Chapter Eleven
The walls of the coach seemed to close in on him, creeping nearer, keeping time with the repetitive clip-clop hoofbeats of the six-horse team. Still, he summoned the resolve to persevere for his wife’s sake, but the urge to take to his heels, unrelenting in its grip, seized Anthony by the gut. With each passing hour of their imprisonment, marked by the blazing path of the sun in the sky, he fought the urge to run amok, because he did not want to frighten Arabella. Yet, his outwardly relaxed demeanor did nothing to ease the anxiety clawing at his raw nerves.
“Anthony, are you all right?” Sitting across from him, his bride leaned forward and rested a palm to his knee. “You are pale, my lord.”
“It is nothing.” He ordered his thoughts and considered possible means of escape. In the distance, he noted an old barn, weathered and worn, marked by rotting wood and years of neglect. Stretched tall and craning his neck, he spotted an equally decrepit cabin, its inhabitants long since fled, along with the remnants of some broken down piece of farming equipment, another familiar sight that harkened to his youth. “I recognize the countryside. If I am correct in my deduction, we are bound for one of my father’s properties in Surrey.”
The revelation inspired naught but dread, because his father made his intentions known to Arabella’s family, while Anthony believed they resolved their dispute in London. In truth, he should have known it was pointless to talk with someone who never listened. Someone who heard nothing but the sound of his own voice. There was no reasoning with the unreasonable, and the fate his father planned struck terror in his heart. The knowledge and betrayal hurt him more than he could say.
“But—why?” Pretty as a picture, she inclined her head. He knew the instant realization dawned, and she flinched. “Oh, no. It cannot be. You don’t think he still intends to institutionalize you.”
“I had hoped we settled our differences, but it appears I misjudged the situation, because I gather that is exactly where I am headed.” Indeed, his father deceived him, which struck him as the only plausible conclusion. None-too-gently, he yanked at his cravat and unhooked the collar of his shirt. “I need air.”
In the blink of an eye, the telltale pa rum pum pum pum matched the drumbeat of his heart, signaling the alarm of a fast-approaching mental thrashing, and he wiped perspiration from his brow. Steeling himself, he braced for the otherworldly plunge. When the macabre reverie materialized, intensifying in the confines of the coach, his throat tightened, and he gripped the seat cushion. As Dr. Handley instructed, Anthony tried to tell himself it was just an illusion, that it was not real, when La Marsellaise rose above the chaos of war, and he feared he might scream as imaginary French troops charged the line in his mind.
“Perhaps we can break the window.” After shedding her pelisse, Arabella, blissfully unaware of his anguish, ripped the damaged shade from the frame, and he fought for calm. “Then we could jump.”
“And risk breaking your lovely neck? Not a chance.” Smothered beneath an avalanche of desolation, he gasped for breath and grasped for a diversion, because the delusory but nonetheless potent attack drew near. Why could he not resist the visions? Why could he not control his own thoughts? “Besides, I already contemplated that, and it would never work. At best, we would be walking a day or two to find assistance, and I wager they would discover our absence and run us aground. At worst, we could fracture something vital and be stranded in the middle of nowhere, left to die on our own. Neither sounds appealing or sane.”
“What if you leapt to freedom, and I stayed here?” She tapped a finger to her chin and remained oblivious to his discomfit. “You could run for help and rescue me. Or I could come back for you, once I gain my liberty.”
“Out of the question, because I will not leave you alone to face whatever is at the end of this drive.” Anthony had thought of that, too, but immediately admonished himself, because he had only one arm, which presented a weakness he could neither ignore nor mitigate. Given their predicament, he would gladly trade all of his tomorrows for a single day as his former, whole self. A man with two arms. Old instincts tempted him, but he would not abandon his wife, and he covered her hand with his. “We are stronger, together, my dear.”
“Then what do we do?” Her voice, imbued with a hint of distress, trembled. “How do we elude your father and save you from his ultimate scheme, because I will not let him take you from me. And I most certainly will not permit him to commit you to an asylum. I will fight him. I will fight with every inch of my being, if I must.”
