Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  "Nell?" her mother whispered. "How is he?"

  "Worse, I think."

  Her mother came into the room. "You ought to be abed. Arthur—"

  "Nobody deserves to go like this, Mama."

  Lady Ashton reached to smooth the black locks at his forehead and drew back from the heat. "Have you sent for the doctor?"

  "I told Mary to ask one of the hostlers to go." She looked up. "There must be something—"

  Her mother considered being brutally frank, of telling Elinor that she'd never heard of anyone recovering from such a massive infection, but there was something in the younger woman's face that gave her pause. For three weeks, Elinor had grieved herself to the point of illness herself, and now there was Longford. Whether the earl could live or not, it seemed to her that he could for the time being provide her daughter with a reason to care about something beyond her own pain, that perhaps God in His mercy had given her the fight for Longford's life.

  "He does not know where he is, Mama."

  "It's the fever." Lady Ashton looked about her. "Where's the basin?"

  "Here—on the floor."

  "He must be cooled. When Charlotte had the fever,

  Dr. Pearson prescribed a soaking in cold water. Of course we could not get Longford into the tub," she added practically. "Fetch—what is that footman's name?"

  "I don't know which you mean," Elinor answered wearily, "and I'd not ask any of them to get up again."

  "Mary then."

  "Mary is afraid he means to die before her eyes."

  "Well, I daresay it's not a very pleasant notion, but it's something that we can all expect." Nonetheless, her mother bent to pick up the porcelain basin and ewer. "At least she can fill this, I should think."

  "There is more water on the stand. I had her bring some before she retired." Elinor looked up, then sighed. "I had thought perhaps he might thirst."

  "And no doubt he does. Would you get it for me, then?"

  When Elinor came back with the pitcher of water, Lady Ashton already had Longford's borrowed nightshirt unbuttoned past his waist. "Help me with this, will you?"

  "Mama! What are you doing?" the girl gasped.

  "Undressing him," her mother replied calmly. "While I should not under ordinary circumstances consider this, I cannot think him in any condition to mind."

  "No, of course not. But—"

  "And unless he is some sort of oddity, he is possessed of nothing we have not seen before," Lady Ashton continued mildly. "Here—we need not remove it completely. We shall wash him to the waist first, cover him, then lift the bottom and do the rest." When Elinor did not move, she asked shortly, "Well—what are you waiting for?"

  "Uh-nothing."

  "There is no time for false modesty, my dear."

  "No—of course not." Elinor dipped the cloth into the cool water and began with Longford's head, wetting his hair over his forehead, then moving over his features down to his chin. Wringing out the cloth again, she did his neck and started to wipe his good shoulder. "I—I am afraid I might hurt him," she said, reddening.

  "Nonsense—the man is insensate."

  "Damn you, Jack," Longford mumbled. "Damn you."

  "But vulgar," Lady Ashton observed. "Here—if you cannot—"

  "No—no." Gingerly, Elinor continued over his chest, stopping at the poultice that had been tied over the drained abscess. Then she moved lower, beneath his ribs to the hard, muscular band beneath. Had he not been in such bad case, she would have been fascinated. "There." She raised her eyes to her mother's face, only to discover that Lady Ashton was engaged in lifting the nightshirt to expose Longford's legs. "Uh—"

  "While you wash the rest, I shall rebutton his gown, Nell," her mother declared matter-of-factly. "And be generous with the water—the wetter you get him, the cooler it will make him."

  His legs were long and well-muscled. Feeling very much as though she violated his privacy, Elinor washed them all the way up. An old wound, possibly the one that Leighton had mentioned that day in the park, had healed just below his groin. A few inches above and he might have bled to death from that. Her hands shook as they crept higher, passing over the curling hair, scarce touching his masculinity, and she averted her eyes, trying not to stare at it. It was difficult to believe that Arthur had ever looked like the man before her. By the time she had managed to drag the wet cloth over the flat, almost concave plain of his belly, she was perspiring from her own nerves.

  "There," she said finally. "I have done it."

