Henrietta brushed a sweaty streak from her forehead while Rose feverishly wondered if she should tell Henrietta about the duel. Perhaps, she could succeed in preventing her brother from duelling. But then, Henrietta leaned forward and held her stomach. Rose reached for the washbowl and held it until the cramps had subsided, handing the lady a fresh linen towel.
“Shall I tell your brother that you would rather go home?” Rose asked, and for a moment, she did not know where to put the used bowl. Then she set it down on the floor and shoved it with her foot under the little sofa. “You can rest here as long as you like. I just thought that you might feel more comfortable in your own rooms,” she added quickly, fearing that Henrietta would see her concern disguised as a request to leave. Rose stroked her numb fingers and saw a patchy redness creep over her guest’s face. “You do not have to be embarrassed. Last year, when I ate too many of the cook’s scones and upset my stomach, I felt the same. You will be better tomorrow, I am sure.”
“I do not think so, but thank you, my dear,” whispered Henrietta, avoiding Rose’s gaze. “If you were so kind as to let Gabriel know and send a servant to get our coach, I would be very grateful.”
Rose did as asked, even though she did not tell the marquess herself that his sister wished to leave, but instead sent one of the servants to him. Before she could exchange another word with him, she had to talk to Richard about this nonsensical duel.
She managed to avoid another encounter with Cavanaugh as he departed by resolutely compelling one of Richards’ friends to dance with her. Only when Cavanaugh’s tall figure had finally disappeared, did she breathe a sigh of relief and search for Richard.
“Mother, have you seen Richard?” The duchess frowned in disapproval given the informal address but overlooked it. Rose knew she would be reprimanded for her negligence by tomorrow at the latest, and also, because she had not said goodbye to the marquess herself.
“Lord de Coucy apologises. He left while you were dancing with Lord Albertson.”
Rose barely believed her ears. “Did he say why he left?” Had everyone conspired against her to make this evening the worst experience of her life?
Her mother shook her head. “No.” This one syllable expressed – more than her facial expressions – about what she thought of a man who left his own engagement party even before the last guest had departed. But then, her face softened when she looked at Rose. “Why don’t you go and enjoy yourself a little? Look, I think the Viscount of Varennes would like to dance with you but is too afraid to ask.” Her mother smiled encouragingly at her.
Rose danced. She danced until she felt that her smile was frozen on her face and her feet were bleeding. She barely noticed when her sisters and their spouses said goodbye. Only when her mother politely showed Lord and Lady Bracknell the door did she allow herself to pause and breathe. She only managed to cry when her maid had undressed her, and her head sank onto the pillow.
She had to do something. Rose could not let the Marquess of Cavanaugh duel with Richard for something that had happened two years earlier. If Richard died just because she had asked him for a kiss in an indiscreet moment, she would never forgive herself. Cavanagh had been at war, he knew how to handle weapons, while Richard … she sobbed aloud once more and realised that her pillow was already soaking wet as she pressed her burning cheek into it.
No, she could not and did not want Richard to die because of her.
Or, was it possible that they were duelling for another reason? She wiped away the tears and tried to think clearly and logically. Just because Cavanaugh challenged Richard on the evening of their engagement, did not necessarily mean that these two things were related. Rose sensed a peculiar feeling spread through her chest, which was half-relief, half-shame. Did she truly believe the Marquess of Cavanaugh would duel with her fiancé – because of her? The passionate emotions that were brought on by the engagement she had been waiting for so long, bore the blame for her childlike reaction.
But even if it was not about her, Rose wanted to try to persuade the two brawlers to relent in peace.
What had the marquess said? The day after tomorrow at six o’clock in the morning, Battersea Fields.
Duels were banned, so the combatants agreed to meet outside of the city in a remote area. Perhaps she could alert the authorities and they would send someone to stop the duel? But then Rose remembered her father once mentioning that although duels were officially banned, they were still tolerated. If one of the two brawlers died, the victor was put on trial, but not convicted. Why should he, when the peers who were ordered to condemn one of their own, secretly approved of this barbaric practice?
