But Ginevra ... This beautiful woman-child he had taken to wife affected him in ways he did not recognize, stirred him with her very vulnerability. She made him question the validity of the pride that had served him so well and so long, a bulwark against the slings and arrows life had thrown at him. She made him wonder whether he might not find more strength in humility—
A rap at the door interrupted his agitated thoughts. “Come in,” he barked.
The butler appeared at the door in his robe, skinny shanks visible beneath the hem of his long nightshirt. In his hands he carried a small silver tray with an envelope on it, and his demeanor was as dignified as if he were dressed in livery and powdered wig. “Milord,” he said, “a rider just arrived with a message from her ladyship.”
Chadwick frowned. “From my mother?”
“No, milord. From her young ladyship. From Dowerwood.”
Chadwick’s scowl deepened. “Dowerwood!” he exclaimed impatiently as his long fingers ripped open the envelope. “There’s some mistake.” When he unfolded the single sheet of paper, he saw with trepidation that Ginevra must have written the note hurriedly, under the compulsion of fierce emotion. Her usually painstaking copperplate hand was ragged and blotched, and the letters faded out repeatedly, as if she resented the time necessary to redip her quill into the inkwell. His blue eyes scanned the missive with growing apprehension. He winced when he came to that last frantic plea: “I beg you, my lord, send someone at once! I remain, your dutiful wife, Ginevra.” His dutiful wife. Yes, she was certainly that—while in a matter of days he had proved the most lax and unworthy of husbands. He should have been there. God alone knew what phantasm from childhood had drawn Ginevra to the mouldering ruins of Dowerwood, or why Bysshe should be there, laid low with a fever, instead of safely ensconced at Harrow, where he had left him. The boy must be ill indeed, the marquess realized with dismay, if Ginevra admitted she could not treat him. She should not have to treat him, nor should she be forced to deal with a “drunken charlatan,” as she mentioned. Chadwick should have been there to handle the situation, instead of leaving those two children to cope on their own. But they were not really children, and he caught his breath as in his mind the pairing of his wife and his heir suddenly took on ominous dimensions.
The marquess jumped up, startling the stolid butler, who awaited instructions. “The rider,” Chadwick demanded, “did he have any further message?”
“No, milord, the letter was all. The man could scarce talk, he was so exhausted. He said he had been in the saddle since midday, the last two hours in rain.”
Chadwick nodded, his movements jerky. His voice was harsh as he rapped out orders. “Of course. See that he has food and a place to sleep. Then rouse Hobbs and instruct him to start packing. While you’re at it, you’d better get someone who can deliver messages for me, one to Dr. Perrin in Harley Street, another to Whitehall.” Yes, he thought grimly, tell Castlereagh that he will have to find someone else to do his dirty work for a while. Aloud he snapped at the dazed butler, “Be quick about it, man! I’m going home!”
“Miss Ginevra, you must rest.”
“No, Emma, I’ll be all right.” She rubbed her weary eyes and gazed at the boy who drowsed fitfully in his drugged stupor. The waning light disclosed a stiff fuzz of reddish-gold whiskers on his chin; she wondered if she ought to ask one of the footmen to shave him. Not yet, she decided. Now that his fever was at last cooling slightly, his skin was beginning to peel away in those areas where the rash had been most severe, exposing pinkly new flesh beneath. A razor might irritate it.
Emma said, “My lady, you’ve scarce stirred from that chair for days. The servants you summoned from Queenshaven have prepared a room for you. There’s a bed aired and waiting, and a tub ready to be filled at a moment’s notice. Let me watch while you bathe and take a nap. You can’t go on this way, you’ll make yourself ill. Give a thought to your own needs for once.”
Ginevra shook her head doggedly. “No, Emma. When the laudanum wears off he’ll be in pain again, and he’ll want me. I intend to be here.” She looked up at Emma, and her companion was horrified by the dark shadows cruising her gold eyes, the hollows punched into her cheeks by fatigue. Ginevra said, “I would dearly love a cup of tea, though, Emma.”
“Of course. May I get you something to eat as well?”
