The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh

by Bowlin, Chasity

Turning his mount, he headed through the woods toward the road. He wasn’t quite ready to return to the estate yet and taking the longer route would give him time to work up the nerve necessary to have such a soul-searing conversation with her. Letting the horse take the lead, it plodded along at a slow and steady pace, pausing periodically to investigate whatever treats might be growing by the roadside.

  As he rounded a bend, Nicholas drew sharply back on the reins. The body lying face down at the roadside was something of a shock. Dismounting, Nicholas crossed the short distance and felt for a pulse. It was faint and erratic, but still present. Carefully rolling the man onto his back, Nicholas cursed.

  “William Wells, if this is the result of brandy—”

  Wells opened his eyes then. “Cobb. Tim Cobb,” he murmured softly.

  “He struck you?” Nicholas asked, carefully checking him for other injuries.

  “Left the tavern with him… don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “Were you robbed?”

  “Nothing to rob,” the man answered softly and then drifted once more into unconsciousness.

  Cursing, Nicholas managed to hoist him up and drape him across the back of the horse. It wasn’t an ideal way to transport a patient, but he had little choice in the matter. With his patient as secured as possible, Nicholas mounted the horse once more and sped toward Castle Black. Any thoughts of solitude or further rumination on his possible future with Viola would simply have to wait.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Viola descended the stairs, there was quite a bit of chaos. Servants were running to and fro and Lady Agatha appeared quite disturbed. She stood in the foyer, her hands clasped to her breasts and a troubled expression marring her features.

  “Has something happened then? Lady Beatrice is well?” Viola asked, immediately concerned for the woman who had become her friend.

  “She and my grandchild are well,” Lady Agatha answered immediately. “I’m afraid Dr. Warner has discovered a poor man near bludgeoned to death by the roadside. He’s a local fellow, a bit of a drunkard, I fear, but quite amiable. He’s as poor as a church mouse as I understand it so what reason anyone might have to harm him is simply beyond me!”

  “Where is he? Does Dr. Warner need our assistance?” Viola asked.

  “They’ve taken him to a small room just off the kitchen. I’m not certain if he requires assistance, but I am certain he would be glad of your company,” Lady Agatha offered. “He appeared quite distressed when he brought the gentleman in. This is so very much like what happened to poor Edmund! But that culprit was found. What violence we’ve had here!”

  Leaving Lady Agatha to her own devices which were just shy of hysterics, Viola made her way toward the kitchen. She could hear Nicholas giving a list of commands to the staff, items he needed. His tone wasn’t sharp per se, but it was clipped, indicating that whatever injuries his patient had suffered, they were pressing.

  “How can I help?” she asked upon entering.

  He paused then, looked at her, gave a brief nod and said, “Come with me.”

  She followed immediately and without question. Entering the small chamber just off the kitchen, it was equipped with a wash stand, a bed, and two hard-looking chairs. It was clearly a room for working, for tending to the sick, and not for taking one’s rest. The spartan quality of it reminded her of the farm in Aberdeen.

  “I’m going to turn him over and I need you to hold him while I clean the wound. Don’t let him thrash about it. One of the maids will be in here to help,” Nicholas said.

  Viola did as he asked, holding the injured man by his shoulders after Nicholas turned him on his side. She could see the wealth of dried blood coating his hair and skin. She could also smell ale and perhaps even brandy upon him.

  “Lady Agatha says it was an attack, but is it possible he simply fell in his drunkenness?” It was a reasonable question, she felt, but Nicholas’ immediately shook his head in response. She hated to imagine that there was such violence so close to them, although she certainly knew first hand of its existence. But this sort of crime, footpads accosting hapless people on the road, was something else altogether.

  Nicholas paused in his ministrations and looked up at her. His expression was severe and telling for it. “He was conscious on the road… just long enough to disclose the identity of his attacker. A man named Timothy Cobb.”

