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Her Convenient Husband's Return

Page 20

by Eleanor Webster


  She found his wrist. It felt cool to her touch, but she could not find his pulse. Instead, she heard only the thumping of her own heart.

  ‘For goodness sake, stop crashing into things. You’ve already spilled the water,’ Allie said, bustling into the room.

  ‘Allie. How is he? He—seems different. Allie...is he...? I couldn’t bear it—’

  Allie pushed passed her. Time stopped, suspended.

  ‘Don’t fret yourself, my lady. His fever has broke, as my sainted mother would say. I think he is sleeping soundly.’

  Beth breathed again, huge gulping breaths. She felt the tears spill, tracking down her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor to make certain of it. But my mother took me to enough sick beds that I know when the fever’s broke and that you may tie to,’ Allie said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll come back and clear away the glass. You sit down before you hurt yourself. There’s glass and water everywhere.’

  Relief filled her. Beth sank on the bed. She had no choice, her legs were wobbly as a newborn calf. Tears tracked unchecked down her face. Her throat was clogged, sore as though swollen.

  Reaching forward, she rested her hand against his forehead. Yes, it felt good. It was no longer burning hot or sticky with sweat, but instead felt smooth and dry.

  * * *

  When the doctor arrived, bringing with him that scent of ointment and tinctures, he confirmed Allie’s diagnosis.

  ‘He’s out of the woods,’ he intoned like a wise man with a prophesy. ‘A lucky man. Lucky you came along when you did. Plus he has a strong constitution. It was touch and go for a while there, I’d say. Touch and go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Beth said.

  Again, she felt tears, hot burning tears, brimming over and trickling down her cheeks. Good Lord, she was becoming a regular fountain.

  ‘There, there,’ he said, patting her shoulders in a paternal manner. ‘He’ll be fine. The power of love does miracles. The power of love does miracles.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Because she loved him. She could no longer pretend or hide from this truth. Nor did she want to pretend or hide from it. Love, however impossible, was love.

  She loved him with her heart and with her soul and with her body.

  * * *

  Ren woke. His head hurt like some mammoth creature had jumped on it, was still jumping on it. He squinted. The blinds were drawn, but even the narrow cracks of light running each side of the cloth were too bright. His shoulder hurt. Both shoulders hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt.

  Still half-squinting, he looked to the chair at the left of the bed. It was empty. The pillow, likely embroidered by some long-dead seamstress, was indented as though occupied not quite recently.

  But whoever had been there had gone.

  Was it Beth? Or had he imagined her? He’d felt sure she had leaned over him, stroking his forehead. Her fingers had felt cool and her touch gentle. Sometimes her hair had brushed against his cheek. She’d smelled of lemon.

  ‘Good, you’re coming round,’ Mrs Ross said, stepping up to the bed from some part of the room out of his line of sight. She was the housekeeper, a sturdy woman somewhat resembling a ship in full sail.

  She did not smell of lemons.

  ‘Mothballs,’ he muttered.

  ‘Pardon, my lord?’

  He shook his head. He had not realised he had spoken out loud. The movement hurt his head.

  ‘Now, you rest and I’ll bring up some chicken broth. And would you be liking a sip of water?’

  The water was cool. It dribbled down his chin. He tried to wipe it away, but winced.

  ‘There, there, my lord,’ she said, dabbing at his chin with a cloth.

  Good God, he was not a child. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Allington, my lord.’ She was still fussing around with the damned napkin. ‘You were attacked, but you’re on the mend now.’

  ‘Beth? She was here?’

  ‘Yes. Her ladyship was here.’

  He smiled. He had not imagined her presence.

  ‘In fact, she found you. Very lucky you were, too. Goodness knows what happened, but likely the constabulary will want to talk to you.’

  ‘She found me?’

  ‘You had collapsed. You don’t remember?’

  He shook his head, again wincing. He remembered the report of the gun and pain and the bolting of his horse. And walking. And the moon.

  ‘It’s lucky that she did. And you’ve had us that worried, I can tell you. The doctor came several times and he wasn’t looking none too happy, although he doesn’t seem a particularly sanguine gentleman at the best of times. Anyway, you’re out of the woods now.’

  ‘And... Beth? Where is she?’ he managed to say, his voice hoarse.

  ‘I think she was going to come in later.’

  ‘Now!’ He pulled himself upright. The movement made his shoulder and arm hurt, a jabbing, searing pain. Pinpoints of light danced before his eyes so that he feared he’d faint.

  ‘Your lordship—stay still, for goodness sake. The doctor did not say you should be moving around. In fact, he said quite the opposite. He said you are to lie still. He’s had to put a stitch or two into that there shoulder and doesn’t want you to do further harm.’

  ‘I don’t care if I broke every bone,’ he muttered, gritting his teeth as he struggled to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘I need to see Beth.’

  ‘Good gracious, I cannot see anything that is so urgent that you would need to jeopardise your health. The doctor—’

  ‘Is a bloody quack. Are you going to help me or must I do this myself?’

