Lord Deverill's Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  EVESHAM ABBEY, NEAR BURY ST. EDMUNDS

  ENGLAND 1790

  Magdalaine lay within herself again, waiting, waiting for the opium to shroud the ravaging pain in her body. She could scarce make out the high vaulted ceiling and the dark oak-paneled walls in the dim winter-afternoon light.

  At last the pain is lessening, soon I will be freed from the terrible gnawing that comes from my very soul. Please, let the opium last until the end. God, why did he wait so long to give me the opium? He wanted me to fight, that’s why, but finally he realized I didn’t want to fight, I didn’t want to live.

  Was he still beside her? She didn’t know. She really didn’t care. He had been with her for so very long. He had spoken softly to her, tried to help her, but he hadn’t given her the opium until she had screamed at him to let her go, bowing in on herself, ravaged both within and without.

  Now, she was free from the pain, at last.

  My little Elsbeth, my poor baby. But yesterday you toddled to my outstretched arms. Oh, my child, so soon, so very soon you will forget your mama. If only I could hold you to me one more time. Dear God, you will forget me, strangers will take your love, and he will be there, not I. God, if only I could have killed him. But he will live and I will rot in the damned Deverill family cemetery alone and forgotten.

  Silent tears slid from the corners of Magdalaine’s dark almond eyes and coursed unchecked down her cheeks, for there were no wrinkles or aged hollows to impede their downward flow. They rested briefly against the raised fullness of her lips before she licked away their salty wetness.

  She felt the soft touch of material against her lips. Who held it there?

  It was he, she knew that. But she didn’t acknowledge him. It was too late for that. She turned inward again. There seemed so much to regret, so very little to give meaning to her short life.

  Come, Magdalaine, savor the small triumphs, the fleeting moments of pleasure. Remember the victories. Why can I not? It is ridiculous to be so helpless, so alone. A cry. It is Elsbeth. Please, Josette, take her from the crib, hold her close. Flow my love into her small body. Comfort her, protect her, for I cannot.

  The piercing, angry child’s cries stopped. Magdalaine calmed. She tilted her head back onto the lacy pillow and focused her gaze at the darkened oak beams overhead. Elsbeth and Josette were just above her in the nursery. They were so very close to her, just minutes away. Such a short time ago she could have raced up the stairs, her step light and sure, at the sound of her baby’s cries.

  No, not a short time ago . . . centuries ago. You will only know my tomb, my little one. Only a carved plaque with your mother’s name. I will be but cold gray stone and a simple name to you. Aged, lifeless stone pressing down upon me, shrouding me forever.

  Magdalaine shifted her weakened eyes to the large gilt-framed painting of Evesham Abbey, hung above the mantelpiece so proudly by the last Earl of Strafford. As if in a trance, her eyes unwavering, Magdalaine stared at the painting. It was as if she was standing in the green undulating park that surrounded the red brick house. The magnificent lime trees that lined the graveled drive shaded the bright sun from her eyes and the hedges of yew and holly were so vividly alive that she felt she could reach out and touch them and feel the very texture of their leaves. She remembered seeing them for the first time so clearly, so very clearly.

  Now she wished she had never seen them, had never come to this cursed house, had never married this man, this man who was supposed to have saved her, but of course, that was impossible. But she had married him and come to this house and now she would pay for it.

  She couldn’t seem to look away from the painting. How very English were the gables and chimney stacks that rose up the walls and towered beyond the slate roof. Forty gables; she had counted them. And just beyond the house were the old abbey ruins, crumbling with eloquent dignity for nearly four hundred years. Time had etched inexorably into the mortared walls, tumbling countless stone hulks into characterless heaps. But still huge walls stood upright, reaching high into the sky. But one day they would crumble and fall, too. And all because a king had wanted to divorce his queen and marry his leman. But she loved the ruins. Each stone was filled with a past so dark and mysterious that she had at first been afraid to draw near to them. One of those stones would be hauled to the Strafford cemetery to mark the earth where she would lie.

