“No fever?” Meredith inquired.
“I feel almost entirely myself,” Hamilton interjected, “with only some stiffness remaining.” He managed a reassuring smile for Meredith before turning to the physician. “Well, I daresay we are finished here. I thank you for your time, doctor.” The physician remained silent in his chair, as though awaiting his tea.
Meredith’s shoulders fell. “There is nothing else, I trust?”
The doctor scrubbed a hand around his unshaved jaw. “Well, Lady Woolcott, to answer your question, Mr. Hamilton is taking longer than expected to heal,” he said finally. “And I don’t quite know why, given the slight nature of the wound.”
Hamilton considered it. “My constitution has never been particularly strong.”
The doctor set his hands over his knees and drummed his fingers for a moment. “Your predisposition may indeed play a role in your convalescence. Interesting, you are not putrid, feverish, or swollen about the lymph nodes.” Codger waggled his head from side to side, equivocally. “I should recommend then, no strenuous activities for the next while, despite the fact that your leg appears to be on the mend. You can put your full weight on the limb, I take it?”
Hamilton gave a terse nod. “Not entirely. But almost. So you see, it is just this weakness, or perhaps I might call it a malaise.”
Dr. Codger threw up his hands. “No worries. You will be entirely well as long as you do not overexert yourself, young man.”
Meredith exhaled audibly, sliding forward in her chair, her fingers braced on the arms. “I shall see to it personally, Dr. Codger. I feel somewhat responsible.” The doctor knew some of the story about the attack outside Burlington House.
The doctor added cheerfully, “Every man needs a nursemaid at some time in his life, certainly. Now not total bed rest, of course. Simply no vigorous activity of any kind and a bland diet—beef broth, well-cooked vegetables and the like.”
“He will do as you say,” Meredith said, as Hamilton looked grimly over both their heads.
“I suppose it is for the best if I am to fully recover,” he added, much subdued.
“We’re finished then.” Codger grasped his satchel.
Hamilton rose from the bed, suddenly eager. “If you could perhaps wait for Lady Woolcott in the vestibule, just for a moment, doctor. I have something I should like to discuss with her.” His concern to observe the proprieties was obvious.
Snapping his satchel closed, the doctor squinted at them both, murmuring something indistinct under his breath before shuffling his way to the door with a wave over his shoulder. “Take your time. Take your time. I shall wait for you outside, Lady Woolcott, and perhaps I can secure you a hansom when you and Mr. Hamilton have concluded your conversation.” His footsteps receded as he carefully made his way out of the room and down the hallway stairs.
“I thought he would never leave,” Hamilton confessed.
“Dr. Codger is thorough, no doubt.” The windows were thin and Meredith could hear the throaty yell of a fishmonger on the street below. She smoothed her skirt and looked at Hamilton expectantly. “I am pleased you are well, sir,” she said sincerely. Her gaze was candid.
“I cannot thank you enough for your consideration, Lady Woolcott.” He blinked behind his glasses, looking suddenly boyishly handsome. He was fair and fine featured and with a smile so sincere, Meredith almost looked away. “I do so hope we can put the matter of Burlington House behind us and that you will still consider visiting Cambridge in the near future. Now that the doctor has given me leave, I believe I shall depart within the next few days. I am eager to be home.”
“I am certain you are.”
“I am only concerned that you do not allow the attempted attack on your person the other evening to dull your scholarly triumph, Lady Woolcott. Your paper was magnificent and, as a matter of fact, I have just completed a series of letters to my colleagues at Cambridge detailing your intriguing hypothesis. I am sure they would be eager to hear more about your ideas when you visit.”
He looked at her with such kindness, Meredith suddenly felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She tamped down the twinge of vulnerability which came all too easily to her these days. “What a lovely gesture, Mr. Hamilton. I should indeed like to visit with you and your colleagues in Cambridge,” she answered honestly. Wishing to steer the conversation to safer ground, she added, “I suggest that we journey together, in case you should require assistance as the doctor indicated. We can have one of my servants accompany us.”
