The Earl's Invention

by Diana Campbell

  “I shall send Nell up to undress you,” he whispered, stroking the hair at her temple again.

  "Umm,” Bonnie muttered, and before the bedchamber door had closed behind him, she tumbled into blackness.

  8

  By midaftemoon of the following day, Bonnie had decided that invalidism was quite a delightful state. Temporary invalidism, she amended; permanent debility would probably grow excessively tiresome for the victim and all of his or her associates. But at present, David and his staff appeared determined to cater for poor Miss Bonnie’s every whim.

  Her royal treatment had begun early the preceding evening when she wakened—splendidly refreshed—from a deep sleep and discovered that, indeed, Nell had removed her walking ensemble, dressed her in a nightgown and tucked her under the bedclothes. She shortly concluded that the abigail had also been instructed to look in on her every thirty seconds or so, for she had scarcely drawn herself to a sitting position when the bedchamber door flew open and Nell hurtled to her side.

  “Miss Bonnie!” the old servant wailed. "Oh, what a terrible thing to happen!”

  She smoothed the bedclothes, then felt Bonnie’s brow for signs of fever, which seemed a prodigious unlikely complication in view of the nature of her injury. At length—evidently persuaded that her charge was not at the point of imminent death—Nell announced that Mr. David had declared that

  Miss Bonnie was to have anything and everything she wanted for dinner.

  “He does not expect you to go to the dining room, of course,” the abigail assured her soothingly. “No, he has directed that your dinner be served in your room, and he will join you here.”

  And so it came to pass. Some two hours later, Nell marched back into Bonnie’s bedchamber, Kimball in tow, both of them bearing trays of roast beef, asparagus, and tender new potatoes. In point of fact, Bonnie was only moderately fond of roast beef, but—recollecting that it was the earl’s favorite dish—she had ordered it in deference to his kindness. Bonnie’s tray was placed on the nightstand beside the bed, David’s on the dressing table where she customarily took her breakfast; and as they began to eat, she murmured her appreciation that he had forgone General Whitfield’s assembly to be with her.

  “My dear girl!” the earl protested jovially. “I should rightly have been judged the most shameless cad had I gone merrily off to a ball and left my niece to suffer alone. Say no more about it.”

  As if to ensure that she would not, he launched into an account of the carriage mishap he himself had been involved in on the day of his twelfth birthday. He had “borrowed” his father's gig, he reported, and promptly run down a dairy maid. Fortunately, the only immediate injury suffered by either party was a grave wound to his pride; but before the day was over, the late Lord Sedgewick had vented his wrath on the rear portion of his son’s anatomy.

  “Do birthdays always bring out the worst in children?” David finished plaintively. “Or was I an especially horrible specimen? Mama claimed I was, and I did perpetrate a more insidious prank every year till I went up to Oxford.”

  “No, it wasn't just you.” Bonnie was laughing so hard that she feared she might ingloriously choke to death on an asparagus tip, and she paused to gulp it down. “On my eighth birthday, I climbed the tree behind our house and fell out and got the most awful paddling . .

  They continued to exchange similar anecdotes until their meal was over, and when the earl bowed out of her bedchamber, it appeared his good humor had been entirely restored. In fact, Bonnie reflected, one might almost collect he preferred her in a helpless state, for she did not believe they had got on so well since the afternoon of their precipitate meeting.

  Nor had David’s solicitousness diminished by the next morning. When Nell delivered Bonnie’s breakfast, she brought with it the news that his lordship feared Miss Bonnie would become most dreadfully bored if she were confined to her room during the remainder of her convalescence.

  “So,” the abigail concluded, “I am to get you dressed, and then Mr. David will carry you down to the library and help you locate the books you might wish to read."

  Bonnie was perfectly amenable to this procedure, but inasmuch as she insisted on bathing before she dressed, the execution of the earl’s plan occupied nearly two hours. It was astonishingly difficult, she discovered, to hop into a tub and prodigious awkward to bathe with her bandaged ankle dangling over the side. The actual donning of her clothes proved almost as challenging: she had never before realized how often the simple act of dressing required a person to stand first on one foot and then the other.

