The Earl Takes All

by Lorraine Heath

  He was always so punctual. She didn’t know why she had this insane urge to listen for his footsteps. They were muffled by the carpet but still she heard them, marking off his long strides. They went silent, and she knew he had stopped right outside her door. He always did. It was madness to think that she could feel his gaze on the wood, hear his breathing. Madness to believe his scent somehow permeated the room to tease her nostrils.

  Not wanting him to know she was there, she held her breath, and yet she feared that he did know, that he was as aware of her on this side of the door as she was of him on the other. She wondered if he was tempted to knock, to call out to her, to flatten his palm against the wood—­in the same spot where her own hand rested.

  She heard the unmistakable sound of him carrying on, his steps brisk and quick. Releasing her breath on a little shudder, she pressed her forehead to the door and waited. Waited until she heard the rapid click of the nanny going down the back stairs. Yes, she knew the nanny always left.

  Slowly, carefully, she opened the door, peered out into the empty hallway. With far more confidence than she felt, she straightened her shoulders and stepped out. After glancing around once more, she lifted the hem of her skirt and crept on bare feet down the carpeted hallway to the nursery. The door was open. It always remained open.

  She got as close to it as she could without being seen and pressed her back to the wall. The creak of the rocking chair wafted through the doorway, and she envisioned him holding her daughter cradled in his arms as he swayed back and forth. She closed her eyes and listened.

  The half hour that Edward spent with Allie in his arms was his favorite time of the day, and not just because his niece blinked up at him with such big blue eyes. Her mother’s blue eyes. But because he had her mother’s attention as well. He could see a quarter of an inch of black skirt creeping past the doorjamb, and he knew before he was done it would be a full inch as Julia leaned closer to the threshold in order to hear him. It wasn’t until the third day that he’d noticed the edge of her gown. Until then he’d given all his attention to Allie, but on that particular afternoon she’d fallen asleep. He’d looked up, seen the bombazine, and continued waxing on.

  “Let’s see, Allie, where were we?” He was so tempted to call out and ask Julia where he had ended yesterday’s tale, but he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t appreciate the teasing. She would no doubt cease her scurrying down the hallway to secretly join them as he wove his story. That she was there gave him hope that perhaps at some point they could at least get on civilly. They needed to, for Allie’s sake.

  “Ah, yes, the great and magnificent steed that oversees all the animals has discovered that trouble is afoot. I think we should give him a name. Shall we call him Greymane, the Grey in honor of your father? I think he’d like that. Badger, who is in fact a badger and wears a green waistcoat, is telling Greymane that he saw Stinker the Weasel, with his beady eyes and his sharp jagged teeth and his long pointy nose, lurking about behind the trees. They think he’s up to no good, planning to ruin the picnic that Princess Allie is planning to have for all her forest friends in the clearing with the yellow wildflowers.”

  He continued to weave the story of the beautiful princess and her noble friends. And the jealous and selfish weasel that wanted to ruin everything. Rocking, he talked until an inch of black skirt became visible. He did wish it was red, blue, or green. But she was truly in mourning now, fully aware that she was a widow.

  Each morning, an hour before dawn, unknown to her, he quietly followed her as she made her way to the mausoleum. Hidden within the trees, he would stand guard. By the time she headed back, the sky was lighting to a pale blue so he couldn’t follow her as closely. At least she was making the trek when the servants were too busy to notice. It might make them wonder why she was suddenly devoted to early morning walks and time spent within the family’s resting place.

  Other than that, he only caught a glimpse of her skirt when he rocked Allie. He was more the fool for taking pleasure in a scrap of cloth simply because it belonged to her. He continued to eat alone, to sit in his library alone, to play billiards alone. In the late hours of the night when sleep eluded him, he worked on the story he was writing for Allie about whimsical creatures that wore clothes, spoke, and behaved in a manner that very much resembled humans.

  Looking down on her now, asleep in his arms, he knew he would write her an entire bookshelf of stories. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the skirt disappear. Three seconds later he heard the rapid tapping of the nanny’s shoes as she entered the corridor just beyond the door.

  Standing, he carried Allie to her crib and carefully set her down in it. She opened her eyes wide, waved her arms and feet. “See you tomorrow, little one.”

  With a final word to the nanny, he walked into the hallway. Julia’s scent was stronger now. Like a desperate man, he inhaled deeply, taking his fill. He carried on until he reached her door. Halting, he placed his hand on the wood. He didn’t know why it made him feel closer to her. It was a silly, stupid thing to do, yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  Then he headed down the stairs into the lonely emptiness that was now his life.

  Her heart thundering, Julia awoke to crying. For a moment she thought perhaps her own sobbing had disturbed her sleep, because her cheeks were damp and now there was only silence so it must have been her crying out that brought her from the depths of slumber.

  Laying there in the dark, in the quiet, she stared at the canopy, striving to determine what was amiss. During the past week, she’d slept fitfully. She was tired of the sorrow, the ache in her chest that felt like a physical bruising, the doubts, the guilt. Tonight she’d had enough and gone to the bedchamber previously designated for Edward and taken a bottle of brandy from the little cabinet where he kept spirits. She’d sipped until she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Then she’d clambered into bed and succumbed to the allure of welcome oblivion.