“You are formidable, Lady Rockingham.” The coach pitched and rolled, and Anthony tumbled to the floor. When he righted himself, he eased into the squabs, beside his wife. She scooted close, and he wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “If it comes to that. If I am imprisoned, I imagine I may have to rely on your strength to save me, which is why I married you. Well, it is one of the reasons.”
“Tell me more.” Arabella nuzzled his chest and shifted to hug him about the waist. That was a new experience he savored. The intimacy of marriage. “Because I recall a time when you were set against me.”
“I thought we moved past all that?” In the dark recesses of his mind, the hue and cry of battle combined with the thunderous reverberation of cannon fire. A vicious wave of nausea brought him low, and he swallowed. Somehow, he maintained a hair’s breadth of composure.
“We did, but I require a distraction, and so do you,” she said in a flirty tone. “Perhaps we can mutually divert each other.”
“You are wise, as well as beautiful, my lady wife.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, as he had done on occasions too numerous to count, seeking serenity in the otherwise mundane connection. “Well, I adore your curious nature, and your opinions, however misguided. But I truly admire your absolute insistence in your right to express your point of view.” He chuckled when she wrinkled her nose. It was then he noticed her décolletage, given her position afforded him an excellent view. “To borrow from Beaulieu, though I would never tell him, he is correct in his assertion. You are blessed with a wickedly tempting bosom.”
“My lord,” Arabella declared in a high-pitched voice and shot upright. With a fist pressed to her chest, she narrowed her stare. “Are those the words of a gentleman?”
“No.” He winked. “They are the words of a husband looking forward to his wedding night.”
“Why, Lord Rockingham, you quite take my breath away.” She hugged him tight and met his stare. Then her playful countenance changed into something not so impish. “Anthony, you are not all right.” She cupped his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you suffered?”
“What good would it do, other than to worry you?” He shrugged as the anxiety escalated, and the nonexistent savagery crept closer. Blurred vignettes mutated, forming razor-sharp glimpses of inexpressible barbarity that chilled him to the bone. Trapped in his own solitary nightmare, he reminded himself that none of the vivid representations were real. “Also, I am trying to rely on Dr. Handley’s advice and muddle through the situation, myself.”
“How are you managing?” she asked with a sly grin.
“Not very well, I’m afraid.” In play, he chucked her chin, and she tsked. “But I am grateful you are here.”
“I should hope so, because you are going to be with me for the rest of your life, despite your father’s schemes. And while I admire your courage, you need not carry the burden alone.” She shuffled and drew him into her arms, encouraging him to lean against her. With nimble fingers, she massaged the back of his neck, and magical relief flowed from her gentle kneading. “I am with you, and I will let nothing harm you. You have my solemn vow, which I meant when I proclaimed it, till death do us part.”
“A beautiful declaration, but the symptoms honor no rules of engagement and extend no warning.” A chorus of mournful cries echoed in his ears, and he shuddered. “If only I could dictate when I am assailed with memories, but every imaginary strike poses a lethal ambush I am powerless to resist.
”
“I am so sorry.” She bent and kissed his temple, a soothing gesture that did much to comfort him. In a low voice, she said, “What if we try something new? What if you share your torment with me? Tell me what you see or hear. Describe it to me.”
“You think that is a smashing idea, given our present circumstances?” The very notion inspired naught but skepticism. “I mean, do we truly need more misery, at the moment?”
“I think it an excellent idea, because of our present state of affairs.” She rested her chin to his head. “Please, Anthony. Given we are alone, I might alleviate or even dispel your hardship, because I can assure you there is no one here but us.”
“All right.” With serious reservations, he gulped and stared at nothing, as he made the lonely journey back to the past. To the unchecked brutality of battle. To the bloody field at Waterloo, where he crawled in every wrong direction. Searching for salvation that eluded him, no matter how hard he grasped for it. “Faces. So many torturous faces. Men teeter at the final precipice, a mere step away from death, screaming for their mothers. And bodies, twisted and mangled, strewn about the ground like so much refuse. Scavengers pick at the corpses, stripping the dead of their trinkets and boots, along with their dignity. The heavy odor of gunpowder mingles with the pungent stench of rotting flesh so profound it taunts my nose even now.”
