by Sandra Heath
“Ride? In Venice?”
“Oh, it is possible to enjoy an excellent ride—on the Lido. Shall you join me?”
She laughed. “In this flimsy gown? What a sight I would be!”
“Then we shall return to the hotel for you to change—”
“I could return to the hotel until I go gray, sir, and still not find a riding habit among my personal effects.”
“Will you ride with me nonetheless?”
“If you will find an unconscionable amount of ankle acceptable.”
“Oh, I am sure your ankles are as exquisite as the rest of you, Miss Milbanke.”
She laughed. “You will be able to judge that for yourself if I get up on a horse, sir.”
He took her hand and rose to his feet. He held her hand a moment longer, making her look into his eyes. “Lady Mountfort is not for you,” he said softly, “and you know that she isn’t.”
* * *
The lagoon was hazy and the horizon vanished into a silver mist through which the gray silhouette of Venice could just be seen. Only one of the many islands could be seen clearly, its beautiful monastery rising high above the rocks where pale pink sea mallow was already in bloom and where a colony of cats basked lazily in the sun. The other islands had an ethereal look and only the drumming of the horses’ hooves on the hard sand gave any substance to the long, dreamlike afternoon.
Riding had always brought roses to Laura’s cheeks, partly from excitement and partly from the lingering fear that had remained from a childhood fall. She was by no means a brilliant horsewoman and now was really put to the test as she tried to rally her flagging mount to keep up with Nicholas. He seemed to have deliberately chosen the largest and most fleet-footed horse in the stables, and it carried him as if he were feather light. Laura’s mount could not stay with him.
For another half hour they rode over the Lido, with Laura falling farther and farther behind, until at last Nicholas reined in at the very edge of the sand, the tiny wavelets creaming softly around his horse’s restless hooves as he waited for Laura to catch up.
He laughed at her windblown hair and flushed cheeks, and the way the ribbons of her bonnet had become entangled and were now far from the pristine bow she had tied on leaving Florian’s. Her parasol bumped against her leg and her reticule flapped like a wild thing as she thankfully reined in at last.
“My dear Miss Milbanke,”—he laughed—“what would they say at Almack’s if they could see you now?”
“They would say that it was most ungentlemanly of you to ride off like that and put me to such a task,” she retorted.
He nodded. “Aye, it was ungentlemanly; forgive me. I felt the need to push my mount to his limit.”
“And to push yourself too.”
His gray eyes showed slight amusement. “You read me like a book, madam.”
“No, I don’t, for if I did then I would be able to persuade you against meeting the baron tomorrow.”
“In that we must agree to disagree then.” He smiled at her, “But what is your opinion of my other undertaking?”
“The alterations at King’s Cliff?”
“Yes.”
“I think you are right, Sir Nicholas. I think too that Miss Townsend, who must surely love you, will be of the same opinion.”
“As you would be in her position?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must pray that she is more like you than I believe,” he said, swinging his leg over the cantle and dismounting. He helped her down and they left the horses by a windbreak of tamarisk shrubs and then walked along the sand together.
Out on the lagoon some heavily laden boats glided toward Venice, their prows painted with symbols to keep away evil spirits. Their ocher and red sails were brightly patterned with the sun, moon, and stars, and they made not a sound, their wash lapping softly against the shore as if trying to keep their passage a secret. The sun was beginning to set and the haze that had lingered through the afternoon was threading upward like wisps of gossamer to reveal Venice in a blaze of gold. The monastery bell on the island began to sound sundown and the mellow chimes drifted lazily over the still water. Laura and Nicholas walked in silence, each with deep thoughts that did not need to be put into words.
It was not until they at last returned to the horses that he spoke. “We have shared many intimacies today, Miss Milbanke, and I feel that I have known you all my life. And yet I do not even know your first name.”
“Laura.”
“Thank you for today, Laura.” He drew her fingers to his lips.