  "Damn you, Jack!" the earl said more distinctly. "Damn you to hell for what you do to me!" he shouted.

  "Surely he does not mean his father," Elinor whispered as her mother pulled his nightshirt down again.

  "It's likely he does. From all I ever heard of him, Mad Jack was utterly unprincipled. There were tales—not all of which I credit, of course—that even decent females were not safe around him. Indeed, but—" She stopped. "It does not signify."

  "What doesn't signify?"

  "One should not repeat old rumors, dearest."

  "You witch! You lying, cheating witch!" Longford called out. "You're no better than he is!" His whole body seemed to quiver, then he relaxed. "Get out of my house," he said clearly. Apparently, whoever he addressed spoke back to him in his mind, for he added, "Jack wasn't enough, was he?" Then, "I'll never touch you again—do you hear me?" His voice had risen to a near shout. "Never! No more lies—no more lies! D'you hear me? No more lies!"

  "Lord Longford, you must try to lie still," Lady Ashton told him. "You are but fevered. Nell, get him a bit of the water—just a bit into the corner of his mouth."

  "Here now—what the devil's going on?"

  Both women looked up, startled by Thomas Ashton's voice. "We are trying to tend Longford," Elinor's mother answered quietly. "And do keep your voice down."

  "Keep it down?" he roared. "No, afore God, I will not! Man cannot get a decent night's rest in the place! Tell him not to shout!" He reeled slightly, and his speech, for all that it was loud, was slurred. Clearly he'd been drinking.

  "Thomas!"

  "Papa, he is terribly ill. We have summoned Dr. Beatty again."

  "Humph! No great loss if he was to die, if you ask me."

  "That's enough, Thomas."

  "Well, the man's indecent—left his wife—blood's bad, if you want the truth of it," he declared, unrepentant. "And I won't have either of you tending him, Nell—it's unseemly in the extreme!"

  "Papa, he may be dying," Elinor whispered.

  "Witch! Never wanted you—never—believed Jack, that's all! You can burn in hell for all I care!" Longford tried to turn, then fell back, mumbling, "Burn with Jack."

  "Well, if he's dying," Thomas decided, "there ain't no doubt where he's going."

  "Papa!"

  "Boy died," the earl whispered. "Didn't mean for it—tried—"

  "Hush, my lord." Elinor leaned over him, placing her mouth near his ear. "You are at Stoneleigh."

  "Stoneleigh," he repeated, and for a moment, she thought he understood, but then he began to ramble again. "Couldn't stop it—couldn't—Wilson, Cox, Humphries—the boy—all dead. Too late. Couldn't take out the guns on the first charge—tried." He caught at Elinor's arm, clutching it, his eyes open but unseeing. "Don't let 'em take the arm—don't let 'em take my arm! Can't feel it—can't feel it at all."

  "Your arm is fine, Lord Longford." Elinor poured a small amount of water into a cup and tipped it into a pocket she made by pulling down his lip. "You are at Stoneleigh," she repeated. "You have an abscess, that's all."

  He swallowed and choked. And when he began to cough, he nearly came up from the bed. It was as though the force of it racked his whole body.

  "I never heard the like," Thomas Ashton muttered.

  "It's pneumonia—his bad lung is inflamed also."

  "Then he's a goner," he said brutally. "And I don't want either of you here to see it. You get that maid—or the Friday-faced housekeeper. You ain't got no busines
s—"

  "Go on," Longford whispered.

  "See—even he don't want you here."

  "He's confused, Papa."

  "Go on," the earl said again. "I saw the blood—take care of the others—I know, Sarah—I know. It's my lung."

  "Who's Sarah?"

  "I told you he was confused, Papa."

  "Sorry about John—good man. Sorry about the boy— she was right—he was a good boy." His hand came up as though he meant to wipe his mouth, then fell back to the bed also. "Damned funny—Jack died at home, Sarah—I'm going in Spain." He coughed again. "Tell her—tell Kingsley's wife—I tried to save the boy."

  "Here now—what's he doing talking about you, puss? Don't like the sound of that."

  "Go to bed, Thomas."