“No, thank you. I don’t care for any breakfast.”
Emma chided gently, “My lady, it’s dinnertime now.”
Ginevra raised her head to meet her friend’s speaking glance. She smiled ironically. “Don’t look at me that way. Mrs. Harrison’s disapproval is quite enough. Truly I would not eat a thing now. I promise you I’ll go to bed as soon as the physician arrives from London.”
“But we don’t know when that will be, or even if—”
“Emma,” Ginevra reproved sharply, “there is no doubt in my mind that his lordship will dispatch someone directly he receives my note. I am appalled that you could think otherwise.”
“Yes, my lady,” Emma murmured.
“And when the doctor comes,” Ginevra continued, as if speaking to a child, “I shall be waiting to tell him all he must needs know about ... about my stepson’s illness.” And when he reports back to the marquess, she added silently, my husband shall know that in this respect at least I am capable of acting a proper wife.
Emma regarded her young mistress as she leaned back in her chair, eyelids drooping, aching with exhaustion. In her stained blue silk dress, which she had not changed since reaching Dowerwood, the girl looked wraithlike, almost intangible. Emma had seen her work herself to the point of collapse before, always a devoted nurse, but this time she sensed that Ginevra was driven by some compulsion far beyond her compassion for the sick boy. It must have something to do with the absent Lord Chadwick, Emma thought resentfully, and she cursed the man again for deserting his bride. Aloud she said, “I’ll go fetch you that tea now.”
Ginevra was hardly conscious of her leaving. Her attention was directed to the recumbent figure on the wide bed. He twitched as if the opium were losing its hold on him, and one bloodless hand began to flail weakly, batting at his ear. Ginevra caught his lanky wrist and held it immobile at his side. She knew that Bysshe was going to suffer greatly as soon as the laudanum wore off, and she would have her work laid out for her, to prevent him from hurting himself in his frenzy. Once, after an epidemic of measles, she had seen a toddler at Bryant House almost claw off his ear in an effort to escape the pain. After the agonizing infection finally subsided, the child was left stone-deaf, and the tenants said it was God’s mercy when he died two months later, overlaid in the bed he shared with his parents.
Bysshe stirred, and his brown eyes opened slowly. He stared up at Ginevra, his mind still clouded by the drug she had administered. “The doctor,” he asked hoarsely, “has ... has he gone?”
“Yes, Bysshe, yes, my dear,” she crooned, brushing the boy’s limp hair away from his face. “I sent him away long ago. I won’t let him hurt you.”
“That’s good,” he sighed, his agitation lessening. “I ... I didn’t like him.” His lids drooped shut again, only to open almost at once.
Ginevra watched apprehensively. Bysshe was struggling to throw off the last soporific coils of the opium, and she did not know what she would do if help did not arrive soon. It had been a day and a night and most of another day since the messenger set out. Agony lay in wait for the boy, just this side of consciousness, yet she dared not give him more laudanum, not right away. His immature body had already had as much as it could tolerate. More would poison him.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Bysshe moaned. His long fleshless form twisted restlessly, and his fingers flew to his head again. Ginevra caught his wrists in her small hands, and this time she was shocked by the power that had returned to his thin arms. He pulled away from her easily, and his nails scratched at his ears, making the skin raw and sore.
“No, Bysshe, you mustn’t!” she cried, trying f
utilely to stop him. Had his strength really come back with such force, or was she just weak from fatigue? “Stop it,” she sobbed, biting her lip as he thrashed out of her reach. Dazed, he whimpered in a little-boy voice, “It hurts...” She glanced around frantically for someone to help her restrain him, but the room was empty. She called out, but there seemed to be some kind of commotion belowstairs, and no one heard her. Until Emma returned with her tea, Ginevra would have to cope with Bysshe on her own, pitting her waning energy against the vigor of his wiry body. After a moment’s hesitation she kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed beside him. She flung herself across him, using all her few stones of weight to pinion his arms so that he could not touch his ears again. His head thrashed back and forth, tears escaping from beneath his tightly closed lids. “It hurts,” he repeated pathetically.
