled again. “May I have a drink of water? I’m quite thirsty.”
Missy was there, glass in hand, and helped Elsie to drink the cool water. A blissful smile crossed her face. “Not nearly so difficult to swallow,” she said. “And I don’t sound like I’ve been drinking whiskey quite so much.”
Alexander laughed. Her speech was still a bit slurred, but far more understandable than before. “Only a glass or two,” he said, smiling down at her, completely un-self-conscious of the tears in his eyes.
“Did I frighten you so much?” she asked worriedly. “I’m sorry.”
“No, in a way, it is a good thing. Now your father knows who I am. Or at least who I claim to be. And I know that I cannot possibly live without you.”
“Did I have to nearly die to make my point?”
Alexander knew she was jesting, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile at that moment. “No. I knew before then. I knew.”
Laurent Desmarais, once the greatest muralist in Britain, knew he would never paint another mural again. Perhaps, he thought, he would turn his attention to a smaller canvas, one that did not strain his poor fingers so much. Or perhaps, he would give art classes to wealthy children. Or simply buy a town house in London or live out his days wandering the world.
The betrayal he felt warred with his joy that Alexander could speak and was, perhaps, heir to one of the greatest titles in the kingdom. It seemed impossible, but then he remembered the solemn, serious boy Alexander had been, his intelligence, his natural grace. All those years, all those endless lonely, silent days, wasted. Lost conversations, lost time. If he’d known Alexander could speak, he could have fostered his talent even more, he would have... No. He would have seen Alexander as a rival, an upstart, a usurper. He would have stopped working long ago, when he lost the ability to hold a paintbrush for more than a single hour. He would have likely lost himself in a sea of fine French brandy. He would have lost his boy far, far sooner had he known. Perhaps that was why Alexander had kept his secret. Perhaps the young man liked their life together as much as he did.
But now he might never know. He could not stay at Mansfield Hall indefinitely, a paid guest. He had written a letter to the Earl of Bristol, explaining that he was unable to work because of a physical infirmity. Now he had only to decide what to do with the rest of his life.
“You’re all packed up, sir,” a footman said, nodding. His black lacquered wagon stood outside, a young driver awaiting him patiently. How many miles had he traveled with Alexander on that wagon, him sitting back and Alexander acting as his driver?
“Merci,” Desmarais said distractedly. He looked about the small cottage he’d shared with the man he considered his son and felt himself unwilling to leave without at least hearing Alexander’s explanation. There had to be a reason he’d lied to him. Had to be.
Short of dragging him from the bedside of his beloved, Desmarais could do nothing but leave and hope that one day he would get an explanation from Alexander.
A shadow crossed the door and Desmarais lifted his head, scowling when he saw it was Alexander, even as his heart filled with pride and love. “How is the mademoiselle?” he asked gruffly in French.
“I would prefer to speak in English,” Alexander said. “I have not spoken in French before, you see. Only listened.” He gave a self-deprecating smile, and Desmarais instantly forgave him.
“A nice baritone, your voice. It would have been very pleasant to have listened to it now and again over the past twenty years, no?”
Alexander dipped his head, but it gave Desmarais little satisfaction to see his shame. When he lifted his head, Alexander’s eyes spoke volumes about how sorry he was. “Miss Elsie is doing much better. She will live.”
“Very nice. And now I must go,” the artist said, with absolutely no intention of leaving before he’d sorted everything out with his foster son.
“When you first took me in”—Alexander began—“I could not speak to strangers. No matter how I tried, I could not. And then, when I grew comfortable with you and realized I could speak, it somehow seemed cruel to let you know.” He shook his head as if he, himself, didn’t understand his reasons. “I didn’t want anything to change. I liked being with you, the smell of the paint, the beauty of what we were doing in Italy. I was afraid that you would send me away. And when I grew old enough to know better, it was too late. I didn’t want to hurt you. You are a father to me, more than my own father ever was. I was afraid I would lose you.”
“Oh, mon fils,” he said, opening up his arms to his son. Alexander embraced him, and Desmarais’s eyes filled with tears as he realized he still had a son. Embarrassed by his display of emotion, the artist stepped back, rubbing his eyes dry. “I suppose I must now call you by your English name.”
Alexander smiled. “Only if you wish.”
“Andre seems to fit you better,” he said stubbornly. He searched the younger man’s face. “Are you truly a peer?”
Alexander nodded. “My father is the Duke of Kingston. He put me in that asylum after my brother died. And now I must prove who I am. Do you know anything that could help me?”
“Only that Dr. Stelton of the Wickshire Asylum said you needed a home. He did not even give me your full name, but said discretion was of utmost importance. You were such a skinny boy, and so frightened. I had lost my family just two years before. I could not say no.”
“Your family?”
“My wife and son died of influenza two years before you came to me. I was so sad that I could not paint. That is why I agreed to do the work in Italy. I had lost my ability to create art and could only repair it. You saved my life, as much as I saved yours.” He held up his ruined hands. “And then you saved me again.”
“I think we saved each other, sir,” Alexander said. “I do not know what will happen, but you should know that I have loved you as a father and will insist you remain so. No matter what happens, I will continue my art and will need a teacher.”
“Bah,” Desmarais said, feeling more than pleased. “You could teach me.”
Alexander looked out the opened door and toward the main house, where the young lady still struggled. “I plan to marry her,” he said, and Desmarais’s heart broke for him. Even he knew how difficult a path it would be to prove his lineage. “I may ask you to testify for me, if it comes to that.”
“I would be willing to say
I
am the Duke of Kingston if that would help you.”