If she was honest with herself, despite the reservations she had against the duel, she had to admit, that the thought of her fiancé actually duelling for her sake warmed her heart. What better way to prove one’s love for a woman? Still, the risk Richard was taking was too great. Even if he was only injured – which was within the realm of possibilities – Rose was unwilling to back down. She had heard tales of tampered duelling pistols which exploded in the hands of the opponent, and although she did not want to believe that Gabriel de Vere would use such a cowardly, dishonourable way to win the duel, the thought gave her no peace. If he had really threatened to announce her indiscretion, that of a lady, then he was no gentleman and not trustworthy.
Rose stared at the dark blue canopy of her little girl’s bed. The official path was definitely ruled out. Even if the duel was prevented, who could guarantee that Richard would not be arrested? Of course, there would be no sentencing – after all, he was not the one who had instigated this outrageous nonsense. However, her fiancé was a proud man. Even a night in custody was a disgrace he would never forget. Who knew, perhaps Richard would blame her for this blemish and not love her anymore?
As for Cavanaugh, if he did turn out to be an odious man, as far as she was concerned, he could starve in the Tower. Rose would not lift a finger to save him.
She did not get any further. Rose rolled back and forth under a blanket that was much too thick, and she peddled with her legs until at least her feet were exposed to the cool air. Then, out of the blue, a solution dawned upon her.
She would go to Battersea Fields and stand between them until Cavanaugh came to his senses. Even a man like him had to hesitate before pointing the pistol at her. Rose would show them how barbaric it was to shoot at one another until one of them was grievously wounded or killed. Especially the marquess, who had been to war, should bow to reason and not want to obliterate even more human lives.
With that thought in her mind and a smile on her face, Rose finally fell asleep.
Chapter 10
Gabriel found it difficult to sleep, and when he finally did, troubling dreams plagued him, relentlessly taking him back to the battlefield. The Duke of Wellington and the Prussian Blücher had triumphed at Waterloo, but they did not pay the price, only the common soldiers. Gabriel had led his small troop into the heart of the battle against better knowledge and had seen them fall one after the other. The battle had turned into a slaughter. He remembered his last encounter with a French soldier before he had lost consciousness – completely exhausted and bleeding from numerous wounds – as if it had been yesterday. Watching the dark-haired, haggard man with a distant expression as he evaded the enemy and even avoided killing the advancing Englishmen was like looking into a mirror. Even Gabriel did not want to take any more lives, especially not those of men who had not instigated this confounded hundred-day war. Gabriel saw the Frenchman drop to his knees in front of an English comrade, unable even to lift his hand holding the bayonet, getting stabbed in the stomach with the blade. Doomed cries were the last thing Gabriel heard before he himself landed face down in the mud, certain that he was never to rise again. His last conscious thought had been Rose and the kiss he had stolen.
When he awoke, Napoleon had been defeated, and Gabriel had been one of the few captives the tyrant had taken. At least, the French had housed
injured prisoners of war like him in a military hospital and, it was true, given them medical care. Gabriel was under no illusions. The frog-eaters only did so, because they had lost anyway, and every live prisoner would be traded off for one of their own. As a loser on the battlefield, you were not in a position to specify the terms.
Well, it had been his luck – just like the French sister, who changed his bandages more often than her orders allowed. Gabriel had been spared gangrene and infections, thanks to the dark-haired, brown-eyed woman who reminded him of Rose.
When he awoke, he was drenched in sweat.