“I know it hurts,” she said in soothing tones, trembling with the effort to hold him down. Beneath her she could feel the heat of his tensed body radiating through his thin nightshirt, and she did not know how long she would be able to confine his movements if somehow she could not calm him. “Settle down, Bysshe,” she pleaded. “Help is on the way, I promise you. I’ve sent for a doctor.”
He jerked convulsively beneath her. “Not him!” he cried, his words blurred. “He looked ... he looked like the gravedigger when ... when Tom—”
“No,” she said quickly to hide her anguish, “not him. I’ve sent for a fine London doctor, someone who’ll know how to take away the pain. I asked your father to find one.”
Bysshe’s eyelids flew open yet again, only inches from hers, and he stared up wildly, his brown irises murky with delirium. He blinked hard, and momentarily his eyes cleared. “Don’t let him touch you,” he said.
Startled, Ginevra asked in confusion, “What? Why should the doctor want to—”
“Not the doctor!” Bysshe cried, shaking his head fiercely. “Him—the marquess! Don’t let him touch you.”
Ginevra gasped, stunned. When she could find her voice, she said breathlessly, “Bysshe, I don’t understand.” His expression troubled her. Suddenly she was aware of the hardness of his body beneath hers, the provocative intimacy of that sexless embrace. With great care she released his arms and eased her weight off him. Before she could slide from the bed, his fingers captured her wrists, preventing her escape. She tried to tug her hands out of his grasp, but he would not let her go. He was sweating with pain, but he held her gaze as he begged, “Ginnie, listen to me! Stay away from him. You and I—we’ll run away together.”
“Oh, Bysshe, no!” she protested.
He said, “Yes, Ginnie. Please. Don’t you know? I love you. Ever since we were children. I’ve always loved you!”
Ginevra paled. “Don’t say that,” she rasped. “You’re sick. You’re delirious. You ... you mustn’t say things like that.”
“I quite agree,” a deep voice interjected harshly, and Ginevra jerked her head around in the direction of the door, where her eyes met the burning blue gaze of her husband.
6
“My lord!” she cried, her voice shaking with astonishment and relief. Bysshe’s bruising grip loosened, and she jerked her wrists out of his fingers and flung herself across the room at the marquess. “Thank God you’ve come!” she sobbed, throwing her arms around his waist and clinging to him so hard that the chased brass buttons of his long waistcoat left their imprint on her smooth cheek. She could hear his heart thudding under her ear, and she waited for the reassuring pressure of his arms to wrap about her thin shoulders. He did not move. His hands remained resolutely at his sides, and with a sickening sense of rejection Ginevra released him and backed away, her face crimson with embarrassment. How could she have so forgotten herself? He had come because his son needed him, not her. “F-forgive me,” she stammered lamely, not hazarding to look at him. “It’s ... it’s just that I dared not hope ... did not expect you to accompany the physician. You ... you did bring a doctor?”
“Yes, of course. He is belowstairs supervising the unloading of the supplies he brought with him. He’ll be here forthwith.” Ginevra schooled herself to lift her gold lashes, and she saw that her husband was gazing not at her but at the youth who stared back ashen-visaged from the bed. With two long strides the marquess crossed the room to Bysshe’s side, and the boy shrank against the pillows, brown eyes wide and defiant in his colorless face, as if he expected the man to strike him. Chadwick picked up his limp hand and felt for the pulse; it was weak and rapid. He said smoothly, “Well, my boy, I was right amazed to learn that you were here, rather than at Harrow, where I expected you to be.”
Bysshe gaped at him, disconcerted by the mildness of his attack. He made a grimace of resentment and muttered sullenly, “I didn’t want to be quarantined there all summer.”
“Of course not. School is seldom the most salubrious of environments; during a quarantine I expect it would be well-nigh unbearable. Naturally, however, I should have preferred you to obey my wishes, but if you felt you could not endure staying there, you ought to have gone home, rather than troubling the Dowerwood caretaker and putting her family at risk.”