  Magdalaine’s opium-clouded mind drew her eyes away, to the wall opposite the bed, to seek out the bizarre carved oak panel—The Dance of Death, it was called. A grotesque skeleton, a blunted sword held high in its bony grip, held dominion over an eerie host of demonic figures, the gaping hollow of its mouth chanting soundless words.

  I am so very cold. Why does not someone build up the fire? If only I could burrow down into the covers. I’ll be colder soon but I won’t realize it for I’ll be dead.

  Once again Magdalaine’s eyes swept the room, more slowly now, for an uncontrollable lassitude was dragging her down deeper and deeper. Soon there would be no return journey upward. A slow smile spread its way over her face, creasing her smooth cheeks. It was a precise smile, even a triumphant smile.

  I have won a final victory over you, my lord husband. I will defeat you with my death.

  The smile froze on her lips forming a ludicrous jagged line. An infant’s cry rent the silence.

  The bedroom door burst open. “Await me outside. I wish to speak to my wife.”

  The doctor straightened slowly. A tall man himself, he drew up to his full height, but the Earl of Strafford seemed to dominate the room. His tone was abrupt, his breathing hard and sharp. The doctor did not release the countess’s wrist from between his long fingers. He said evenly, “I am sorry, my lord, but that will not be possible.”

  “Dammit, Branyon, do as I tell you. I want to be alone with my wife. I have questions for her and it is time she answered them. Leave us alone, man. It is my right.”

  As the earl strode toward the bed, the doctor saw that his regular features were distorted into a mask of fear and rage. The two together—it was strange and inexplicable, but it was so.

  The doctor gently lowered the countess’s hand under the covers at her side. The simple movement gave him time to control his anger at the man he’d hated since the moment he had seen how he had treated his gentle wife. He said quietly, “I am sorry, my lord, but her ladyship is beyond words. She is gone, my lord, but a few minutes ago. She did not suffer at the end. Her passing was painless.”

  “No! Dammit, no!” The earl rushed at the doctor to fling him away.

  The doctor quickly stepped aside. He stood silently as the earl gazed mutely down at his wife’s calm pale face, as he took her hand and shook it. Dr. Branyon placed his hand firmly upon the earl’s arm. “The countess is dead, my lord. There is naught either of us can do for her now. As I said, her passing was without suffering.” The earl stood motionless by the bedside for a long while. Finally he turned and said more to himself than to the doctor, “It is unfortunate. I did not get to her in time. I have lost. Damnation. Those lying French bastards. It is not fair.” Without again looking at his dead wife, the earl turned abruptly and left the room, his boots ringing sharp and loud on the oak floor.

  EVESHAM ABBEY, 1792

  Four people stood around the writhing naked woman on the sweat-soaked sheets. The doctor had thrown his coat to a tabletop many hours before, his full white shirt was now loose about his neck and wrists. Fine lines of fatigue drew his mouth taut, and beads of perspiration stood out on his smooth forehead. He was a young man, but the young girl on the bed was younger, barely eighteen. And her life was in his hands.

  The bleary-eyed midwife and housekeeper kept silent vigil at the foot of the bed, their hands dangli
ng helplessly at their sides.

  It was ghastly hot, so stifling that the woman in her ceaseless misery had thrown off the cover, uncaring that her swollen body was exposed to these people. She was beyond thinking, almost beyond the searing pain that receded quickly, only to explode with greater ferocity within her belly, tearing hoarse screams from her parched throat.

  She lay now gasping for breath, her senses momentarily returned to her, as the agonizing pain waited for its next inevitable onslaught on her body. She gazed up at the doctor, her large blue eyes glazed with fear and suffering.

  He leaned over her and wiped rivulets of sweat from her brow. He put a glass to her lips. “Drink the water, Lady Ann. That’s it. No, not so fast. I will hold it for you as long as you wish. Drink slowly.” When she had drunk her fill, he said quietly, “Lady Ann, you must try harder. You must bear down with all your strength when I tell you to. Do you understand me?”