  Viola’s blood ran cold at the mere mention of it. She was well acquainted with Cobb. He’d committed any number of dirty deeds that her late husband had considered beneath him and, no doubt, still completed similar tasks for Randall. That thought gave her pause and created a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Is this man connected to you at all… or to me?”

  “He identified you at the beach after I’d pulled you from the water,” Nicholas said, not looking up from his task. He was intent upon cleansing the wound.

  “Timothy Cobb worked for my husband,” Viola admitted haltingly. “He was Percival’s henchman for lack of a better word. If a tenant was late with their rent or if he was owed something by someone not of his class, Cobb was his debt collector. And he would collect, by fair means or foul. I also imagine that there were other far less respectable things that Cobb did for him, as well.”

  Nicholas didn’t stop his surprisingly gentle but sure strokes as he swabbed the wound, wiping away the blood and dirt gathered there. Nor did he look up. Yet from the tension that settled about him, she knew that he understood perfectly what she had implied. “You think Cobb acted on Randall’s orders?”

  “I cannot say. Only that it is a possibility… to what end, I cannot even guess,” Viola admitted. “But it seems a rare coincidence that the man who identified me as Lady Ramsleigh would be attacked by a man who worked for my husband unless the two events are connected in some manner.”

  Nicholas said nothing further, just continued washing blood away from the wound. When at last he’d finished, he sighed heavily. “The blood is mostly old. The wound has scabbed over and will not require stitching. The swelling is mostly internal, I fear. Very little is present outside the skull and that is not a good sign. With head wounds, it is always better to bleed out than in. The brain cannot tolerate the increased pressure within the skull without being compromised in some way.”

  Viola’s heart was heavy as she eyed the poor man’s prone form. “Is he… will he recover at all?”

  Nicholas did look up then, meeting her gaze directly and clearly, but his expression was impossible to read. “I do not know the answer to that. It is beyond my ability to predict. These types of injuries can resolve with no lasting effect or they may alter his functioning forever. At this point, I can only hope his skill isn’t fractured. I’ve no notion how long Wells had been lying there but he doesn’t show the telltale blackening of the eyes that I’ve seen in the past with more severe head injuries.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do for him?”

  “Try to keep him comfortable, make certain the wound doesn’t begin bleeding again… monitor him for signs of delirium, but I’m afraid that’s all. Medicine is not yet advanced enough to manage the inner workings of the brain or truly catastrophic injuries, I’m afraid. But for now, I’m going to leave him in the hands of the servants while you and I discuss why Timothy Cobb would have reason to attack one of the men involved in your rescue.”

  As they exited the small chamber, a maid rushed in. “The solicitor is here, my lady.” The girl bobbed a hasty curtsy at a dark glower from the housekeeper.

  “Our conversation will have to wait,” she said. “But perhaps you’d join me for this one? I confess to needing all the support I can muster in hearing what I fear will be difficult news.”

  *

  Frustrated by the interruption but well aware of the significance of what was to transpire, Nicholas nodded his agreement. Walking behind her, he noted that her posture had grown rigid, her shoulders back and her head held up as if she were about to face an executioner. As they ne
ared the main hall, he placed a gentle hand on her elbow and stopped her. “This man is on your side.”

  “That may well be, but it could still be the losing side. And maybe I should lose. Maybe the best thing for Tristan would be to have nothing whatsoever to do with the Grantham or the Ramsleigh title… and that house of horrors I was forced to endure,” she hissed. “I was so certain of my path when I left Aberdeen to return here and every day that certainty fades more and more. What if I’m wrong to pursue this course?”

  Nicholas looked at her. He saw the confusion and uncertainty in her eyes. Her son was her entire world, as well he should be. “You are intelligent, wise and unaccountably brave… whatever you decide, will be for the right reasons and will be dealt with in a manner befitting your character and the kind of man you will raise your son to be. Wherever you are planted, my dear Viola, you will bloom, because that is simply your way.” It wasn’t precisely an admission of his feelings, but there could be no clearer expression of his admiration for her.

