by Cheryl Bolen
The very suspicion made her feel wretchedly guilty. Emily could be perfectly innocent. Lord Sethbridge could easily have alerted the Morning Chronicle, but the powerful peer did have his hands full with current legislation. It stretched credibility to imagine him already focusing on next year’s session. And, besides, the Morning Chronicle was a Whig newspaper. Were Lord Sethbridge going to release information, wouldn’t he have used his influence with The Times instead?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Emily had been the Morning Chronicle’s
informant. How could the girl hate her so much? Rebecca had never directed a single mean-spirited word, thought or action against Emily. Yet Emily hated her so much she was willing to work against her own father in the hopes of ridding Dunton Hall of her father’s wife.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she began to recite the often-recited passage from Matthew. Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.
Please, God, rid me of this anger I feel toward Emily now. Help me to love her as I love Chuckie and Alex and Spencer.
And please don’t let me cry in front of Chuckie!
She looked down at him. He was fast asleep, his hair moist around his temples.
She thought of telling John her suspicions about Emily, but knew she could not. She would have to confront the girl first. But would someone so poisoned even admit to such an action? And what would be accomplished if she did find out the truth? Did she really want John to transfer his wrath to his only daughter? Did she want to be the instrument that came between him and his daughter?
Sometimes truth was more damaging than silence. She came to the anguishing decision she would remain silent. If John was not inclined to trust in her, then he wasn’t the husband she had fallen in love with.
Either way, she hurt like she had never hurt.
Once she finished reading over her husband’s letters, she took up her pen to write to Verity. As she was completing a nice, long letter, there was a knock at her door. “Come in,” she said, widening the opening in the bed curtains and beginning to climb off the bed.
John, accompanied by another man, stood in her doorway. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he snapped. “Is Chuckie still with you?”
“He’s fast asleep in my bed. For some peculiar reason, he’s formed a most sincere attachment to my bed.”
Her husband nodded. “I’ve brought the physician, Mr. Mostyn.”
“How do you do?” she asked, peering at the surprisingly well-dressed physician who appeared closer to her age than to John’s. Because the fair-complexioned man was so gaunt and thin, it was difficult to imagine him being the vehicle to restore one to good health.
Mr. Mostyn bowed. “Let’s take a look at the lad.”
The child was sleeping so soundly he had slept through their conversation and had to be awakened by the physician.
Rebecca stood next to Mr. Mostyn so that Chuckie would see her and not be frightened by awaking to a strange man standing over him.
There was a frightened look on Chuckie’s face when he looked up and saw Mr. Mostyn. Rebecca offered a wan smile. “Mr. Mostyn’s come to get you well, my love.” It saddened her that he was so listless he had made no effort to sit.
The physician examined him and proclaimed that Chuckie had inflamed glands in his throat and that administering aqua cordials would reduce the fever and promote sleep. “I’ll come back tomorrow and have another look at him.”
She nodded, then met her husband’s gaze. “If anyone should need me, I’ll be here. Chuckie doesn’t like to be alone.”
“If you need someone to relieve you, you can send for me.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just have a tray sent up at dinner.” She glanced toward the bed. “Make that two. I hope I can get him to eat.”
* * *
Aynsley saw the doctor to the door, making small talk with him while all the time his thoughts were on Rebecca. No matter how cruelly she had betrayed him, he felt ashamed of himself for the beastly way he was treating her.
Now that he’d had several hours to cool his boiling blood, he began to question his initial assumptions that Rebecca had to be the one who betrayed him. Because of Dorothy, he assumed all women were liars. Even though every facet of Rebecca’s life was guided by the highest principles, he’d been quick to condemn her because she’d withheld an important truth from him—even when she had sworn she’d never told him a lie.
She had also sworn to that God she held in such reverence that she had not given the information to the Morning Chronicle. Now he was inclined to believe her.
Because he had known Lord Sethbridge, who was an honorable man, for almost as many years as Rebecca had been alive, he felt with certainty that his colleague in Lords would never have released the information. Especially not now while he was dealing with much more urgent matters in an actual parliamentary session.
The reality was that one of those two he had trusted had betrayed him.
“Why was Mr. Mostyn here?” Emily asked, approaching her father in the entry hall.
“Chuckie’s sick.”
Her brows lowered. “Since when?”
“Since last night, not long after the play. He was better this morning, but his fever returned this afternoon, and Rebecca wanted Mostyn to have a look at him.”
She followed him into the library. “What did Mr. Mostyn say?”
Aynsley shrugged. “His glands are swollen, and there’s inflammation in his ear passages. Poor lad’s feeling very low.”
“I’ll go and see him.”
Would she still want to see him when she knew where he was? “He’s in the countess’s bedchamber.”
She came to a sudden stop and whirled to him. “What’s he doing there?”
“He’s taken a fancy to big beds that have curtains around them, but he doesn’t want to be there alone.” Would his daughter have the good manners to offer to relieve her stepmother?
“What will she do for dinner?”