She still felt inordinate guilt. He had intervened so gallantly on her behalf. She experienced an unsettling rush of emotion. He was always so kind and gentle, not to say courageous, reminding her of all she’d never had.
He dipped his head toward her, the faded blue of his eyes only inches away. “How very, very kind, Lady Woolcott,” he said, his placid expression like his voice, forbearing and mild. “I should be honored to take you up on your generous offer to accompany me to Cambridge and, if I might be so bold, my uncle has offered to host us both at his country home on the outskirts. Warthaven would offer you many more comforts than staying at a rustic inn and, as well”—a faint ruddiness tinged his pallor—“your reputation would be safeguarded.”
It was a way out. More important, it was a step in the direction Meredith wished to take, away from the past and into the future. There would be no opportunity to think about recent events or the damned toy from the nursery at Claire de Lune. And best of all, she would forget about Archer, about his whispered words and heated touch. She would not lie restless and eager in her bed each night, allowing her desires to rule her mind.
Hamilton and the Fitzwilliam were precisely what she required.
Cambridge University was a world onto itself. The ghosts of Sir Isaac Newton, Wordsworth and Byron passed through the great gate of Trinity College and lingered in the shadows of the Pepys Library. Everything was reached by climbing narrow stairs, or traversing tapered streets filled with the rush of students and dons, their black capes flapping in the wind. Medieval doors opened to the rivers Granta and Cam, which flowed behind the college buildings and curled about the town in the shape of a horseshoe. The town behind the colleges was called the Backs and oftentimes described as the loveliest view in England, with its pristine meadows, gardens and lines of tall trees, green and peaceful.
Poised on the riverbank, Meredith took in the willows and their branches bending gracefully toward the water. A weak sun limned the stone bridges looping across the divide and framing the colleges whose deep-colored brick or stone merged in a glimmering reflection, joining one another along the curve of the river. Meredith was entranced.
Late that morning, she and a fatigued Mr. Hamilton had arrived at Warthaven Park. Perched on the heights above the River Granta, Warthaven’s crenellated silhouette had been visible from afar. It was a rambling structure added to and improved upon over the centuries, the latest Palladian wing pale against the gray winter sky. Its dark shadow cast the gentle valley below in shade. At close range, it was just as impressive, a great pile of granite set over a cobblestoned court where their carriage had come to rest before an enormous door. Their host, Octavius Blythe, Hamilton’s uncle, had not been receiving when they’d arrived, but they were shown to their rooms. Meredith insisted that Hamilton rest while she eagerly finished a hasty toilette and set out to explore the university town, unable to wait until the morrow. They would meet with their host for dinner.
A curricle was put at her disposal and she spent a glorious afternoon retracing the steps her father had taken many years earlier, with a visit to Clare College. After a brief introduction to the officious secretary in a tiny office off the college’s main hall, she was met by a junior don who, he informed her, had heard of her father’s illustrious although short-lived career at Cambridge. With his academic gown fluttering behind him, he insisted upon giving her a tour of the library and the main hall. Martin Carlyle was a plump little man, clearly unaccustomed to spe
aking with a woman who was not only openly interested in the college’s history but could also intelligently discuss the high points of Newton and Tennyson’s tenure. They spoke at length of various books and treatises that had been recently produced by the college, many of which Meredith was familiar with. The subjects ranged far and wide until Carlyle’s eyes widened when he learned of Meredith’s recent presentation at Burlington House.
“You understand, the lecture is in its earliest stages,” she clarified modestly. “It was the result of an extended trip to Egypt, Rashid, more specifically,” she amended, her mind going back to the hot sun and the hard earth and, reluctantly, to her time with Lord Archer. She gave her head a shake and brought herself back to the present by studiously admiring the vaulted ceiling above her, the flying buttresses extending to the sky. They were simply magnificent.
“How very interesting, indeed. When you have finished your research to your satisfaction, Lady Woolcott, please allow me to pass along what will surely be transformed into a monograph to several of our professors here with an interest in antiquities.”
