No, this was madness. He couldn't suspect everyone, especially not Philip, who had proven more than a good friend.
He thought about confiding in Michael Avenel, but the poor chap was in a wheelchair and had enough problems of his own.
No, he and Arabella would go to an inn. He could always tell Michael later if he needed help.
He stood in the doorway of the ballroom and said, "My wife and I just wanted to thank you all for coming, and to tell you we're heading off on our honeymoon now. We'll see you all soon. Thank you for making our day so special."
Mr. Jerome looked at Blake in confusion. "Leaving, now? But I thought--"
"My wife decided she wanted to get under way. We're off on a little tour. We shall come see you soon, I promise." He patted the old man on the shoulder and gave his most winning smile.
Mr. Jerome nodded. "Young love, eh? Have a good time, my boy. Write to us when the two of you feel like a bit of company."
"We will. And thank you again for everything, sir." Impetuously he hugged him.
Mr. Jerome was startled, but pleased. He patted him on the back a bit awkwardly. "Go on son, go off and be happy."
Blake ran for the carriage, got in and put his arm around his unconscious wife. He raised her arm from behind her back as if Arabella were waving.
The few people who did come out to say goodbye to the happy couple and try to throw wheat kernels waved back as the carriage pulled down the drive.
Only when they were on the main road to Bath did Blake breathe a sigh of relief. He hated having to lie to everyone. Take Arabella away from their friends. But it was for her own good. He never wanted anyone to say that she could possibly have invited what happened upon herself, that she had behaved in an inappropriate way. He would never speak to her of it, judge or reproach her.
But any relations they had as husband and wife would be coloured by her terrors after her dreadful ordeal. They had been so happy….
He might have known it could never last.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
At eight that night, Blake and the still-unconscious Arabella reached Bath. He knew Thomas had told him to use the townhouse any time he liked, but he didn't want to run the risk of any of their friends being there, or the servants asking too many questions.
Her injuries could be explained away by a fall, of course. He gritted his teeth at that thought. It was far too common an excuse used by women whose men beat them, but it would have to do. Until she was looking a bit less bruised and was more calm, a public inn where they were anonymous was best.
He instructed the driver to take them to The King's Arms. There he ordered the best room in the establishment to be made ready.
The landlord and his wife stared at the prone form of the woman in his arms, and the grim-faced man. They were suspicious, but there was little they could do. They were meant to mind their own business and do as the patron asked.
So even though they could see the woman had been badly injured, they did not send for the authorities, but prepared the room as he requested.
"I'm a doctor. My wife had a bad fall," he told the wide-eyed maid, when he could see that they had all been looking at them both with unalloyed horror. "Can you fetch me a warm bath and some broth and some fresh linens?"
The girl nodded, and relaxed slightly. "Yes, sir. This way."
Blake got Arabella into the bed and went over to build up the fire while the girl scurried about between the room and the linen closet on the upstairs landing getting the things he had asked for.
"I'll go see about the food and hot water, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey before she left.
Soon there was a warm fire blazing in the hearth and broth on the table. Still Arabella had not regained consciousness. Blake examined her head again. He feared concussion, but at least there was no swelling. No need for surgery.
He had no idea how hard her assailant had hit her, but the second gash was the one she had inflected upon herself when she had fallen backwards, he was sure. She would need watching, but he prayed she would be all right. At least physically, eventually, when she had had time to heal.
But as for her frame of mind, well…
She was unnaturally still until late the next morning, when she stirred and groaned. Blake sat upright in the bed, instantly alert. He had only just dozed off at last, but at this first sign of life, he heaved a sigh of relief.
"Darling, tell me where it hurts."
"All over," she moaned.
He poured her out a tincture of laudanum, and made her drink it. She made a face and her head lolled back onto the pillows.
"There, you'll feel better in a minute. Are you thirsty? Hungry?"
"Thirsty."
He poured some water for her and held the glass to her lips as she drank.
Then she closed her eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
Blake waited in an agony of impatience nearly the whole day until she came to again, about four in the afternoon.
She croaked, "Water."
He held the glass to her lips once again. She drank it down and asked for more. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her eyes were rolling in every direction and she did not seem able to focus on anything.
Concussion for sure, Blake thought to himself as he gave her something for the pain and tried to make her more comfortable in the bed.
"Are you hungry? I can get them to bring you some broth, love."
"All right."
He shouted for the maid and gave his orders, and poured her more water.