“She’s having a tray in her room.” It always gave him pleasure to look at his lovely daughter. Today she looked like an angel in an ivory muslin dress sprigged with lavender roses and ribbons. The blue of her eyes almost took on a purple cast. It was a pity and a disappointment she did not act like an angel.
Emily came back into the library and dropped into the sofa. “Papa?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Why would her ladyship be giving money to Peter?”
His heartbeat thudded. He met Emily’s somber gaze. “I didn’t know that she was. Have you asked Peter?”
“I’m out of charity with him, if you must know.”
“Why are you out of charity with your cousin?”
“We used to have so much fun together. Before she came.”
His insides jarred. His pulse accelerated. “What are you implying?” Peter was much closer to Rebecca’s age than he was. Surely she... No, not Rebecca. If she gave a vow of fidelity, she would keep it. He felt certain of that.
She shrugged. “I thought Peter must have fallen in love with her, and I made similar accusations to her.”
He could barely get out the words, he was holding his breath so. “What did she have to say to that?”
“She told me Peter was very much in love with me and wanted to marry me more than anything.”
The air seemed to swish from his lungs. “You’ve only to look at him to understand that.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. He’s so different.”
“In what way?”
She thought about it for a moment before answering. “He’s more mature, actually.”
He had thought the very same thing. “It appeared you two were getting along well during the play.”
“We all had great fun practicing and painting sets every evening.”
“And we all had great fun watching it. I look forward to the n
ext. Have you decided what your next project will be?”
She got to her feet. “No. I believe I shall go take a walk all by myself. That’s when I think most clearly.”
* * *
The dining room had never been more somber than it had been earlier that night, without Rebecca. The absence of Dorothy’s portrait only served to remind all of them that Dunton Hall had a new mistress, a new mistress who took her mothering duties seriously. He felt wretched he had treated her in so vile a manner.
Emily and Peter barely spoke. Had Rebecca been present, she would have kept up a lively banter.
He had to admit it—he missed her—even if he was angry with her.
When bedtime came, he knew he would have to see her because he needed to peek in on Chuckie. He knocked on Rebecca’s chamber door.
“Come in.”
As he moved into the semidark chamber, she parted the bed curtains, and when she saw him, she opened them wider. She wore that snow-white nightgown, spectacles, and held a book in her hand.
“I wished to check on Chuckie,” he said.
“I was obliged to send for Beaver an hour ago to administer more drops in his ear. He’s been very sick. The fever hasn’t abated for a single minute.” She could not conceal the worry in her hoarse whisper. “He’s asleep now, but the pain will awaken him anew.”
He nodded and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve been through this with the other children. Nasty business, but he’ll probably be better again in the morning.” He walked to Chuckie’s side of the bed and pulled back the curtain to peer at him, not without his heart swelling. Aynsley’s lashes lifted, and he met Rebecca’s grave expression. “I will expect you to awaken me should you need me for any reason.”
A solemn nod was her only response.
She did not awaken him that night, but on the third night she did.
His son was critically ill, and his wife was just short of hysteria.
Chapter Eighteen
Neither the physician’s visits nor Beaver’s mint drops made any difference in Chuckie’s condition. His fever continued to rage. He no longer cried out from the ear pain, though Rebecca thought she might have preferred that pitiful sound to the complete listlessness that now decimated the child. For hours he had lain in her bed, oblivious to any comment she would make.
She had asked if he would like her to read him a story, but he did not respond. That alarmed her because he was always begging her to read to him. She tried to think of all the things he liked best. What about toad-in-the-hole biscuits—which he’d always happily devoured? But he barely managed to shake his head. The thing he loved most—other than riding the pony, which was out of the question now—was to climb upon his papa’s shoulders for a piggyback ride. She asked if he would like that, but he made no response, other than a halfhearted blink of his eyes.
Even Beaver, who had vast experience with sick children, was baffled and worried. “Do you mean none of the children have ever had complaints like this?” Rebecca asked.
The old nurse sadly shook her head. “Not to where they wouldn’t talk no more.”
The words were like the slash of a saber to Rebecca’s already bruised heart. Yesterday she had thought nothing could hurt worse than losing her husband’s affection; now, she dreaded something even worse. Getting Chuckie well was the most important thing in her life. The sicker he became, the more fearful she grew.
The very thought of losing him brought tears to her eyes and a physical depression like nothing she had ever experienced, nor could she undersplain it, she thought, a feeble smile on her lips as she watched the rising and falling of his little chest. Since she felt that as long as she was watching him closely he couldn’t die, she was afraid to remove her gaze from him.
When she’d gone for two days without sleep, she knew she would have to renew herself. For his sake. That’s when she and Beaver started spelling each other watching over him.
On the third day of his illness Emily came to visit her youngest brother, which Rebecca felt must have taken a great deal of condescending on the girl’s part. All their estrangement was forgotten the minute Emily clapped her eyes on the pitiful sight of the dangerously ill three-year-old. Her tears came immediately, and as if to assure herself he wasn’t dead, she took his listless hand.