  At length, however, the earl was summoned to take her to the library, whereupon a new obstacle arose. Bonnie belatedly remembered from her own experiences that it was easier to bear a cumbersome burden up a staircase than down, and David—compelled to negotiate two flights of stairs—found this to be the case as well. Or so Bonnie surmised, for he stumbled so many times that she began to fear she had survived her encounter with the hackney coach only to be dashed to death on the marble floor of his foyer.

  But she was not; at half past eleven by the vestibule clock, the earl staggered through the library door and deposited her rather unceremoniously on the Hepplewhite sofa. He collapsed in a nearby armchair, gasping for breath, and before he could recover sufficiently to make his way to the bookshelves, Kimball and Nell appeared to set the sofa table for lunch. This meal, too, had been prepared according to Bonnie's specifications, and she happily wolfed down generous servings of beef broth, pigeon pie, and chocolate blancmange.

  When the luncheon dishes had been cleared away, David proceeded to the shelves and commenced to announce the titles available for Bonnie’s reading enjoyment. She had supposed he intended her to make three or four selections, which would be ample to see her through even a week’s recovery. However, it soon became clear that his plan was to catalog his entire library, volume by volume, and his consideration was so touching that Bonnie lacked the heart to object. She consequently identified some two dozen books she was fairly dying to read, and the vestibule clock was striking half past two by the time the earl had stacked them on the carpet beside the couch.

  “There!” he said cheerfully. "Do you want some tea while you read? Or a cup of chocolate?”

  “Thank you, no. I am still quite stuffed from lunch.”

  “Too stuffed even for a piece of chocolate candy?” he teased.

  “You have some?” Bonnie had never been too full for chocolate candy.

  “No, but I can readily procure a box. There’s a shop in Oxford Street."

  “You’re not to go all the way to Oxford,” Bonnie protested. “Had you chanced to have it at hand . . .”

  But she was talking to empty air; David had raced out of the library, and she shortly heard the slam of the front door. Yes. she thought contentedly, invalidism was a most delightful condition. She bent down and sorted through the books at her feet, selecting a volume of Mr. Coleridge’s newest poems; and as she straightened, she spied her crumpled letters to Aunt Grace on the surface of the writing table.

  She must compose some sort of communication soon, she

  reminded herself, and as she sat back on the couch, she perceived a credible—nay, a splendid—explanation for her confusing circumstances. She could say that Mr. Powell had removed to the Continent at the end of April, and the Earl of Sedgewick had subsequently engaged her to tend his children during the Season. The earl had needed her services, Bonnie would further explain, because the children's regular nanny had abruptly resigned her post. Or taken ill, perhaps, or even died; she could fabricate the details when she actually wrote the letter.

  Yes, it would work out exceedingly well, Bonnie reflected, opening the book to the first page. Her formidable aunt would be satisfied, and David would never know he had been saddled with a fictional wife and several mythical children. Though she would have to be very careful when she reached Nantwich and Aunt Grace pressed her to describe the family of her most recent employer. Very care
ful indeed because the mere notion that the rakeshame earl might wed, much less sire a gaggle of obstreperous offspring, brought a twitch to Bonnie’s lips—

  “Miss Bonnie?"

  Kimball's voice interrupted her reverie, and Bonnie started and glanced up.

  “Forgive me, miss. Mr. David said you were not to be disturbed, but Mr. Francis is here, and I thought you'd wish to grant him an exception."

  To say the truth, Bonnie did not wish to receive her alleged cousin, but she feared it would be monstrous rude to send him away. She nodded reluctantly at Kimball and closed her book, and a few seconds later, Francis Hellier strode into the library.

  “Bonnie!” he said sorrowfully. “I should have come earlier, but Mama insisted I give you ample time to rest. And I daresay she was right”—he brightened— for you look tar better than I had anticipated."

  “Thank you,” Bonnie murmured.