The lantern on the prow of their gondola shone on the black water as they returned across the lagoon. The gondolier hummed lightly to himself, echoing the music from a water-borne barrel organ which accompanied a party of revelers in their elegant barge.
Laura was fighting back the tears when at last the gondola reached the hotel where the perfume of orange blossom hung heavily in the air by the steps. It was nearly over. This one magical day was at an end and tomorrow’s dawn seemed suddenly so dreadfully near, a doom from which there could be no escape.
Nicholas helped her ashore, and as she wore no gloves, he must have known how cold her fingers were. The imminence of the duel was emphasized sharply as they walked into the hotel to find the two officers who were to be his seconds waiting.
The taller of the two bowed to them. “Guten abend, Sir Nicholas, Fraulein Milbanke.”
“Major Bergmann.” Nicholas bowed. Laura could not bring herself to say anything.
“All is arranged, Sir Nicholas; we will attend you one hour before dawn.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“Herr-Doktor Meyer will also attend, he is an army doctor-surgeon and very capable.”
“Again, I thank you, Major Bergmann.”
“Guten nacht, Sir Nicholas.” The Austrian’s spurred heels clicked.
“Good night.”
“Fraulein Milbanke.”
Laura could barely manage a smile of acknowledgment. Her, eyes were bright with unshed tears and her fingers coiled again and again in the folds of her gown.
At her door Nicholas put his hand gently to her cheek. “Don’t cry, Laura.”
“I’m trying so very hard not to,” she whispered, and then she caught his hand. “Please don’t meet the baron tomorrow. Please don’t—”
“I must.”
She closed her eyes and the tears welled out. His fingers tightened around hers and he drew her into his arms, holding her close. She raised her face, her lips parting to speak again, but he put a finger over them to silence her.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t ask me, for I cannot and will not grant you what you wish.” He hesitated a moment and then bent his head to kiss her on the lips.
She clung to him, holding him tightly as she returned the kiss. Her head was spinning, her pulse racing, and she could taste the salt of her own tears.
Slowly he released her. “Good night, Laura,” he said softly.
“God be with you, Nicholas.”
Then he was gone. Her tears blinded her and she almost stumbled into her room. Bitter sobs shook her body as she flung herself onto the bed. Her heart was breaking. Please God, please let him live! Let him live because I love him so!
Chapter 9
The light in the room was the palest of grays. Dawn was almost upon Venice. Laura lay awake on the bed. The posy of anemones were in a small bowl of water, their bright heads upturned. They had been so wan, their stems bending and their flowers drooping, but they were refreshed now and as beautiful as they had been the day before.
She watched the pale light beyond the windows. She heard Nicholas’s seconds passing her door, their spurred boots loud. They knocked at a door and she heard the low murmur of voices. The hotel was so still then that she could distinctly hear the hum of insects out on the balcony. The footsteps returned then, spurs jingling, and she clenched her hands tightly, willing herself to remain where she was. She wanted to call out to him, to
rush out and beg him on her knees not to go, but he would not welcome that and it would not help him to face the ordeal. She closed her tired eyes. The footsteps passed from hearing and silence returned.
The limpid light softened and brightened with each passing minute now, but Laura’s face was hidden in her pillow and she did not see. The only sound was the slow ticking of the clock as the moments passed relentlessly by.
“Fräulein Milbanke! Fräulein Milbanke!” Major Bergmann was hammering at her door.
Laura got up. Her heart felt like ice as she stared at the door. She could not move toward it, for to do that would be to hear that he was dead….
“Fräulein Milbanke, come quickly please! Sir Nicholas is badly wounded, but he lives.”
With a choked cry she ran to the door and would have gone to Nicholas’s room, but the major caught her arm. “I warn you, Fraulein, it is very bad and the doctor does not hold out hope.”
She stared at him. “No,” she whispered, “No, I will not believe—”
“But you must, for it is true. Sir Nicholas was struck twice.”