  ‘I will get her ladyship, if you are so determined,’ Mrs Ross said. ‘I certainly will not allow you to reopen your wound.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, any desire to argue squashed by the searing pain in his shoulder and a peculiar lightheaded feeling.

  He leaned back against the pillows and allowed Mrs Ross to bolster them. ‘But if she won’t come, tell her I’m out of this bed and I will find her.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  * * *

  Beth entered his room. It had the stuffiness of a sick room, warm but with the lingering scents of mustard, arnica and other tinctures.

  She stepped to the bed, carefully finding the chair and reaching to touch his hand. His skin felt cool, no longer sweaty.

  He grasped her fingers. His grip was wonderfully firm. ‘Beth, thank you. They said you found me?’

  ‘Yes. What do you remember?’

  ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘They took my money and my horse bolted. Badly trained beast.’ His voice was husky, but had surprising strength.

  ‘We have him. He is fine.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘You made it to Allington. Goodness knows how. When we arrived back Allie and Arnold went to rouse the household. I got out from the carriage and I smelled blood.’

  ‘Smelled?’

  ‘Yes, it has a distinctive odour.’

  ‘So it really was you who found me? Not Arnold or Allie.’

  ‘It was me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His grip tightened. She felt that sizzling, scorching tingle at his touch. It moved through her, igniting something at her core.

  ‘I feel you shiver. You do care,’ he whispered.

  She shifted, shaking her head and pulling her hand away. ‘I care? Of course, I care. I want to be your wife and...and share your life, but I can’t.’

  ‘Why? After this, you’re still saying no? I love you.’

  ‘You do?’ Joy grew, burgeoning, blossoming.

  ‘Yes, unequivocally, yes. After I was shot, I knew I had to tell you. I love you. And you care for me, too, I know you do.’

  ‘Yes, I love you,�
� she said quite simply. ‘But love isn’t enough.’

  She remembered her mother’s words. ‘If you love someone you want what is best for them.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘It is enough. It is everything.’

  She shook her heard.

  ‘Beth, what is it? What do you fear? That you will be a burden to me? Like your mother?’

  ‘In part,’ she admitted.

  ‘But no one needs to look after you. You are not an invalid. You may lack your sight, but you are independent. You are self-sufficient. Good Lord, you’re a life saver. You saved my life.’

  ‘And if I fall? If I miscount my steps? If I do not see a carriage approaching, like in London?’

  ‘You may get injured. Just like I got injured. Just like anyone can get injured. Would you not want to be with me if I were hurt?’

  Her eyes stung. She would want to look after him while she still had breath in her body. She would look after him to her very last breath—to the grave and beyond. She heard his movement and felt the graze of his fingers as he reached up to catch a tear as it brimmed over, trickling down her cheek.

  ‘I have my answer,’ he said gently. ‘I do not fear looking after you. We will look after each other.’

  ‘Ren, it is not just that. I cannot—I will not have children,’ she said, the words bursting from her as though too long contained.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need an heir. I want you to have an heir. I don’t want the house or the title to fall to the Duke. And you want, you need a family, your own family. You’ve sought all your life to belong.’

  ‘But why can’t you have children? How do you know?’

  She stood, and paced the seven steps to the window. ‘My great-aunt was blind. And my aunt. I am blind.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Years ago, Jamie made Father get this fine bull that he thought would make the herd stronger. He did this because he believed that the bull could transmit his strength to the calves. I fear that I may transmit my blindness to any children and I can’t—I won’t do that.’

  ‘Beth—’

  ‘No.’ She turned. ‘My mind is made up. I love you. I love you so much, but I cannot be enough for you. You need children. You need a family and I cannot give you children. Eventually you will resent me. I am sorry, but I will seek an annulment. I must.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ren felt the words leave him. He saw the certainty in her face.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. Tears shimmered.

  He lay quite still. Physical and emotional pain twisted together so that he was unsure where one began and the other ended.

  He wanted her. He wanted a family with her.

  Wordless, he watched, unable to stop her, as she quietly exited the room.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Ren started to heal. Physical pain lessened. His mobility increased. Thankfully, his right arm now seemed fully mobile, although the incision still hurt on his left.

  Beth went to Graham Hill to meet with the manager. However, a sudden deluge of rain led to spring flooding which delayed her prompt return.

  Mrs Ross relayed these details in crisp tones. He supposed Beth could hardly control the weather, but wondered whether she was glad of the reprieve. Perhaps he was, too. He needed to think, but her presence made thinking impossible. Knowing she was even in the building seemed to put him on a seesaw of hopelessness and love and need...

  Time hung heavy. A constable came and asked questions. Jamie joined them and they went to the library and sat around the hearth. The constable was young and looked nervous, a twitch flickering across his clean-shaven cheek.

  ‘Right, sir. I...um...just wanted to get a few of the details about the attack,’ the constable said.

  Unwillingly, Ren made himself remember that night. He described the public house. He described his ride and how he had taken the shortcut through the wood. He forced himself to recall the three men with their covered faces, their guttural voices, the glint of the metal, the flash as it fired and the acrid scent of its smoke.

  The constable and Jamie made notes.

  ‘Likely a robbery,’ the constable said, nodding. ‘A most unfortunate but random event.’