  "Ain't going without you," he maintained stubbornly. He stumbled toward a chair. "Going to sit until you come with me—indecent for you to be here."

  "Thomas—"

  "Go on, Mama. I can manage—really. If there is any change, I shall waken you."

  "No, you won't," her father declared belligerently. "Be good thing if he was to die. Can't have him talking about you, puss."

  There was a loud pounding on the door below, the shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices, steps on the stairs. Dr. Beatty rapped on the doorjamb, then came on into the room.

  "I collect there has been a change?"

  "Man's ranting!" Thomas Ashton shouted at him. "Expect you to do something about it!"

  The physician cast a quizzical look at Elinor. "My father," she murmured, embarrassed. "Papa—go to bed."

  "Not without her!"

  "I'm afraid he's been drinking," she offered apologetically.

  "So I see. Yes, well, I should like all of you to leave-except Lady Kingsley, of course."

  "What the devil d'you need her for?" her father demanded. "Ruining her rep!"

  "She has a strong stomach—a rare thing these days."

  "All right, Thomas," Lady Ashton said tiredly, "I am coming with you."

  "Going home with me, too," he told her thickly. "Tired of the place. What with the old man a-staring and her forgetting what she owes her papa, it ain't anywhere I'd like to be."

  As her mother dragged her father out, Elinor turned her attention to Beatty. "Perhaps I should not have sent for you, but I cannot get his fever down. He's so restless—his mind wanders—he sees things—"

  He nodded, not unkindly. "It's to be expected, I'm afraid."

  "And the cough—it's terrible."

  "Aye." He leaned over Longford, frowning. "If it was but the wound—or the inflammation of that lung, I should give him a chance, but—"

  "Is he—is he much worse?"

  "You summoned me," he reminded her.

  "Well, I thought perhaps there might be something to ease him—he cannot thrash about and shout all night." She felt utterly foolish, as though she ought not to have bothered him. "And he is so very hot. Surely there must be something that can be done."

  "Even if he should get better, he will worsen first."

  "Worsen? He cannot!"

  "Lady Kingsley, he is corrupted with infection. Bring the candle over here."

  She did as he asked, then leaned over his shoulder to watch as he unwrapped the shoulder. When he lifted the salt pork, yellow-greenish pus clung to the meat, and the wound beneath it was wet. And once again the rotted smell permeated the air.

  "At least it still drains—there is no sign the abscess is reforming," he noted with some satisfaction. Noting her revulsion, he added, "I mean to change this in the morning." His manner changed abruptly. "How much is he coughing?"

  "Quite a lot, I think."

  "Bringing anything up with it?"

  "You mean like blood?"

  "I mean anything, Lady Kingsley."

  "Not—not much of anything that I have seen."

  He laid his head against Longford's chest, listening to the rales. "Too low—middle lung, I think. It must come up if he is to have any chance at all."

  "How?"

  But Beatty had lost interest in explaining. Instead, he rolled the earl over onto his side and began striking blows to his ribs in the back. For a moment, Elinor thought he too had lost his mind.

  "You cannot—the man's sick!"

  "If this does not loosen, he's dead," he retorted, continuing to beat on Longford's back. "Got to make it come up."

  "But the pain—perhaps some laudanum?"

  He shook his head. "It will impede his cough. You want him to cough—between the corruption in his shoulder and that in his chest, he's poisoned. Anything that can be got out of him in either area is to the good." He shifted the earl, hanging his head over the side of the bed, then began to thump his back anew, until his patient began to cough. It was a raw, deep bark at first, but as Beatty persisted, it grew productive. Longford gurgled, then gagged. Beatty looked up at her. "Think you could do this?"

  "Yes—if someone can turn him over for me."

  "Get one of the men for that. I don't want them pounding on him, for they don't know what they are doing. You don't either, but at least you are not as like to make the lung hemorrhage. You want to strike him here— and not too hard. The trick of it is to do it steadily until that stuff inside loosens."