  Looking down into her upturned face, Nicholas called on every bit of strength he possessed not to give in to temptation. Never in his life had he longed so desperately to kiss a woman. But it was not the time or the place. Those moments were for later, when they were locked in the safety of her chamber, far from prying eyes and the judgement of others.

  “You should not say such things where they can be overheard,” she admonished softly. “I am not the sort of woman most would see you with.”

  “Is it that, Viola? Or am I not the sort of man others would expect to see you with?”

  She frowned. “I ran away from my husband… abandoned him and had a child while living in exile. You are well respected here, admired. The differences in our stations would be much less of a scandal than the differences in our levels of notoriety. I would not see your association with me do you harm.”

  “That is something else for us to discuss later… for now, the solicitor is waiting,” he said gruffly. Whatever the man had to say, it could irrevocably alter the course of any future they had together. The least they could do was hear him out.

  They said nothing further to one another, but made their way silently to Graham’s study where the solicitor awaited them. Graham bade them enter at Nicholas’ soft knock. Opening the door for her, he allowed her to enter first and followed close behind. If anyone thought their closeness odd or perhaps telling, no one would comment on it.

  “Lady Viola Grantham, wife to the late Lord Ramsleigh, Dr. Warner, this is Mr. Pritchard, my solicitor. He’s been well apprised of your situation, Lady Viola, and has made the necessary inquiries to advise you on your next course of action,” Graham said. The introductions were as abrupt and to the point as most of his dealings.

  Mr. Pritchard, in no way shocked or scandalized by the less than perfect manners of a lord of the realm, simply rose to his feet, sketched a bow to Viola and then offered his seat to her. When she’d settled herself in it, the tiny and bespectacled man began his long dissertation of what, precisely, he’d been looking in to.

  “The law states quite implicitly that any child born to a wife during her marriage to her husband legitimizes the child, so long as the husband does not disavow the child as a bastard. In order to do so, he would have to show evidence that he was unable to complete his marital duties, as it were. So, regardless of any questions that might be raised about the boy’s parentage, as long as he was born during your husband’s life or he was born no more than nine months after you’d left your husband or nine months after your husband passed,” the man paused, coughed uncomfortably, and stared resolutely at the floor. Then he blushed profusely as he asked, “How many months did pass between your departure and the child’s birth?”

  “Seven months, Mr. Pritchard. My son was conceived prior to me leaving my husband. It was because I carried a child and feared for his life and mine given the violent tendencies of the Grantham men that I fled,” she answered softly.

  It took great skill to tell the truth while still hiding it, Nicholas thought, and yet she did just that. She didn’t tell an outright lie by saying that Tristan was her husband’s child, nor did she state that her husband was the man who posed a danger to her. Both were carefully implied and the listener could draw their own conclusions.

  “I see. And is there evidence to bear out the fact that you were reasonably frightened?”

  “A woman fled that house with me, helped me to make my escape. She’d served as my maid and can attest to the fact that I was pushed down a flight of stairs resulting in the premature birth of the first child I’d conceived during my marriage. Is all this really necessary?” Viola demanded clearly distressed at having to bare such intimate details in front of all of them.

  “It could be,” the solicitor replied placatingly. “I cannot say whether the man who currently calls himself Lord Ramsleigh will challenge you in the courts. But if he does, it is precisely these sorts of questions that will be asked, much to my chagrin and embarrassment. At this point, he will be challenging you for the title alone, as the estate is all but bankrupt.”

  Nicholas watched her chin come up, her jaw clench and he saw the bitter flash of anger and disappointment in her eyes.

  “Bankrupt?” she demanded. “How can he be bankrupt? I was to inherit a sum of thirty thousand pounds! Surely even he could not run through so much in only a matter of months!”

  “Your hus—forgive me, your late husband, received your inheritance in its entirety. He then gifted your father a sum of fifteen thousand pounds. There is no recourse to recover that sum.”

  “Except that her father was the person who initiated the plot to have her declared dead and claim the inheritance when he knew precisely where she was,” Nicholas protested. “It’s blatant fraud!”