  But now she was awake, and she had the sense that something important had lured her from the dream in which she was continually running toward Albert only to have Edward constantly stepping in front of her, blocking her path. Or was she running toward Edward? She couldn’t even tell them apart in her dreams.

  Sitting up, she pressed her elbow to her knee, her forehead to her hand. Her thinking was muddled, as though she were striving to make her way through a ball of cobwebs. In her dream, she’d heard crying in the distance. She’d begun racing toward the sobbing but the faster she ran the farther away it became, until it faded to nothing. And the silence, a portent of bad tidings, had terrified her.

  Alberta. It had been Alberta bawling. In the dream? No, outside of the dream. Bawling until her cries invaded the dream. If not for the brandy dulling everything, she would have woken up sooner, would have realized where the crying originated. Flinging back the covers, Julia scrambled out of bed. She was certain Nanny had soothed Alberta, but still she had a strong need to hold her daughter to her breast, to comfort her, to let her know that nothing would hurt her.

  She flew out of her bedchamber, down the hallway to the nursery. Nanny was sitting in a chair with a lamp burning low and a book in her hands. Not Alberta. She wasn’t holding Alberta.

  Edward was. Lying on Nanny’s bed, his eyes closed, Alberta on his chest, her knees tucked beneath her so her tiny bum was sticking up in the air. Pillows formed a barrier on either side of his body so if she rolled she wouldn’t roll far. Not that Julia thought she was likely to move at all. One of his large hands was splayed over her back, holding her in place.

  Setting the book aside, Nanny got up and approached her, tiptoeing. “She was crying something awful. I couldn’t soothe her. The earl came in, none too happy. Said he could hear her howling in his library. Thought he was going to sack me on the spot. Instead he took her, placed her against his chest, and she quieted right down.”

  He’d come to
her rescue, Julia realized, while she had been suffering from too much drink to do anything but stir to life sluggishly. How had Edward managed to live like this for years, drinking to excess every night? Waking up was most unpleasant.

  “Go find a bed in another chamber so you can get some sleep,” she told the nanny.

  “I shouldn’t leave her.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Julia waited until the woman was gone to sit in a chair near the bed. The sight of the tall, powerful man sprawled over the small bed with her daughter resting near his heart made her want to weep. She did not want to be so moved. Damn the weasel for coming to the princess’s rescue. Damn her own heart for its gladness at seeing him—­she thought it might swell beyond the confines of her chest—­when she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him for days.

  He’d lost weight. Shadows rested beneath his eyes. Even though he was asleep he appeared tired. Was it fair to punish him for doing what Albert had asked of him? No, the punishment was for the six weeks when he’d held the truth from her and charmed her instead.

  If you got to know him better, I think you’d like him, Albert had once told her. The problem was, she liked him far too much.

  She wasn’t going to ask for the cottage in the Cotswolds, because he was correct, blast him. Alberta belonged here. Nowhere else would she be more loved, more protected, more spoiled.

  Unfortunately, she feared that nowhere else would she herself be more miserable.

  Chapter 17

  It had been a wretched winter. Edward cursed the frigid winds that whipped around him as he dismounted in front of the village tea shop, then chose some rather strong words to fling at himself for braving what surely had to be the last storm before spring for something as whimsical as strawberry tarts. They weren’t even for him. As nearly a week and a half had passed and Julia had yet to communicate with him in any manner whosoever, he knew she was still grieving, and he was hoping the tarts might cheer her, lessen her disgust with him. Or they would make her angry, but her fury was better than her sorrow.

  The bell atop the door tinkled as he stepped inside and welcomed the warmth. The only other customer was a young boy, barefoot without a jacket. What sort of parents would be so negligent? He was of a mind to have a word with them.

  “Please,” the boy pleaded, holding up a fist that appeared to be closed around a coin. “Me mum’s hungry.”

  “Sorry, love,” Mrs. Potts said, “but a ha’penny isn’t going to buy you a meat pie.”

  “But she’s gonna die.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Mrs. Potts looked at Edward. “Good day, Lord Greyling. What would please you?”

  He understood no profit was to be made in giving away food, but surely exceptions could be made. On the other hand, if she gave something away, she’d have all manner of beggar at her door.

  Edward knelt before the boy, who he put at around six years of age, surprised to see how flushed his face was. It wasn’t that warm in here. “What’s wrong with your mother, lad?”

  “She’s sick.”

  “Probably influenza,” Mrs. Potts said. “Lot of people coming down with it.”

  He touched his palm to the boy’s forehead. “He’s far too hot.”

  “He shouldn’t be in here, then. Be off with you, lad. Go on home.”

  Edward held up his hand to halt her hysterics, wrapped his other hand around the child’s bony shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Johnny. Johnny Lark.”

  “How many in your family?”

  “Four.”

  “Box up four meat pies, Mrs. Potts. Put them on my account.” Removing his coat, he wrapped it around Johnny Lark and lifted him into his arms. The lad weighed nothing at all. Taking the box Mrs. Potts placed on the counter, he said, “Box up four strawberry tarts. I’ll return for them shortly.” He turned his attention to the boy. “Show me where you live, Johnny.”