“Twice? But how could that be?”
“It shames me to acknowledge that the Baron von Marienfeld is my fellow countryman and fellow officer, for today he behaved in a most craven and disgraceful manner. He discharged his second pistol when Sir Nicholas was unarmed. It is always the baron’s custom to take both pistols from the outset, for his aim is as true with the left hand as with the right. Sir Nicholas, as is the more usual custom, took only the one, meaning to replace it afterward before taking the second. Both men took up their positions and the first shots were discharged. The baron was wounded a little in his shoulder, but Sir Nicholas was hit very badly in his left arm. He was still standing at this point, however, although losing a great deal of blood and obviously faint. But rather than face him equally a second time, the baron discharged his second pistol immediately. It was an act of cowardice and callousness such as I did not ever think to witness, and only the fact that Sir Nicholas swayed on his feet at that moment saved him from certain death.”
“Where did the second shot strike him?”
“It grazed his temple. It was meant to strike his head a mortal blow.”
She closed her eyes weakly. So close, so very close….
“The baron has been forced to flee from Venice, Fraulein. He may be close to the governor, but even that would not assist him under these vile circumstances. To fire at a defenseless opponent and to do so before witnesses is an act with consequences from which even he could not hope to escape. He will never be able to hold his head up here in Venice again, for all will despise him even more than they already do. He is an evil man, Fräulein Milbanke, the devil’s henchman.”
She nodded. “I must go to Sir Nicholas….”
Still he detained her. “Wait one moment more, Fraulein, I beg of you. I think it only right to tell you that the doctor wishes to amputate Sir Nicholas’s left arm; he says that that is his only chance—and a very slender one at that.”
“If it is his only chance, then it must be done.”
“In my opinion he stands more chance without the attentions of a doctor-surgeon! On the field of battle I have seen more men die after treatment than I care to remember. There is another thing, however, and that is that before the commencement of the duel, Sir Nicholas took me aside and gave me specific instructions that on no account were any injuries he might receive to be treated by amputation. He was most firm on this and demanded that I gave him my word as an officer and a gentleman. This I did, I believe that I am right, both because I honor my sworn word, and because such chance as he may have will be eliminated by such savage surgery in his present weakened state. There you have it, Fraulein Milbanke, and I tell you because I know that the doctor will try to persuade you to give your permission for the operation to be carried out.”
“My permission? But I have no right—”
“You are Sir Nicholas’s friend. He spent yesterday with you and he fought the baron because of you. I think you have the right to decide. If you wish the operation to be carried out, then I will not stand in your way. I may be wrong to stop the operation; I know only that I have done what Sir Nicholas asked of me. You are not bound by my promises if you believe the doctor is correct. Do you see what I am trying to say? I think Sir Nicholas is a brave and valiant man, and I do not want honor to deprive him of his life.”
She smiled a little. “Honor. Honor appears to be everything,” she murmured, walking slowly on towards Nicholas’s room.
Dr. Meyer was a sallow-faced man with graying hair. His white uniform outlined his lean, bony shape as he bent over Nicholas’s still figure. Nicholas’s valet, Henderson, stood at the other side of the bed, holding a bowl of water and some fresh dressings. The wiry little valet looked anxiously down into his master’s ashen face. Nicholas did not move; his eyes were closed and the aura of death lay over him.
A bandage had been hastily applied to the wound on his right temple, but already a red stain marred its whiteness. There had not been time to remove his coat and the doctor had cut away the arm of the garment that a Bond Street tailor had labored over so long and lovingly. Such a sad end to a magnificent coat…. The blood from the shattered arm flowed freshly, staining the Hotel Contarini’s expensive silk coverlet. At last the doctor succeeded in stemming the flow a little, and then he straightened, giving Major Bergmann a cold disdainful look before turning to Laura.
“Forgive me, Fraulein, for subjecting you to this ordeal, but I must beg of you to give your permission for me to remove Sir Nicholas’s left arm immediately.” He wiped his bloody hands on a cloth.