  Mr. Pritchard nodded enthusiastically. “It is! It most assuredly is, and perhaps a refund of this settlement can be arranged privately with Mr. Daventry. I can only imagine that he would very much wish to avoid the scandal associated with such deplorable acts. I strongly urge Dr. Warner and you, as well, Lady Ramsleigh, to pursue these matters outside of the courts if possible… not because they cannot be won, but because the potential cost of them to your reputation and your standing in society would be irreparable.”

  “And if I elect not to challenge Randall, at all? If I decide to raise my son in peace and avoid the taint of all things related to the Grantham men?” she asked.

  Mr. Pritchard’s lips firmed. “I’m afraid that isn’t really possible. There was a gentleman involved in your rescue, a Mr. Wells I believe, who has been entertaining travelers at the local inn with stories of the good doctor’s heroic rescue and your resurrection, as it were. On my way here, I happened upon two elderly ladies traveling to a local spa, and they recounted the tale to me at great length and likely no small amount of embellishment. You are notorious now, Lady Ramsleigh, and as such, the subject of great scrutiny. Unless you plan to shuffle your child off to be raised by others and to change his name entirely, the truth will come out.”

  It was the missing piece, Nicholas realized. William Wells had been attacked and left for dead because he was spreading the truth of Viola’s return. If Randall was attempting to keep it a secret, it meant he likely intended to do away with her, as well.

  “I think Randall is plotting to kill you,” he said softly. “If he knows about Tristan, at least he doesn’t know that he’s here. Not yet, anyway. We need to be certain it stays that way.”

  “What?” Mr. Pritchard gasped.

  Nicholas didn’t even look at the man. His gaze was locked on Viola who had grown pale. But she didn’t appear shocked or in any way in disbelief. There was, in her face, complete acceptance of the notion that her late husband’s nephew, the man who had fathered her child by force, meant to see both her and her son dead.

  “William Wells is here in this house right now… I found him on the road this morning. He’d been attacked and left for dead. Currently, he’s suffering from
a head injury but I cannot say whether or not he will recover from it. He did confide in me in his last moment of consciousness that his attacker was a man by the name of Timothy Cobb,” Nicholas said, addressing the small and now very nervous solicitor.

  “And Timothy Cobb was frequently employed by my late husband to complete more—unsavory, as it were—tasks,” Viola finished. “I imagine he is continuing in the same capacity for Randall.”

  Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat uncomfortable. “Yes, I quite imagine he is. Under the circumstances, Lady Ramsleigh, I will return to London and submit a letter to your father requesting the return of the funds settled on him by your late husband, as they were, in fact, not his to settle. I will offer to him to forgo the pursuit of legal recourse in exchange for his agreement, if that is acceptable to you?”

  “It is,” she said. “And submit a letter to Randall’s solicitor, as well, while you are at it. Inform him that I have returned with my son and the rightful heir to the Ramsleigh title and fortune. It was what Percival wanted, after all.”

  Pritchard nodded. “As you wish, my lady. I do hope you are prepared for the ugliness that could ensue from this.”

  Viola stood, shoulders back and her head held high as a queen, “My dear, Mr. Pritchard, there has been naught but ugliness from the moment that my father bartered me to the late Lord Ramsleigh. I assure you, I am fully aware of what I am undertaking. If you will excuse me, I am going to check on my son… and Mr. Pritchard, I would not ask you to lie but, under the circumstances, it might be best not to be forthcoming with the fact that Tristan has now joined me at Castle Black.”

  “It will be handled with the utmost discretion, Lady Ramsleigh,” the little man assured her. “Copies of all correspondence will be sent to you here in care of Lord Blakemore.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard.”

  Viola turned to leave the room. As she did, she locked gazes with Nicholas. He could see the fear in her eyes. It was one thing to know that Randall was capable of murder. It was quite another to be confronted with the very real evidence that he was, in fact, plotting it at that very moment.