  She licked her tongue over her cracked lips and whimpered, a helpless sound, but she was helpless, held captive of her body and the forces that no one could stop. She wanted desperately to detach herself from her gross child-filled body. She sought his steady dark eyes and wished herself a part of him. So intense was her longing that he felt that part of her that was the laughing, gentle girl burn into the very depth of his being. His voice faltered as he knelt beside her and clasped her limp fingers in his hands. “Lady Ann, please, you cannot, you must not give up. Please, help yourself, help me. I know you can do it. You are strong.

  You want to live. You will do it, you must do it. You will birth your babe.”

  A horrible shriek tore from her throat and she was lost to him, consumed back within her body as the vicious contractions tore through her belly.

  He quickly eased his hand inside her, felt the baby’s head, and shouted at her, “Push! Now, bear down!” He hesitated only the briefest moment, then splayed his fingers over her belly, and pushed downward with all his strength.

  Her scream and the baby’s cry came together, burning into the very depths of him.

  The doctor walked softly into the earl’s library and stood wearily in the dim-curtained room. “You’ve a girl, my lord. I congratulate you. She is in your image. Your wife is very weak but she will live.” He stood there, so tired, he wondered why he didn’t fall over, waiting for the earl to speak. The earl brushed careless fingers over his immaculate waistcoat, eyed the blood-flecked white shirt of the doctor with distaste, and said indifferently, “A girl, eh, Branyon? Ah, well, it is but her first. She still has many years of youth to bear me sons. I fancy I will have my son within the next year. Aye, ladies love babies.

  She’ll want another very soon. This weakness, it’s nonsense. She’ll forget about this by the end of the week, if the babe survives, of course. Many do not. Elsbeth did, but perhaps this one won’t. Who knows?” Angry bile rose in the doctor’s throat. Hadn’t the man heard his wife’s screams? They’d been endless. The face of every servant in this huge mansion was leached of color. Surely the earl, her husband, had heard her. Surely he had been at least a bit concerned about her.

  The doctor would never forget her suffering. He wanted to kill this man, not for making her pregnant, but for not caring if she survived or didn’t. It was one and the same to him, the bastard. Yes, he wanted to kill him. Very much. Maybe shoot him cleanly between the eyes. However, he couldn’t. He managed to control himself, saying in his detached professional voice, although he really wanted to shout it, “I’m afraid that it will not be possible, my lord.” He paused, seeing the earl’s face darken. It was a handsome face, a strong intelligent face, and Dr.

  Branyon hated that face as much as he hated the man. Ah, but he was delighting in this news he had for this damned man. “You see, my lord, Lady Ann very nearly lost her life birthing your daughter. When I said she will live, I meant it was very close. She nearly bled her life away.” He paused a moment, relishing the words even before he spoke them. He said finally, “She will be unable to bear you further children.” The earl roared to his feet, shouting, “The devil you say, Branyon! Why, the girl is but eighteen years of age! Her mother assured me that her hips were wide, that she would be an excellent breeder. I even spanned her belly myself and although she is small, her pelvic bones were beyond my reach. Her mother has borne six children, four of them boys.

  Damnation, I selected her because of her youth and her mother’s assurances. I will not tolerate this. You must be wrong.” Her parents had let this man touch their daughter? Let him put his hands on her belly? Jesus, it made him sick. “Unfortunately, my lord, the lady’s years make very little difference, nor do the width of her hips.

  She will bear no more children, either boy or girl.” God, how I hate this man. I am the keeper of life, yet I want to kill him. My poor Ann . . .

  you are nothing to him, just as Magdalaine was nothing. And now he has another daughter to ignore, perhaps even to send away. At least you will not have to suffer him again.

  The earl turned abruptly away from the doctor and cursed long and fluently. He did not hear the doctor leave the library to return to the upstairs bedchamber, to keep vigil over his wife.

  THE STRAFFORD TOWN HOUSE

  LONDON 1810

  Sir Ralph Wigston peered over his spectacles as he droned on with his duly practiced, and, hopefully, elegant phrases of condolence. He had painstakingly committed the brief message from the Ministry to memory, believing that he owed the mental effort required not only to the earl’s lovely widow, but also to the Earl of Strafford himself.