Sometimes, the nightmares seemed even worse than the actual battle. At that time, intoxicated by the fight, he had forgotten much of what he saw in gruesome detail at night – unlike when in battle, he could not avert his eyes in a dream. Sometimes he believed that his mind was trying to deal with something that no human should ever experience. Things had still turned out well for Gabriel. Many of his comrades had lost their lives, if not in battle, then in the aftermath of uncontrollable spread of disease. Or, they had lost limbs. Gabriel did not know if he could have lived without his legs, let alone if he would have wanted to. To vegetate, constantly dependent on the kindness of others, unable to deal with even the most natural bodily functions seemed to him a worse punishment than death.
Tomorrow, he would look death in the eye again.
It was his first thought when he got up. He had been a fool. Why had he let de Coucy provoke him? He was not worried about himself or his life, but the moment that de Coucy had insulted Henrietta and Lady Rose, something shattered inside Gabriel. In those few seconds, he had wanted to eradicate de Coucy from the face of the earth so that the man would never reach out his filthy fingers to Henrietta and Lady Rose … He rang for Peters before losing himself in idle thoughts. He had a busy day ahead of him and finding a coach was not his only problem.
If he died in the duel, his sister would be destitute. So, he had to make a will, before he took de Coucy to task, one that could not be contested and would provide Henrietta with everything she needed. As far as Gabriel knew, there were no more male Cavanaughs except for two or three distant cousins; and these cousins were drinkers and gamblers, whom he did not want to entrust with his sister. While getting dressed and giving initial instructions to his valet, his thoughts moved involuntarily to Lady Rose. He was not planning to die, but what would happen to her if he killed de Coucy?
Yesterday, she had claimed that she was happy.
He would take away the happiness she had longed for. Did he have the right to take everything that her heart desired?
If de Coucy died, she would be free. She did not know what kind of person her fiancé was, and if Gabriel killed him, was he not fundamentally doing her a favour? But then he admitted that it was quite presumptuous of him to decide on her blessedness and secretly hoping that he could take de Coucy’s place by her side – only this time forever.
What he could do was just wound Richard de Coucy. His sister’s lost honour would not be restored as it would if the man were dead, but justice would have been served. Perhaps, although unlikely, de Coucy would even learn his lesson and treat Lady Rose the way he should.
His heart felt a little lighter. It was a good plan to just wound de Coucy. With this duel behind him, he could take care of his sister’s future.
Later that afternoon he said goodbye to Grimshaw, whose Father and Grandfather had also acted as the Cavanaugh’s lawyers, and leaned back in relief. His father’s study was far too dark for his taste. Maybe he could ask Henrietta to arrange for the house to have new décor? He took a sip of the French brandy that Edward had brought him earlier and reviewed the day again.
He and Grimshaw had made sure that Henrietta would have a sufficient amount of money if Gabriel did not live to see tomorrow evening. The Cavanaugh’s estate near the Scottish borders would go to her and, with Grimshaw’s expert support, he had set up a trust fund for her that was not to be touched by her future husband. Gabriel could do nothing about her deplorable condition, but he could see that his sister was cared for in the event of his demise, despite the blemish of an illegitimate child.
He took another sip of brandy and frowned. Now, all he needed was a trustworthy man to nominate as his second. The men he had been friends with before going to the continent were nearly all part of de Coucy’s rotten clique, and even if they did not refuse to stand by his side, they were out of the question.
There was a knock. Edward entered without waiting for an answer. “Doctor Hollingsworth is here, my Lord,” he announced.
Gabriel got up. “Is Lady Henrietta feeling better?” He had already stepped around the massive desk when Edward cleared his throat.
“Lady Henrietta is fine,” he replied and added, after a moment’s hesitation, “I believe the period of persistent nausea is over. She has had a hearty breakfast and is in good health, if a little exhausted.”
Of course, the servants were in the know. Henrietta’s maid probably knew what had happened before she had. Gabriel met his gaze and thanked him with a nod. “Why is this doctor here then? This is the first time I have heard his name.”
“If you will pardon my saying so, he took over from Doctor Chadwick when he retired. He is here to see Lady Catherine.”