He helped her to the chamberpot and left her for a few moments while he tidied the bed and fluffed up the pillows. He picked her up and changed her linens and shift, and washed her hands and face.
When the broth came, he spooned it into her mouth as carefully as he would feed a child. He made her drink more water, and at last she fell back against the pillow exhausted once more.
"How do you feel now, darling?"
"A bit better. But I don't understand."
"Understand what, my love?"
"Where are we? Who are you?"
Blake stared. "Pardon me?"
"I said, who are you, and where am I?"
He looked around the room, dim in the candle light, and rose it up higher to look at her confused expression. The light her eyes almost unbearably, as did even the slightest movement when she tried to shield them from the glare.
"You're at an inn with me in Bath. I'm your husband, Blake. Do you remember me?"
"No, no I don't. I suppose I must have been in some sort of accident because I know there was a doctor here looking after me and asking me where it hurt. But I can't remember what happened, or you. But I suppose if you say you're my husband then you must be."
"And one of your doctors."
"I see."
"Can you?"
"Yes. Not very well, but some."
"Can I look at your eyes?"
"They're so sore."
"I'm sorry, love. I need to see them."
The tears streamed down as he forced the lids open, and examined her eyes. They were sore, but they reacted to the light, and she could definitely see. "It's all right now, darling. You've been very brave. Rest now."
She closed her eyes then, and drifted off into a natural sleep.
"Poor thing, she's exhausted," he sighed to himself.
But at least she had not seemed to recall anything about the attack. Or him either, he thought with a sigh. Well, she wasn't blind at any rate. So perhaps her loss of memory was a blessing.
Unutterably weary, Blake moved over to the other side of the bed and lay down beside her, resting one hand on her arm gently. He would feel her if she awoke during the night. He was just so tired. He knew she would still have a long way to go before she was back to her old self, if she ever would be.
But for the moment she was calm and she had eaten and drunk. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He had checked the chamber pot. There was blood in her urine;
he had no idea how much internal damage she had received, but all he could do was pray. He rested his head next to hers on the pillow, and let the tears fall at last.
The week they spent in The King's Arms had to be the longest of Blake's life. But at the end of it, her bleeding had stopped, and her urine was clear. She was still frequently confused, and did not recall him, or even sometimes the most basic information which he had given her, that he was her husband and they were at inn in Bath.
There was some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Her bruises were healing, and she was sleeping well and eating better with each passing day.
Now all he needed to worry about was disease-if whoever had attacked her had raped her, he needed to be vigilant. He had dosed her for gonorrhea just to be on the safe side, but the syphilis treatments were not to be resorted to except under the most extreme circumstances, only when he was certain.
He sighed. He might have known. Disease had blighted him haunted him all his life. It was bad enough being fearful of it for himself, even worse to think that his wife would be reduced to the screaming lunatic that his m-
Her hand upon his startled him, and he looked over at her quickly. "My husband, did you say?" she asked softly. "Then can you hold me? I'm so cold."
He rolled closer to her and snuggled her against him carefully, stroking her hair back from her face. "This is almost how we met, you know. It was in a huge snowstorm. There was a carriage accident. You were so brave. You helped me through it. All of us.
"Even when I wasn't sure we would survive, you were. Your absolute certainty lit my way in the darkness. We got to safety and I woke up the next morning with you beside me in the bed, keeping me warm just like this. It was one of the happiest days of my life."
"So we were in love then, right from the start?" she asked quietly after a time.
He was relieved that she seemed to have been able to follow what he had told her. That had to be a good sign. "I think so. I mean, I'm sure in my case. I loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I think you felt for me. I needed to be sure, and then we married."
"And I fell down?" she asked. "That's how I got hurt?"
"I think so. I found you under a tree in the garden. You hit your head against a tree root."
"I'm a bit old to be climbing trees, aren't I?"
"Yet I've seen you do it. Like a little monkey, you are," he said with tears in his eyes, recalling the day she had indulged in that activity with Ellen and Georgina Jerome.
She laughed softly, and pulled him closer to her. "I'll see you in the morning. So tired." She yawned prettily, like a tiny kitten, and slept.
Blake held her close and finally he too managed to drift off into a dreamless slumber.
When he awoke the next morning after his first decent night's sleep in a week, he immediately ordered a bath in their room.