“I have no right, Doctor.”
“There is only you, and I must turn to you because others present here would deny Sir Nicholas his chance of survival.” Again a disdainful look at the unfortunate Major Bergmann.
“Doctor,” she said, “can you tell me exactly what the chance is?”
“He has lost a great deal of blood, far too much. I am afraid that the ball lodged in his arm will make the flesh putrid and that that will in turn lead to a terrible death. Therefore it is my opinion that such a possibility must be avoided by the removal of the arm.”
“But the flesh may not become putrid.”
“There is that possibility.”
“And it is certain that the shock of such an amputation may prove too much for him in his present condition.”
“I know my profession, Fraulein,” snapped the doctor, “And I most certainly pride myself on my speed in such matters. Sir Nicholas would suffer the minimum of pain. I cannot emphasize strongly enough the necessity for the arm’s removal.”
She hesitated. But what right had she to go against Nicholas’s own expressed wish? She found herself looking into the hostile eyes of the valet. You are to blame, said those eyes, but for you Sir Nicholas would not be lying at death’s door. You are the cause of it all…. And he’s right, he’s right! She forced herself to meet the valet’s gaze, however. “Do you know why Sir Nicholas was so particular with his instructions about amputation?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Tell me.”
“Because he believes in the work of his close friend, Dr. Daniel Tregarron of Langford. Dr. Tregarron believes that sometimes a bullet can be left in a wound without causing the patient any harm, and he’s proved it on King’s Cliff by tending a gamekeeper who got shot in the leg. The bullet is still in that leg and the gamekeeper as hale as the next man.”
Dr. Meyer snorted disparagingly, “This man Tregarron is a charlatan, and a lucky one at that. Centuries of medicine have proved that leaving wounds only results in putrefaction. I am the surgeon-doctor here, not this Tregarron, and I warn you all that unless I remove that arm swiftly, then Sir Nicholas Grenville will most certainly die.”
Everyone looked at Laura now. They forced the unwelcome decision upon her. She looked down at Nicholas. How dark his lashes were against his pale skin. Even now he was so
very handsome, so beautiful, almost…. She raised her eyes to the doctor. “I’m sorry, but if will not be party to any amputation.”
“Then, Fräulein, on your head be it.”
“I did not seek this responsibility, sir, but as it has been thrust upon me, I will act accordingly to my conscience.”
He nodded. “Very well. I will do what I can for him within the limits placed upon me. I can only bind the wounds and make him as comfortable as possible.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He worked as swiftly as possible, applying fresh dressings, and fifteen minutes later he prepared to take his leave. “If, and it is unlikely, he survives to this evening, then I am to be sent for again.”
“Very well. Doctor.”
He and the major left then, and Laura was alone with Nicholas and the valet, whose hostility was still very much in evidence. With a heavy heart she sat down on a chair beside the bed, thereby signifying that she had every intention of remaining in the room, whether the possessive valet liked it or not.
The room was very hot, for the doctor had ordered the kindling of several of the terracotta charcoal stoves and the closing of the windows against the ill humors present in the fresh air outside. She could hear the whine of mosquitoes in the stuffy atmosphere. She looked at the valet then. “Would Dr. Tregarron have closed the windows and had stoves lit?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then, as we are following the gospel according to him, we will open the windows and extinguish the stoves.”
He smiled a little reluctantly. “Yes, ma’am.”
The cool Venetian breeze whispered pleasingly and refreshingly over the room, moving the hangings of the ornate bed where Nicholas lay so still. Laura’s eyes went to the table beside her.
Augustine Townsend’s beautiful face stared at her from its dainty little frame. In front of the miniature lay a folded, sealed document—the last will and testament of Sir Nicholas Grenville of King’s Cliff in the county of Somerset.
Laura bowed her head, the tears stinging her tired eyes.