  Francis, for his part, looked considerably better than she

  recollected from their initial meeting, and she was briefly at a loss to conceive why. Then—somewhat tardily—he removed his beaver hat, and she realized that his appearance was much improved when his thinning hair was out of sight.

  “I brought you a box of chocolates,” he said, plucking it from beneath his arm and setting it on the sofa table. "I trust you like chocolate?”

  “Yes, thank you. Yes, I am very fond of chocolate.”

  “So am I.”

  He gazed longingly at the box, and Bonnie perceived that courtesy now compelled her to open it and offer the delicacies within to her guest. She waved Francis to the armchair, tore off the string, raised the lid; and they passed the exposed treasure back and forth for a time, munching in happy silence.

  “Well.” As there were no napkins in the room, Francis licked the residue of his feast from his fingers. “As I indicated, I am delighted to find you in such high force. Mama was immensely concerned for your condition."

  Fortunately, Bonnie was just swallowing her last morsel of chocolate, and she was able to create the impression—or so she hoped—that her sudden fit of coughing was due to this rather than to Francis’ words.

  “Yes,” she choked when she found her voice. “Yes, Aunt Judith was excessively . . . ah . . . thoughtful. Indeed, she was kind enough to propose that I recuperate at your estate in Shropshire.”

  “So she mentioned." Francis nodded. “But I well understand why you declined to be banished to the country during the very height of the Season. A handsome young woman such as yourself ...”

  He stopped and smiled, and Bonnie noted a rather large gap between his upper front teeth.

  “However,” Francis went on, “I should like to take this opportunity to invite you—personally invite you—to visit Hellier Manor when the Season is over. I daresay you will discover it quite different from your own estates in . . . er . . .” He stopped again and cleared his throat.

  “Barbados,” Bonnie supplied.

  “Barbados! Mama was sure it was Barbados, but she wasn’t absolutely certain.”

  Try as she might, Bonnie could not keep her countenance, and she buried her face in her hands and affected another great attack of coughing.

  “Are you taking a cold?" Francis asked anxiously. “I fancy our climate is also very different from that of the Indies."

  “No," Bonnie wheezed. “No, I fear I ate my chocolates too quickly.”

  “Good. Well, it isn’t good that you’re strangling on your food,” he amended, “but I should hate to think you'd be struck down by illness even as your ankle was healing. Your many friends would be most disappointed to be further deprived of your company.”

  “Friends?” Bonnie echoed, daring to raise her head.

  “Yes, you were sorely missed at General Whitfield’s assembly last evening. Viscount Lambeth inquired after you, and Sir Lionel Varden, and ...” Francis frowned with concentration, then shook his head. “The rest of their names momentarily escape me. At any rate, they were all horrified to learn of your accident, and several of them stated an intention to call on you today. Luckily, Mama was there to advise them that you were too weak to entertain guests.”

  David had predicted his sister’s behavior with remarkable accuracy, Bonnie thought dryly: having been advised that her presumed niece was wonderfully rich. Lady Hellier was apparently scheming to wed her to the very pink of the ton. And since none of Bonnie’s extant suitors was a marquis, much less a duke, her ladyship had cleverly discouraged their attentions. Bonnie was more amused than annoyed. lor she had never been attracted to any of them—from the radical Mr. Aldrich to the cultured Earl of Ravenshaw—

  “Lord Ravenshaw!” Francis said. Bonnie briefly collected he had read her mind, but she soon surmised that he was remembering and enumerating still more of her “friends.” “And Lady Pamela Everett—”

  “Lady Pamela?” Bonnie repeated sharply. “She inquired after me as well?”

  “Umm.” Francis once more knit his brows. “Now I think on it, she asked why Uncle David was not at the ball. Whereupon I explained that you had suffered an accident, and he had remined behind to nurse you.”

  “And what was her reaction?” Bonnie said casually. “Was she . . . surprised?”

  “Why should she have been surprised? Any gentleman in Uncle David’s position would have acted as he did.”

  He had obviously misinterpreted her question, and Bonnie judged it best not to pursue the subject.