He had hardly taken care of his own toilette, and thought he had better shave and tend to his hair before he scared Arabella completely. She seemed to coming out of the torpor which had gripped her for a week.
He had a good long soak behind the screen while she slept, put on some fresh clothes, and resumed his place by her side once more.
She awoke at about ten and declared she was hungry. For the first time she was able to sit up and shakily feed herself.
She was silent for the most part, and Blake did not speak to her about anything other than the food and the weather.
On the one hand, he wanted her to remember him, but he would just as soon she forgot the dreadful thing which had happened to her. He knew she was young and strong, with a good constitution. He just had to have faith and be patient.
He got her up out of bed, washed and examined her carefully without being too obvious. So far, so good, though she could not get well fast enough for him. Even the sight of the fading bruises was enough to make him tremble at the thought that however bad it was, it could have been so much worse.
After she was clean and had eaten, Arabella began to ask the inevitable questions. For the most part he answered her truthfully, trying to jog her memory with talk of their life in London and in Somerset.
"It sounds like we have a very good life together."
"We do, love. I adore you, and would do anything for you."
"Why are we staying at an inn when we have so many friends?"
"I wanted to give you time to rest and heal. I thought you might not want people to see you so badly injured."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you're bruised."
"So that's why you get that funny look on your face when you look at me. I must be hideous."
He tried to hold back the tears. "That funny look as you call it is love. Even bruised, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on."
"Very sweet, but can I have a mirror?"
"No, Arabella, really."
"A mirror, please," she said firmly.
Blake took the one out of her toilette set he had bought her, and handed it over reluctantly.
She gasped. "Goodness. How can you bear to look at me?"
"It doesn't matter, darling. None of this was your fault. It was an accident. You fell and hurt yourself. No matter what happens, I will always love you, do you hear me?"
"Is anything broken?"
"No. Luckily not. Once those bruises around your eyes disappear no one will ever know anything had ever happened. You'll be well rested, and we can go wherever you like, Lyme, Brighton, up north."
"Why don't we just go home?"
He shook his head. "It's a bit too far to go, and they don't expect me back for some time. I thought we could make the most of our holiday."
She nodded. "It sounds nice, when I'm feeling better. But right now I wonder if I might remember more things if I'm in familiar surroundings."
"You're not fit to travel far. But we can go see some friends as soon as you are, I promise."
He made the promise each day for another week, and went over her things, her jewels, toilette case, everything he had give her for a present.
At the end of the week he left her in the care of one of the serving maids at the inn and went into town to buy her more clothes. As he walked past the Baths he ran into Michael Avenel with his manservant pushing him in his wheelchair.
"Blake? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on your honeymoon."
He blushed. "I am. Just buying a couple of presents for my wife in the milliner in Cheap Street."
"So how is married life?" Michael asked, wondering why his friend looked so grim.
"Lovely. But Arabella had a bit of a fall, and so she's resting."
"A fall? Nothing serious, I hope."
"No, but I don't want to leave her alone too long."
Michael looked at him oddly, but nodded, shook hands, and let him go about his business.
Leonore stared out the window of her tiny drawing room. Then she started up. No, it couldn't be-
It was Blake, going into the dressmaker's shop. She grabbed her cloak and bonnet and ran down the steps, and dived into the shop as if the hounds of hell were after her.
"Blake, why, what on earth are you doing here? You're supposed to be on your honeymoon."
He could see her eyes glittering. "Yes, I am actually, and buying presents for my lovely wife. She will never believe your lies, so just stay the hell out of my way, would you."
Leonore scowled, but everyone was staring at her, and she was known in the neighbourhood. Accosting a married man in this manner was only going to get her talked about. That she couldn't afford, not if she wanted to continue to live on the fringes of affluent society.
Blake had cost her everything, for once her gentleman friend who had been footing all her bills found out what she had been up to behind his back, he had told her never to return to her little snug house in London, and cut her off without a penny. She just had to get Blake back, she just had to.
Blake bought one of every colour ribbon for his wife's lovely hair, some combs,
and several new day dresses in blue, hunter green and a lovely large-checked black watch tartan, and an evening gown of delicate pale heather with cream ruching at the hems and along the scooped neckline.
He also bought her some embroidery notions, and since he knew that Leonore was still watching, some baby clothes. He knew they would not go to waste, for he needed to see Sarah Davenport at some point soon.
Leonore reacted the way he had predicted-the colour flew to her face and she stormed out of the shop.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 94