“How awful.” While she cast an air of imperturbable sangfroid, her muscles tensed, belying her outward, unruffled demeanor. “Is it always the same?”
“No.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs. The gruesome scene mutated, and he glimpsed his reflection in the sea of faces. Thousands upon thousands of different versions of himself, lost souls, praying for salvation, locked in their own private hell from which there seemed no deliverance. “Although there are similarities.”
“Such as—what?” she prompted.
“It always begins with a sound.” He bowed his head, and a rush of emotions overtook him. “Hoofbeats hammer the earth.” Gnashing his teeth, Anthony flinched and came alert. “Sometimes, I am startled by cannon fire. On other occasions, I’ve been haunted by the national anthem of France, to the extent I often hear it in my sleep.”
“And then what happens?” Arabella bent and stole another kiss, which startled him given her tranquil manner.
Did she not comprehend what she did to him? Or the power she wielded over him? Of course, if she knew he could devour her in the wake of her innocent gesture, she might react otherwise.
“To be honest, I never know until I am confronted.” And that most unnerved him, because he could never anticipate or guard against the shock. “Which makes it difficult to fight.”
“Then why try?” She tightened her embrace, in another show of support. “I mean, if the memories are inevitable, if you cannot shield yourself, then why not oblige the remembrances? Accept them. Welcome them, if you must. Make them your own, as you see fit. Perhaps then you might dictate the content and its impact on your faculties.”
“I had not thought of it that way.” In truth, it never occurred to him. Pondering her suggestion, he sat up and scratched his cheek. “But your idea holds merit and fits with Dr. Handley’s advice.” The traveling coach jolted to a halt, and Anthony peered beyond the torn shade. “We have arrived.”
“Oh?” She smoothed her skirt. “Where are we?”
“As I suspected, we venture to Sanderstead, my father’s estate in Surrey.” Summers spent at the property brought no fond recollections, given the duke merely deposited the family in the large, red brick house, while he dallied with his mistress, in London.
A footman, adorned in the ducal livery, fiddled with the handle, which Anthony discovered had been secured by a heavy, iron lock. At last, the footman freed Anthony and his wife. After he exited, he turned to hand Arabella down, and he noted a U-shaped hasp had been attached to the door.
Had he paid attention when they boarded, he could have protested. But his new bride captured his senses, unreservedly, and the modification escaped his notice.
“Welcome to Sanderstead, Lord and Lady Rockingham.” Flanked by two large men, a bespectacled stranger garbed in less than elegant attire clasped his hands in front of him. With a beak of a nose and a narrow stare, he arched a brow as he assessed Anthony with a critical eye. “Will you not come inside and take refreshments?”
“Who are you?” Anthony inquired in a biting tone. “And why am I here?”
“I am Dr. Shaw, Lord Rockingham.” The doctor had the good fortune to bow, else Anthony would have taken offense. “As to your second question, you have been remanded into my custody by order of His Grace, the Duke of Swanborough, for treatment of your mental infirmities and war injuries.”
“I beg your pardon?” A dark sense of foreboding danced a merry jig down Anthony’s spine, and he checked himself. There was no cause to be uncivil. “Dr. Shaw, I am no child, and I can assure you I have no mental infirmities, as you put it. In regard to my war injuries, my arm was removed, as you can see for yourself. Further, while I appreciate your interest, I have no need of your services and, thereby, you are dismissed. I am certain my father will compensate you adequately for your trouble.”
“Lord Rockingham, you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension of the situation.” Shaw snapped his fingers, and the two large men approached, assuming positions at either side of Anthony. “His Grace has charged me with your treatment, as I see fit to administer. Whether or not you comply is your choice. However, I believe you will fare much better if you cooperate, because I detest brute force but am not averse to using such tactics to achieve a successful outcome. Now, shall we go inside and discuss your course of therapy, or shall I have my men carry you?”
The threat, however unremarkably phrased, struck Anthony to his core.