Bysshe’s glance shot furtively toward Ginevra; then he met the marquess’s gaze squarely. “I had no wish to intrude upon your honeymoon, sir,” he said, and he turned his head away. The instant his sore ear touched the linen pillow cover, he groaned, and at once Ginevra flew to him. She forgot her husband’s presence while she tried to soothe the boy’s pain as she had done for days now. Lord Chadwick leaned against the bedpost and watched enigmatically, arms crossed over his chest to prevent them from reaching out to her. He noted the intense, set expression in her amber eyes, their glimmer the only color in a bloodless face bruised with fatigue. She blinked hard several times, shaking her head as if to clear it, and when she reached for the napkin that lay in the basin on the table, he could see that her slim fingers trembled. She moved like an automaton. She was on the point of collapse, her inadequate reserves of energy long since spent—yet he knew if he tried to stay her hand before she delivered Bysshe’s care over to the physician, she would lash out at him with all the unsubstantial fury of a spitting kitten.
When at last the doctor appeared at the doorway, accompanied by Emma, Ginevra lifted her head, her eyes alight with hope for the first time in days. As soon as she met the man’s kindly and intelligent gaze, her apprehension began to abate. She set down the damp napkin and rose from the stool, extending her hand in welcome. “I am most grateful you’ve come, Dr.—Dr. ...”
As she hesitated over his name, the man approached her, and she noticed that he limped slightly. Yet when he caught her thin fingers in his own, he bent his head over them with all the grace of a practiced courtier. “Jules Perrin, a votre service, madame,” he murmured.
Ginevra’s startled eyes flew to her husband’s face, and he smiled ironically. “The doctor is one of my mother’s French cronies,” he explained in an undertone. “He was kind enough to accompany her when she returned from the Continent two years ago.”
Ginevra looked again at the man. He appeared to be about the same age as the marquess, of no more than medium height, with one of those handsome-ugly faces so difficult to describe. Despite his elegance of manner, he was dressed soberly and modestly, as befitted one of his profession, and he seemed an unlikely companion for the formidable dowager. Ginevra nodded uncertainly. “As a ... a friend of my husband’s mother, then you are doubly welcome, sir. I hope you will be comfortable here. All that we have is at your disposal.”
“Merci, madame,” he replied smoothly. When he switched to English his accent was almost unnoticeable. He said, “My first duty, my lady, is to ensure that that young man there is made comfortable.” He inclined his head toward Bysshe, who had drifted into a delirium where he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. His hands were at his ear again, and Ginevra saw with dismay the red weals forming on his livid flesh. She wanted to reach for him, but the doctor said, “I shall attend him, mada
me.” He looked at Ginevra critically. “In the meantime,” he continued in a voice that brooked no opposition, “I would suggest that you retire to your own room and get some rest.”
Ginevra shook her head fiercely. “No,” she insisted. “You will require someone to assist you, to explain what treatment has already—”
“Madame, you are in no condition to assist anyone,” he interrupted bluntly. “Your devotion does you credit, but I have only to look at you to know that if you do not cater to your own needs at once, you will fall ill yourself.” He glanced sharply at Emma, who waited in silence at the door, her face its usual impenetrable mask. “This young woman will help me, will you not, mademoiselle?” he said. Something flickered in Emma’s green eyes, but after a moment she nodded impassively. The doctor addressed Ginevra again, punctuating his words with a Gallic shrug. “You see, my lady, everything marches. Now, please retire, you are no longer needed here.”
The girl, who had been functioning by sheer force of will for days, was stunned and bewildered to find control wrested from her small hands so easily. She appealed frantically to her husband. “My lord, I beg you—”
He caught her by her thin shoulders. “Ginevra,” he said sternly, “even a marchioness must bow to the dictates of her physician. You heard Perrin. You must rest.”
Ginevra swayed slightly, and suddenly from the doorway Emma snapped, with a bitterness she made no effort to disguise, “It’s been too much for her, she never should have been left alone. She has neither eaten nor slept in days!”
Ginevra cried out at this betrayal, but as she uttered Emma’s name, the word faded to an incoherent moan. Her knees gave way, and she slipped out of Chadwick’s hands and crumpled to the floor.
The Chadwick Ring Page 11