  The late earl had been a splendid man, renowned for his powerful intelligence, his uncanny ability to read the enemy’s mind and act immediately upon his intuition to his majesty’s advantage. He willingly took risks where other men would have wavered and backed away. He had been bold, dauntless, and had died as befitted such a fine leader of men, in battle, leading, shouting orders and encouragement. Proud he was, very proud and unbending, and a determined autocrat, demanding unswerving obedience, but, of course, that was as it should be. He was a man to trust, a man to revere, a man to follow with unquestioned loyalty. His men had worshiped him. He would be missed sorely.

  But now the Earl of Strafford was dead, and Sir Ralph had to continue his passionate performance for his widow, who looked particularly beautiful in her black mourning gown. He did not wish to be accused of according the late Earl of Strafford less than his very best. Nor his beloved widow.

  He cleared his throat, for this was more difficult. “We do, however, regret to inform you, my dear Lady Ann, that the earl’s remains have not as yet been recovered from the conflagration that ensued.”

  “Are you not then being premature with your visit, Sir Ralph? Is it not very possible that my father still lives?” The words were spoken with a cold flatness, and underlying them, Sir Ralph sensed a flicker of hope, almost a challenge to his authority and position. He carefully stored away his few remaining phrases and bent his myopic gaze upon the Earl of Strafford’s daughter, Lady Arabella. She didn’t resemble her mother at all. She was the very image of her father, with her inky black hair and light gray eyes. He cleared his throat. “My dear young lady, let me hasten to inform you that I would most certainly not be executing this most unhappy mission were your father’s demise not a proven fact.” He had spoken too harshly, and hurried to soften his tone. “I am truly sorry, Lady Ann, Lady Arabella, but there were trustworthy witnesses whose word cannot be gainsaid. Exhaustive searches were done. Countless men were interviewed.” He wouldn’t talk about all the charred remains that had been duly examined. “There is no doubt that the earl died in the fire. It was an overwhelming fire. There was no chance of survival. Please, do not entertain the idea that there is a chance he still lives, for it is quite impossible.”

  “I see.” Again that cold, emotionless voice. Sir Ralph disposed of his remaining phrases neatly and quickly. “The Prince Regent wishes me to assure you, Lady Ann, that there is no question of the speedy dispo
sition of the earl’s estate, in view of the reliability of the witnesses. I will, if you wish it, notify your solicitor of this tragic circumstance.”

  “No!” the earl’s daughter bounded from her chair, her hands clenched in front of her.

  Sir Ralph stiffened, frowning at the earl’s daughter. What was she about?

  What was all this nonsense? Did not her mother, this lovely fragile lady, have any control over her?

  Lady Ann said, her voice far too gentle for Sir Ralph’s liking, “My dear Arabella, surely it would be best if Sir Ralph did contact your father’s solicitor. After all, there is so very much for us to do already.”

  “No, Mother.” Arabella turned cold gray eyes to Sir Ralph’s flushed face.

  The earl’s eyes, there was no doubt about that. And that coldness of hers, just like the late earl’s. Yes, this damned impertinent girl probably also had her late father’s arrogance, not that Sir Ralph would ever say that the late earl did not deserve every whit of arrogance he chose to exhibit.

  “We appreciate your kindness, Sir Ralph, but it is for us—my mother and me—to make whatever arrangements are now necessary. Please extend our gratitude to the Prince Regent. His words would touch the coldest of hearts.”

  Now, what did that mean? Sir Ralph did not appreciate irony. It annoyed him. He disliked having to decipher it, having to puzzle over it only to discover that no irony at all had ever been intended. But what had come to him loud and quite clear was that the damned girl was dismissing him.

  Him! To give himself time so he wouldn’t box the girl’s ears, Sir Ralph slowly pulled off his spectacles and raised his ample bulk equally as slowly from the chair.

  Arabella rose also, and to Sir Ralph’s chagrin, her cold gray eyes were on a level with his. She had winter eyes, he thought, as cold and harsh as her father’s. He wondered if they ever warmed, as he had once seen her father’s warm when he had touched a very lovely young courtesan’s exquisite white shoulder. He shouldn’t remember something like that, particularly in the widow’s presence. He would forget it, now.