  “Be that as it may,” Francis continued, “I shall make it a point to speak with your friends at Lord Blanchard’s assembly this evening. I shall assure them you are recovering from your mishap, and if you like, I shall relay your thanks for their concern.”

  “Yes, please do so.” Bonnie nodded. “And be certain,” she added impulsively, “to seek out Lady Pamela. Be certain to . . . ah . . . assure her that my injury was minor and I’m already very much improved.”

  “I certainly shall.” Francis inclined his own head. “It appears that despite the brevity of your acquaintance, you and Lady Pamela have formed a close relationship.”

  “Indeed we have,” Bonnie said grimly.

  “Bonnie?” The sound of David’s voice roughly coincided with the slam of the front door. “I trust you have not succumbed to starvation in my absence.”

  The earl loomed up in the library entry, and Francis jumped to his feet and hurried forward, his right hand extended in greeting. David was bearing a box so enormous that it required both his hands to carry it, but he hastily tucked it under one arm and grasped his nephew’s outstretched fingers.

  “You catch me unawares," he said. Why this should be a source of embarrassment, Bonnie could not imagine, but the

  earl’s cheeks were unmistakably pink. ‘‘I did not notice your phaeton outside.”

  “No, you did not,” Francis agreed, “because I walked from Orchard Street. I wanted to stop in Oxford to buy Bonnie some chocolates.”

  He dropped David’s hand and gestured toward the sofa table, and Bonnie observed—to her mingled shock and mortification—that the box was empty.

  “But you got her some chocolates too, I see!” Francis went on, apparently spying the earl’s parcel for the first time. “From the very same shop! Well, you will be pleased to learn that Bonnie is monstrous fond of chocolate."

  “Is she indeed?” David said coolly.

  “Oh, yes. However, you must not collect that she ate the entire box. No, she had only six or eight pieces ...”

  Francis chattered on, gallantly confessing that he had devoured more than his share of the missing chocolates; and— though, again, she could not conceive why—Bonnie noticed that David’s eyes grew a bit frostier, his mouth a trifle thinner, with every word his nephew uttered.

  “But I shall stay no longer,” Francis concluded at last. "Mama cautioned me not to tax Bonnie’s limited strength, and I’m afraid I have already done so.” He retrieved his hat from the sofa table, swept Bonnie a bow, wrung David's hand again, and retreat
ed into the vestibule.

  “What the deuce did he want?” the earl growled when the front door had clicked shut in Francis’ wake.

  “Want?” Bonnie echoed. David’s vexation was puzzling in the extreme. “Why should you assume Francis wanted something? You told me yourself that he isn't a bad sort. He believes me to be his cousin, and I daresay his call was in the way of a family duty—”

  “Then I fervently hope he now judges his family duty to have been fulfilled,” David snapped. "Because if he does not, I fear you will shortly die from an excess consumption of chocolate.”

  · He marched across the room, snatched the candy box from beneath his arm, and slammed it on the sofa table And before Bonnie could thank him for his trouble—before, in fact, she could generate any response at all—he spun around and stalked out of the library.

  By the next morning, Bonnie was able to hobble down the stairs unaided. Which was not to say that she accomplished the journey without difficulty: to the contrary, her Step-hop, Step-hop required upwards of a quarter of an hour. But at length, she limped through the library doorway, collapsed on the couch, propped her bandaged ankle on the sofa table, and congratulated herself for her perseverance.

  Indeed, she thought darkly, were it not for her perseverance, she might well have been left to languish in her bedchamber all day, for David seemed to have grown quite bored with his resident invalid. Well, that was not entirely fair, she conceded: he had helped her back to her room at the end of the afternoon and had once more joined her there for dinner. But his good humor had altogether vanished—he had picked at his food largely in silence—and this morning Nell had made no mention of another visit to the library. Bonnie could only collect that the earl remained annoyed because he had walked to Oxford Street for a box of chocolates and Francis had brought one in his absence. As if it were her fault! Bonnie fumed. She had not asked David to fetch her a box of candy, had not invited Francis to call—