By Jove’s beard. Gabriel had forgotten to ask his sister about the mysterious illness of their mutual relative. He told Edward to take the doctor to Lady Catherine and then invite him to his study.
When Edward finally ushered the doctor in, Gabriel asked him to sit down and offered him a brandy. He poured it himself and waited until the butler had left before speaking to the doctor.
“Tell me what my great cousin is suffering from.”
The distinguished face of his counterpart revealed no sign of astonishment that the master of the house was not aware of his relative’s state of health. In general, he gave more than an acceptable impression, Gabriel thought. He was fashionably dressed, his accent was that of a man of rank, yet he did not seem to want to deny his lowly origins by displaying the typical mannerisms of the nouveau riche.
“My Lord, I am relieved that you ask.” He took a sip of brandy as if to gain time and then sighed. “First of all, let me assure you that Lady Catherine is not suffering from a life-threatening illness.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” Gabriel was relieved but could not ward off the impression that something else would follow that sentence, something he would not like. Dr Hollingsworth seemed like a man trying to lessen a heavy blow by mentioning the good news first.
“Lady Catherine is physically perfectly healthy. She is a lady in her prime and has a strong resilience.”
If he remembered correctly, Lady Catherine was younger than his father and in her mid-forties, the same age as Dr Hollingsworth. No wonder the man spoke of “prime.”
“But what is Lady Catherine suffering from?” Gabriel tried to get his counterpart back on the actual topic.
The doctor gave an embarrassed shrug. “Unfortunately, it is not that easy to make a diagnosis for a mental illness.”
“Lady Catherine is not insane.” No sooner had he uttered these words than Gabriel began to doubt them. He had been away for two years – was he allowed to judge the state of mind of his great cousin? Another thought came to him, which brought even more regret. It was not surprising that his sister had been seduced by de Coucy. She had been alone and had to shoulder far too much responsibility for a woman. Not only had she been responsible for the household, but also for her sick cousin.
“I agree with you completely.” Dr Hollingsworth surprised him and smiled a little. “Lady Catherine is suffering from slight melancholy, which shows itself in a certain lethargy. That is not something we cannot treat. I could have your relative transferred to a specialist hospice for this type of illness.”
“There is no way I am going to let Lady Catherine go to Bedlam,” Gabriel said firmly.
“I am not talking about Bedlam,” Hollings
worth replied. “I have already spoken with Lady Henrietta about it and have shown her the establishment that I consider appropriate for your relative. You are welcome to ask Lady Henrietta. I am talking about a place in a quiet rural area, where the sick are not on display like in Bedlam. I know the warden of the institution personally.” He smiled impishly. “If you want to know who he is, the man is my father. If you are not satisfied with my words or that of your sister, you are cordially invited to have a look at the house yourself.”
“How long will the treatment take?” Gabriel wanted to know. The longer he talked to this very unusual doctor, the more he liked him. He was calm without feeling callous, and genuinely concerned about the welfare of the sick. Apart from that, every man who rejected Bedlam was likeable to Gabriel. His father had once taken him there – to make a man of him, as he had said – but the tour accompanied by a shabby, rough caretaker had the opposite effect to what the old marquess had hoped for. The man who led them through the stinking, lightless corridors had spurred on two of the women with his stick until they started on each other, but that had not been the worst. For Gabriel, an unforgettable sight had been a man sitting in a corner of a solitary cell, rocking to and fro, his eyes refusing to acknowledge the world around him. The old marquess had slapped Gabriel on the back and laughed heartily as the guard threw a living rat through the grate and woke the man from his stupor.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” Hollingsworth stared at him, worry evident in his expression.
“Of course,” Gabriel protested. “Forgive my absentmindedness. How long did you say that my great cousin would need treatment?”
“That is not exactly predictable,” Hollingsworth admitted, rubbing his grey-bearded chin. “Some patients respond well to treatment, others less. The most important thing is to awaken their desire to cooperate, as I already told your sister.”
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 46