  "I see. But his fever—"

  "Wipe him down with cool water. If it gets too high, get him into a tub." He pushed the earl back onto the bed, then turned to rummage in his bag. Taking out a small jar, he opened it. "You can try a bit of this powder—a teaspoon or so in water—but I have not much hope of its helping." He rose to stand over her. "I have left word with Mrs. Beatty that I shall be staying the night here. I require nothing fancy, Lady Kingsley."

  "Yes, of course. I shall waken Mrs. Peake to show you to a bedchamber."

  "No need—just direct me, and I shall find the way."

  He wasn't going to sit up with Longford. She started to protest, then thought better of it. He was the physician, and when it came to treating the sick, she was little more than a green girl. At least he had come when she'd sent for him—at least he would be no farther than a few doors down the hall.

  "There are several empty chambers, sir—there is one two doors to the left."

  "No need to point it out—I can count that far, my lady," he assured her.

  After he left, she sank back into the bedside chair and tried to stay awake lest Longford should need her. But he seemed to have calmed—whether from the bathing or from the thumping, he seemed to be resting more easily. She started to doze, only to be awakened by the awful, racking cough. At first her body would have her deny she'd heard him, then she forced herself to lean forward with a cloth to wipe his mouth.

  "Helpless as a babe," he muttered.

  Hope surged. He was not entirely unaware. But then he turned his head away, mumbling, "Tell Barry we need more powder. Damned sorry about the leg—meant to be there to the end."

  Curious, she asked him, "What leg—do you mean your leg, my lord?"

  There was no answer.

  Sometime after that, she fell asleep and knew nothing until someone shook her awake. "Nell—Nell—it's Mama. Get you to bed, and I shall watch him."

  "No," Elinor mumbled. "Cannot—got to thump him."

  "What?"

  "Thump," the girl managed drowsily. "His back."

  "In the morning."

  She opened her eyes and passed a weary hand over her face. "Is it morning?"

  "No. The clock has but struck three."

  "Can't go."

  "You have to—Arthur will have need of you tomorrow."

  "Arthur has no need of me, Mama. Don't you see? I gave him Almack's, and there's naught else he'd have of me."

  "He grieves—as do you."

  "Sarah, how fares the boy—how fares young Kingsley?" Longford croaked. "Told her—" His words disappeared in a fit of coughing.

  "Mama, you go to bed, else Papa will be vexed with you. I am all right."

  "Nell—"

  "No�
�I am all right. Please."

  "Nell," he whispered. "That's a pretty name."

  Once again, she thought he was aware, but then his mind wandered. "Charley's Nell. Cannot write forever, you know—not that much to say to a female." He tried to turn and could not. "Thirsty—Sarah, I thirst."

  She mixed the powder into a small amount of water and managed to give him a drink without strangling him. Then, throwing modesty into the wind, she did as she and her mother had done before, washing him down with cool water. And when she was finished, she leaned her chair back gainst the wall and closed her eyes. This time, sleep did not come as her conscious mind fought to survive. In the space of less than a day, Lucien de Clare, the despised Earl of Longford, had become exceedingly important, for a time crowding her grief from her mind. In her fatigued fancy, she was locked in an impossible battle for a man's life. And she was going to win.

  Fleetingly, she wondered about Sarah—was she a woman he'd left in Spain? All the world knew of Diana— but Sarah? For a moment, she felt a painful stab of jealousy—not for the man, but for the woman Sarah. For the moment at least Longford lived, while Charles lay cold and still within the confines of a box. No, she could not think of that now. Later—later, when Longford survived, she would remember Charley.

  CHAPTER 22

  Outside, the early morning rain pelted the house, while inside most of the household still slept. Exhausted, Elinor had sought her bed but a few hours before, leaving a reluctant Mary to watch over Longford. Now, too tired to sleep, she lay listening to the rain, wondering how a man could endure what the earl had and still live. For whatever could be said of him, he was not going tamely into his final good night.

  As the days had worn on to a week and more, the duties of nursing him had had to be divided, until now even the stiff, cold Mrs. Peake unbent enough to take her turn watching him. But his progress, if any, had been minute, and if there was anything encouraging about his condition, it was that he still lived at all.