  It was a small cottage at the edge of the village. Based upon the lines of rope strung along the back that he could see as they neared, Edward assumed Johnny’s mother was a washerwoman. Setting the lad on his feet on the stoop, he knocked on the door. When no one called out to him, he opened it and was nearly knocked back by the foul stench of sickness.

  “Mrs. Lark,” he announced as he stepped inside.

  On a bed in the corner, a woman with tangled red hair pushed herself up. “What’d ye do, Johnny?”

  Her voice was scratchy, raw, and weak. Her face glistened with sweat; her eyes were dull.

  “He acquired some food for you. I’m the Earl of Greyling.”

  “Oh, m’lord.”

  Edward rushed forward, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, taken aback by the heat emanating through the flannel. “Don’t get up. I’m here to see after you.”

  “But you’re a lord.”

  “Who was rather impressed by your son’s resourcefulness.” Turning away, he took his coat from the boy, draped it over the back of a chair at the table. Opening the box, he set a meat pie on the table. “You need to eat, Johnny.”

  “But me mum—­”

  “I’ll take care of your mum.”

  A little red-­haired girl slightly younger than the boy crawled out from beneath the bed. Edward placed a pie on the table for her, lifted her onto a chair. He found spoons for them. The fourth member of the family was still in the cradle. He was going to have to mash up the meat pie for that little one. He needed to locate some milk as well.

  He took a pie to the woman, offered it to her.

  She shook her head. “It won’t stay down.”

  “You need to try, even if it’s no more than a couple of bites. What does the doctor say about your condition?”

  “He won’t come here. I got no way to pay him.”

  “He hasn’t been here at all, then?”

  She shook her head. “Wouldn’t even come when me husband was dying last week. Said there weren’t nothing he could do. Ben died. Undertaker came, took him and the last of me coin. Then I got sick. Who’s going to take care of me bairns when I’m gone?”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He placed the pie in her hands. “Eat what you can. I’m going to fetch the physician.” He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.

  “I’m telling you—­he won’t come.”

  Edward stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “For me, he’d better damn well come.”

  He stormed out of the house, barely noticing the drizzling rain that had started. When he’d seen the sickly woman, the babe, the little girl crawling out from beneath the bed, a near panic had hit him as Julia flashed through his mind, alone and sentenced to squalid conditions. He knew that if she decided not to remain at Evermore, she would not be living in a hovel. She would have the cottage in the Cotswolds, an army of servants, and funds to ensure that she and Allie never went without. He would set up a trust. He needed to see to that immediately. As well as a will. He needed to ensure they were provided for. It didn’t anger him that Albert hadn’t seen to those details. He’d been a young, virile man. Why would he think death would come before he even reached his thirtieth year? But Death honored neither calendar nor clock, and Edward had no plans to be caught unawares when his time came.

  He’d been striving to get all his holdings in order, to take stock of all that came to him with the title. His brother had left things in relatively good order, but still he had so much to learn, so much to comprehend. While he was not lord of the village, he could not help but feel as though he had a role in the care of its citizens. He was the largest landowner in the area, the only man for miles with a title. Those two aspects alone came with responsibilities that he had no intention of shirking.

  When he arrived at the physician’s residence, he pounded on the door. It was opened by a small wom
an with hair the color of corn silk. Her eyes widened.

  “Lord Greyling, you shouldn’t be out and about in weather such as this. Come in.”

  Removing his hat, he stepped over the threshold. “Is your husband home?”

  “He’s at Mr. Monroe’s lancing a boil. He shouldn’t be long if you’d like to wait.”

  “I shall do that, thank you.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I don’t wish to trouble you.”

  “It will be no trouble.”

  “Then, yes, thank you, I would welcome it.”

  “Please, take a seat.”

  “I’m drenched, Mrs. Warren. I have no desire to ruin your furniture. I’ll stand.”

  “As you wish; I shan’t be long.”

  Warren on the other hand seemed to take his time. It was nearly an hour and two cups of tea later before he walked through the door. His eyes widened. “Greyling, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Not so pleasant. I’ve just come from Mrs. Lark’s. She’s unwell.”

  “Yes, influenza.”

  “How would you know? You haven’t seen her.”

  Warren raised his chin. “Half the village has succumbed to the disease.”

  “What is the treatment?”

  “There is none except to let it run its course.”

  “Her husband died.”

  He lowered that chin that Edward had a good mind to punch. “The disease can be quite . . . unforgiving.”

  “She has three small children. I believe the boy to be fevered as well.”

  “It is contagious, I’m afraid.”

  “So is it her lack of funds or your lack of courage that prevents you from going to her?”

  The chin up again, the nose at a haughty angle. “I resent the implication that I am a coward.”

  “Good. Then it’s lack of money. I can deal with a man who is absent of compassion. You will go with me now to see her. You will then call on anyone who is ill. If they cannot afford to pay for your time, then you will come to me for payment. You will also let it be known that I will pay handsomely anyone who is willing to nurse those who have no one to care for them.”