  ‘Yes, most unfortunate,’ Ren said, wryly.

  ‘You said the voice was guttural. Do you remember what he said?’

  ‘No, it’s like a blur,’ Ren said. ‘Sounds...but I can’t discern or make sense of them. I’m not giving you much to go on.’

  ‘No,’ the constable agreed. ‘But I will ask around, see if anyone knows anything. Thank you for the descriptions. I will let you know if I learn anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ren said.

  The constable stood. Ren rang the bell and Mrs Ross showed him out.

  ‘He won’t discover anything,’ Jamie said after the door closed. ‘He doesn’t have the mind for it.’

  Ren shrugged and then winced. He was much improved, but some movements still hurt.

  Jamie stood, as though to leave.

  ‘You could review that gypsum experiment with me?’ Ren suggested, suddenly not wanting to be alone with his own circling thoughts.

  ‘I would like to do so, but I have something more pertinent and pressing to accomplish now.’

  ‘More pertinent than gypsum?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Jamie said, walking briskly to the door.

  So Ren sat alone again. He had certainly come to a sorry pass when he had actually requested information about bloody gypsum only to be rejected.

  He wished he was well enough to ride.

  Nagging thoughts circled his brain. Ideas for Graham Hill, thoughts of Beth, memories of his night with her, memories of that night in the woods, Beth’s words, Mrs Cridge’s words: There is only one person whose opinion and respect matters in life. Words, thoughts, ideas jumbled into a mad chaos so that he felt his head must explode.

  He tried to read but gave up, laying down the book and leaning back so that he stared up at the ceiling. It had a crack resembling either the boot of Italy or a dog’s hind leg. And now he was seeing random limbs.

  As a child, his thoughts had sometimes felt this way; ideas and concepts spinning out of control, the very eagerness of his ideas rendering them incomprehensible.

  Painting had helped.

  He hadn’t painted since that one failed attempt. But he remembered now how he had wanted to paint as he had stumbled through that blackened night. The regret had been huge, the feeling of a life wasted.

  So what stopped him now? He certainly had nothing better to do. After a moment of indecision, he stood stiffly, aware of an awakening...an eagerness.

  On exiting the library, he ran into Mrs Ross in the hallway.

  ‘Don’t you be hurting yourself now,’ she said, her round face crinkling with worry. ‘The doctor said you were to sit still.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m seeing dogs and boots. Besides, I am not intending to do cartwheels down the hallway.’

  ‘I am glad of that, but I doubt that seeing things will encourage the doctor.’

  ‘Then the doctor will have to remain dispirited.’

  * * *

  Ren took the familiar back staircase to the nursery where he’d played as a child when visiting Allington. He stepped inside. It was dim with all the draperies drawn and had the stillness of a room long disused. He opened the curtains. Dust motes shimmered and danced within the shaft of morning sunlight.

  He went to the cupboard where the paints and brushes had always been kept. He inhaled. It smelled wonderful, rich with the familiar scents of paint and turpentine. He pulled out brushes, charcoal, his old artist’s palette. He had loved that palette. It had fit so perfectly into his childish hand.

  Taking out each item, he laid them carefully on the table. He touched the brushes
. He felt the heft of the smooth wooden handles in his hands and the prickle of the bristles against his fingertips. He touched the circles of dried paint, dusty polka dots on the palette and then eyed the white, blank potential of the empty page.

  And then he felt it—that urge, that need to paint. It was almost visceral, like salivation at the sight of food.

  The relief, the joy surprised him with its intensity. It was physical. His whole body relaxed as though he had been bracing himself either to feel nothing or to resist and now, now his breath came deeper, his shoulders felt looser and his fingers eager.

  He grabbed the paper and charcoal, taking both to the low table beside the window. He’d sketch, he decided, smoothing out the paper with his good arm. He could not wait to bring out the easel or mix paints.

  Pulling the paper forward, he ran a tentative, grey line across its width. That single line was enough. All hesitation left as he sketched with the hunger of a starving man. He sketched the horse standing in the far corner of the field. He sketched the stable. He sketched the large oak tree and the small wizened silver birch. He did not stop. It seemed he did not breathe. It felt like it did when he rode and rode and rode—as though he was immersing himself into something that was bigger than he was, dwarfing his pain and his emptiness.

  The knock startled him. He felt as though he was being awakened from a long sleep. Everything seemed different and he found himself looking around the room as though it were an unfamiliar landscape.

  ‘Did you desire luncheon, my lord?’ Munson intoned.

  ‘Luncheon?’ he said blankly. ‘No, I don’t have time.’

  ‘You are not eating, my lord?’ Disapproval laced his tone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should I bring something up, my lord?’

  ‘What? Yes, I suppose so,’ he directed.

  ‘Yes, my lord. What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ham or cheese. And I need oil paints.’

  ‘We have some, my lord.’

  ‘They must be a decade old.’ Ren said.

  ‘No, my lord, Mrs Cridge sent a note both here and to Graham Hill instructing us to get some. She thought they might be needed, although I will admit to being puzzled. Anyhow, they are here.’

 

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