“That is very generous of you.” There was a trace of bitterness in her tone, reflective of the fact that the doors of learning had been closed to women for centuries. She took a short breath, her ambitions paling into insignificance against the backdrop of a university that pre-dated the twelfth century and had produced scholars who had changed the world. “In addition to my father’s time at Clare College,” she said, “I have another connection to Cambridge. An acquaintance here whom you must surely know—Mr. Hector Hamilton, who, from what I understand, is with the Fitzwilliam.”
Carlyle appeared momentarily perplexed, his forehead beading. “Ah, yes, of course. Mr. Hamilton,” he said, his voice echoing off the arches of the cavernous hall. “Do you know him well, Lady Woolcott?”
There was a sudden hesitation in his manner. “I only inquire as we have not seen much of Mr. Hamilton of late, since early last summer, as I recall. I believe he has taken a leave, perhaps even a sabbatical.”
Her look of confusion must have deepened. Carlyle hesitated, as though girding himself for something unpleasant and wondering whether to say more. “Some unfortunate personal matter, no doubt,” he said vaguely.
Perhaps the matter of Cressida Pettigrew, Meredith thought. “I can assure you that Mr. Hamilton is in good health.”
Carlyle was immediately flustered, casting about for a tactful phrase. “Of course, Lady Woolcott. I should not suggest otherwise.” But there was something more. She wished the rotund man would be plain. He was definitely keeping something to himself.
“From what I understand,” she continued, “Mr. Hamilton is quite renowned for his work on The Egyptian Book of the Dead.”
Carlyle’s face brightened. “Quite so, quite so, Lady Woolcott, although I’m afraid ancient languages are outside my ken. I should wish otherwise, given the gems that the Fitzwilliam holds. Perhaps you would allow me to accompany you and Mr. Hamilton on a tour of the collection, once he has returned to the area.”
Shifting her gaze from one of the ornate stained-glass windows, she said, “He has returned to Cambridge, but perhaps you did not know that he is staying with his uncle at Warthaven Park for a time.”
Carlyle hesitated, this time pinning her with a pointed stare. “I did not realize he had an uncle in close proximity—at Warthaven? Are you entirely certain, Lady Woolcott?”
“Absolutely. Why do you ask?”
“Warthaven has been closed for at least a decade with only a groundskeeper present. The Blythe family has been on the Continent for most of that time, or so I’ve been led to understand. There is not much that goes on in Cambridge and its environs that we do not know about,” he answered with a rueful smile.
Meredith returned his smile resolutely, trying to make sense of the situation. “Well then, there will be quite the welcome for Lord Blythe on his recent return this evening at dinner.”
“Strange,” Carlye openly mused. The comment stung somehow.
Meredith studiously ignored her misgivings as she returned to Warthaven to prepare for the evening. There had been something disturbing about her conversation with Carlyle, she thought, walking down the sconce-lit corridor to her suite of rooms on the first floor, at the end of a long gallery that housed family portraits. She paused in front of the painting of Lyon Blythe and his older brother, George, the two of them with their receding chins and hairlines like peas in a pod. Neither bore any resemblance to Mr. Hamilton, she thought. The boys’ parents were next in line, from whom they had inherited tawny hair, brown eyes and acquiline noses. The final portrait showed a gentleman at the summit of his power, his wig tumbling magnificently over his shoulders, his garments rich with seventeenth-century lashings of embroidery and lace. She stared at the paintings, a sudden tightness in her chest. She frowned, a hand at her mouth, discomfited by the suspicious train of her thoughts.
It had taken a full measure of reserve to politely respond to Carlyle’s comments. Not for the first time, Archer’s exhortations rang in her head, and she gave some consideration to Hamilton’s sojourn in London, returning to the issue of his cast-off fiancée and, more revealingly, this seemingly long-lost uncle of his. No doubt, the man would be elderly, if he was Hamilton’s mother’s cousin, as Hamilton had explained, and possibly dull. Reaching her room, she stood in the doorway. She would have preferred spending the evening in her rooms, reviewing several of the books she had purchased at one of Cambridge’s ubiquitous bookstores. Moving to the armoire, she noted that a maid had already unpacked her trunk, but had left the silk-encased kaleidoscope untouched at the bottom of her smaller case. It had become Meredith’s talisman now. Looking away from the scrap of red silk, she drew out a gown of soft crepe the color of slate, with long tight sleeves that buttoned to the wrist. A triple tier of mauve lace at her throat formed the high neckline, an appropriate ensemble for a dinner with an elderly host.