She looked up into Rebecca’s troubled face. “I had no idea he was so sick.”
All Rebecca could do was nod. Her own eyes kept filling with tears.
“What does Mr. Mostyn say?”
Rebecca shrugged. “It gives me no satisfaction that he’s finally agreeing with my worries.”
Emily gasped.
“Does my father know?”
“Your father is out of charity with me, so he comes but once a day to check on Chuckie. He’s been nothing but optimistic, assuring me that Chuckie’s recovery is imminent.” That was all she would say to Emily on the matter of her marital estrangement. The girl was bound to know the source of his anger with Rebecca since she had to be the perpetrator of their rift.
Late that night, after Beaver and Emily had left Rebecca’s bedchamber and after the household had fallen asleep, Chuckie went into convulsions.
Rebecca screamed, hoping her husband would hear and come to her chamber.
* * *
Aynsley had been sleeping soundly when a distant frantic noise awakened him. Even though the walls of Dunton were excessively thick, and two dressing rooms separated the earl’s and countess’s chambers, for some unexplainable reason, he’d been able to hear Rebecca’s forlorn call.
Immediately, he knew it was her voice that had severed him from sleep, knew that something dreadful had happened. He threw off his blankets and took off running to her chamber.
His first harrowing thought was that Chuckie had died. Surely only death could prompt such a woebegone wail. Unimaginably painful panic gripped him. He did not think he could bear to learn what he most feared.
Rebecca stood in the darkened room, illuminated by the bedside oil lamp as she leaned over the bed, prostrate. She was nearly senseless. “Please help. Dear Lord!” Her eyes were riveted to the bed.
Half afraid of what he might find, he approached the bed with a viciously pounding heart and whipped back the curtains.
Convulsions had seized Chuckie’s small body, causing him to jerk uncontrollably. “I’ll take him. Quick, go get Beaver, and send for Mostyn!”
He hauled the child’s hot, wet body into his arms and held him close, his own pulse pounding prodigiously. He paced the floor, holding the child tightly and trying to speak reassuring words of comfort, even though he knew his boy was not conscious.
The time Rebecca was gone seemed interminable. Though he had not given much thought to God in the past few years, he did now. In his time of greatest need, there was only one who had the power to answer his prayer. His tears now falling, he prayed fervently to the Lord. I beg, my Lord, You not forsake me or my poor son in our hour of need as I have forsaken You. I thought I had become a nonbeliever until I was tested, and now all my former love for You has come back tenfold. I beseech You to hear my prayer, my Lord, and I vow to abide by whatever You decide. I vow to let You be my guide in doing Christian works, not only with my family and in my village but also in Parliament. I ask this in Jesus’s name. Amen.
By the time Rebecca returned with Beaver, the intensity of Chuckie’s convulsions had lessened.
Beaver nodded and winced when she saw Chuckie’s severe trembling. “I’ve only seen this once before, and it was when the fever was so severe it made the child delirious.”
Rebecca nodded. “That’s how he’s been the past several hours. Insensible.”
“Perhaps we should try to cool him,” Beaver said.
Aynsley nodded. “It’s worth a try.” He lay the lad back on the bed and began to undress him while Beaver went to fetch water to put in Rebecca’s washbasin.
Over the next twenty minutes, they attempted to cool his fevered body. The convulsions finally ceas
ed, but Chuckie still did not regain true consciousness. He did manage to bleat nonsensical words, which Rebecca professed to be happy to hear. “’Tis his first utterance in many hours.”
“Then I daresay your prayers must be working,” he said.
“How did you know I’ve been praying?” Rebecca asked.
“I know you.”
Once Chuckie lay peacefully on top of Rebecca’s bedcoverings, Aynsley sent Beaver back to her bed. “We’ll send for you if you’re needed.”
As the door shut behind Beaver, he met Rebecca’s stormy gaze and was powerless not to open his arms to her. She rushed into his embrace, weeping. The two of them stood there in her dark bedchamber holding each other tightly. The wrenching sound of her cries was oddly comforting—not because he could ever take pleasure in her suffering but because her misery perfectly mirrored that which he felt but was incapable of demonstrating.
He had thought by holding his wife in his arms he could console her. Now he understood he needed her even more than she needed him.
“I’m so worried,” she managed between sobs.
“He’ll be fine.” He wished he could believe his own words.
“Have you prayed?”
He nodded. “It’s your prayers—not those from a sinner like me—which the Lord would see fit to answer.”
“You might not have worshipped God as you should have, my love, but you’re a good man, a man who lends his voice to those who have none.”
In the midst of the worst gloom he could ever remember, his wife had interjected a ray of shining hope. “What did you just call me?”
“What does it matter?” She shrugged. “I don’t care if I embarrass myself. I don’t care about anything except Chuckie getting well.” She peered up at him. “You see, I’ve fallen in love with you.” She gave a little laugh. “Just when you took me into dislike.”
He lifted her chin. “I wanted to dislike you, but it’s difficult to dislike one with whom you’re in love.”