“Anthony.” Arabella took his arm. When he met her gaze, she tensed her fingers. “There is no cause to be disagreeable, and we are not heathens. Perhaps we should do as Dr. Shaw asks, given you did say you are quite famished after our journey. I’m sure he is a reasonable man.” She leaned in and whispered, “Say nothing until we are alone.” Then she continued in a normal tone, “Now, I should like to freshen up, if someone would be so kind as to show me to my quarters.”
“Of course, my dear.” Confused by her outward calm, but smart enough to understand she had a motive behind her request, Anthony offered his escort. Suppressing every natural instinct raging within him, he smiled. “Please, have a room prepared for Lady Rockingham.”
*
Built in the Baroque style, in the seventeenth century, the manor house inspired a slew of dark thoughts, with nary a single happy ending, given it appeared all but abandoned. The Rococo décor boasted mezzo-frescoes in the Tiepolo tradition, along with vivid pastorals on the walls and the ceiling, framed with asymmetrical and abstract stuccowork. Despite the colorful artwork, the gold-laden structure conveyed an altogether dour impression. Oppressive as a tomb, with wall-to-wall wood paneling and crimson and black accents covering the maze of passageways, the cavernous estate extended as far as her eye could see. Putting one foot in front of the other, Arabella ignored her racing heartbeat, but her instincts screamed a warning.
Suppressing a shiver, she followed in Dr. Shaw’s wake, with the two mountainous adjutants in the rear. As they wound their way deeper into their prison, she clung to Anthony and uttered a silent prayer for salvation. Again and again, she told herself someone would note their absence and search for them. Someone would raise an alarm. Yet, she doubted anyone would miss them until it was too late.
But too late for—what?
That was the worst part. Not knowing what fate awaited them.
“Ah, here we are.” Dr. Shaw set wide an oak panel and stepped inside, before motioning to her. “Lady Rockingham, you will find all the basic necessities to perform your toilette, beyond the second portal, in the bedchamber. Know that we did our best to anticipate your every need. However, if we missed anything, you have but to ask. Re
member, we are at your service, insofar as your requests do not exceed that which we are willing to give. Should you prefer a bath, you may ring for a footman, and I shall send up your lady’s maid.”
“Thank you.” She bit her tongue and cursed herself. Although societal standing never impressed her, she just stopped herself from curtseying, because she outranked him, and she thought he would benefit from the reminder. To Anthony, she said, “My lord, permit me a moment to change out of my traveling gown, and I will join you in the drawing room, posthaste.”
“Er, I beg your pardon, Lady Rockingham, but I must correct your presumption.” The doctor nodded to the henchmen, who shoved Anthony, and he lost his balance and stumbled across the threshold. At once, she reached out to steady him. “Under the circumstances, and at His Grace’s request, you will share accommodations with Lord Rockingham for the length of your visit.”
Stupefied, given the odd arrangement, Arabella blinked and searched for a reply. Any reply. Yet, words eluded her.
The footmen carried in the trunks.
“You cannot be serious,” Anthony declared with an expression of incredulity, as he righted his coat, and the servants vacated the immediate vicinity. “After all, this is my family home, and my usual rooms are located in the east wing.”
“Not on this visit, I am afraid.” Shaw lifted his chin and sniffed. “To foster a spirit of amity and encourage procreation, I recommended a different approach, which His Grace has seen fit to endorse, so you will both reside in a single chamber. Once Lady Rockingham is with child, we may revisit the subject of your private quarters.”
“What on earth? Do you expect me to breed like a mare at Tattersalls?” Not that Arabella protested in regard to her husband, because she enjoyed Anthony’s company, but the situation only affirmed her suspicions, and a chill ran through her blood. The duke intended to enact his plan, to the letter, which did not bode well for her or her tortured soldier. “Really, this is beyond the pale, and I warn you, Dr. Shaw, if your less than graceful associates so much as scowl at Lord Rockingham, much less put their hands on him, one more time, I shall be moved to violence. In the future, you will address his lordship with all due respect of his station and extend to his person the courtesy owed his rank, else I will fight you at every turn. Let us see how His Grace appreciates that when he has no heir beyond Lord Rockingham. Who do you think he will blame for your failure?”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 17