It was with some surprise when she made her way down the main stairs to Warthaven’s cavernous hall that she saw a broad, stocky man leap down from a carriage to the cobblestones and stride through the same doors that had impressed Meredith upon her arrival. With short cropped hair and a thin mouth, he greeted the butler with a curt nod, oblivious to his mud-spattered boots leaving a track on the Oriental carpet.
His gaze settled upon her instantly. “You must be the lovely Lady Meredith Woolcott,” he said, moving toward her, leaving a muddy trail from the entrance hall to the grand staircase. He bowed, tossing his hat to a footman, his small brown eyes assessing. “I am Lord Blythe, but you must call me Octavius. Hamilton, the scamp, did not tell me how beautiful you are, Lady Woolcott.”
Mr. Hamilton’s uncle was not anything like she’d expected, nowhere near the four-score that she’d anticipated. While still murmuring appropriate pleasantries, she was rushed down toward the drawing room, the earl’s grip firm on her elbow.
“I believe it is time for champagne,” Blythe said. “Out in the countryside most of the day in this blasted weather. Could use a drink. Now where’s that milquetoast of a nephew, Hamilton?” he blustered.
“He should be with us in a few moments.” Overstuffed upholstery in hunter green and a roaring fire greeted them. She watched as Blythe rummaged around the drinks table before thrusting a flute into her hands.
He turned to pour himself a drink. “No more malingering, I trust, on his part. Heard about the unfortunate business in London and so I must thank you for having accompanied my nephew to Warthaven Park. Hector does not take after the rest of the family in robustness. All this scholarly nonsense when he should be spending more time out of doors.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, at least I know I will never have to serve as a second to him in some duel.” He gave a bark of a laugh.
Meredith did not immediately answer, sinking into the chaise by the hearth. Blythe tipped the whiskey down his throat, put his glass back down and said to himself, “Fill it up,” and blew o
ut a breath of relief. He was anything but the refined, elderly aristocratic gentleman that Meredith had been led to expect, and resembled the relatives in the hallway portrait gallery not one whit.
Blythe dissolved into one of the chairs near the fire and proceeded to describe the state of his coverts, deer herds and hunting pack, making no mention of his long-term sojourn on the Continent. It was a tour-de-force performance, his observations rambling and without end. By the time Hamilton arrived with the book he claimed he’d been searching for most of the day, Meredith had barely gotten a word in edgewise.
“There you are, Hector. I was about to send an able-bodied footman to rip you out of your bed.” Blythe glanced at him disparagingly. “You look as though a strong wind could knock you over. What have you been up to—other than squiring this beautiful woman about London?”
Hamilton appeared rather bewildered and sank down into one of the chairs farthest away from his uncle, but not before pouring himself a glass of brandy with unsteady hands. “Good to see you again, Uncle Octavius,” he said with stiff formality. “And to answer your question, I have been busy with my convalescence.”
“Enough of that by now, I should hope.”
The barb did not miss its mark. “I am all but myself again, Uncle, so much so that I have been looking forward to our visit. Thank you again for opening Warthaven Park to us.”
The fire burned briskly in the hearth, but Blythe just shook his head, one stocky leg crossed over the other, foot swinging. “A pleasure. I should hope you will show Lady Woolcott the delights of Cambridge. Including the Fitzwilliam, of course.” He turned to Meredith. “Quite the bluestocking, I hear.”
Hamilton cradled his glass between his hands. “Of course. Although I shouldn’t expect you to accompany us, Uncle Octavius, knowing your dislike of musty libraries, museums and such.”
The Deepest Sin Page 22
