The Dowager's Wager

by Nikki Poppen

  Tristan called at the Danvers’ home one afternoon while Isabella was assisting Caroline with the selection of household linen. She’d frozen the minute she’d caught his voice in the hall. Caroline had looked up from her pile of swatches, beaming as she recognized the voice, too. She rose and went to the door of the little parlor calling, “Darling, we’re in here. Come and see the linen samples.”

  Isabella winced at the summons. She’d hoped Caroline might go into the hall and converse with Tristan there instead of dragging him into the room and into her presence. Within seconds of the summons, boots sounded on the tile in the hall outside the parlor and Tristan materialized in the doorway, stopping to place a dutiful kiss on Caroline’s cheek. Isabella didn’t avert her gaze fast enough. Tristan looked beyond Caroline’s shoulder and saw her staring at them. She was gratified to see the tic in his cheek jump at the sight of her as he strode toward the sofa where she sat. He inclined his head and was all appropriate formality.

  “Lady Westbrooke, it is so kind of you to spare your time for Caroline when I know you have the pressing matter of your own wedding to consider as well.”

  Caroline gushed from his side, looking ever more dolllike in the shadow of Tristan’s dominating presence. “Yes, you are a dear to do this for me. I don’t know how Mother and I would have gotten everything ready in just two weeks.”

  “Our families have been friends and neighbors for a long time, Caroline. It is an honor that you’ve asked me,” Isabella managed to reply before turning her attention back to the linen swatches in the vain hope that Caroline and Tristan would leave her alone. She hadn’t an ounce of luck.

  “Oh yes, come and see what we’ve picked out. Lady Westbrooke has helped me narrow the samples down to just five for our formal linen.” Caroline drew Tristan forward to the little table in front of the sofa, indicating the five patterns. She pointed at one pattern specifically. “I prefer the embossed roses for the table linen.”

  Tristan reached out a hand and covered Caroline’s gently, his fingers offering a soft caress as he did so. “I don’t think I’d prefer the roses, Caro”

  Caroline turned her big blue eyes up to him, all acquiescence. “Of course, darling. Perhaps the white damask then?”

  He nodded his approval and Isabella bristled while he caressed Caroline’s hand again in an obvious manner, the affects of the tender gesture blatant on Caroline’s face as she suppressed a giggle. “You’re so naughty, my lord,” she chided.

  Good lord, if you think that’s naughty, wait until he sticks his tongue in your mouth, Isabella thought uncharitably as Tristan took leave of his blushing bride. The next time she saw Tristan was two weeks later at the wedding.

  Despite the hurried nature of the affair, the stone church dating back to Norman times on the Danvers’ property was filled to capacity with well-wishers the morning of the wedding. Even the mercurial weather had decided to cooperate, giving the bride a blue-skied day to remember her nuptials. Caroline was resplendent in a white satin gown, heavily encrusted with pearls. If the bride was lovely, the groom was a breathtaking vision of manliness.

  Tristan stood straight and pale at the altar, attired most excellently in a dark blue morning frock coat of Bath superfine and ivory inexpressibles, a pristine cravat tied in an elegant “oriental” at his throat with a diamond pin winking tastefully in its folds. His dark hair was pulled back in a perfectly executed queue, setting off the firm lines of his face. His straight shoulders never slouched, the alert pose of his body showing nothing beyond the typical tension of a bridegroom. If he was aware of the ladies that commented slyly on his good looks and rakish reputation behind their hands in the pews, his actions made no note of it. In fact, anyone standing close to him could see the flatness in his usually vibrant eyes and sense the void that was regularly filled with his vital energy.

  Alain stood rigidly at attention next to Tristan, his mossy eyes intent on the scene unfolding before him. The entire morning, since the minute he had awakened had seemed surreal to him. An indefinable sixth sense warned him about the day. It was not enough that his friend was marrying the wrong woman. Something more was wrong, very wrong, about the occasion. But despite his misgivings, the incredible, terrible day had unfolded without incident. He’d managed to get both he and Tristan suitably attired and off to the church without mishap. He’d even attempted an awkward conversation with Tristan in a last attempt to guide him away from this ill-conceived marriage. His efforts had been useless. Here they were, dutifully waiting for the bride and enduring the scrutiny of the guests as they stood at the front of the be-garlanded church.

  The guests stilled suddenly and heads swiveled as Isabella glided down the aisle dressed in pale blue satin and lace, her arrival heralding that the bride was at hand. Alain watched his friend’s jaw clench and his fists tighten at his sides. Alain noted how Tristan’s eyes followed Isabella up to the altar where she took her place on the left side of the aisle. Even after the crowd aahed at the first sighting of the bride in the church doorway, Tristan’s eyes struggled to leave Isabella.

  Isabella fought the temptation to look slightly to the right in fear of catching Tristan’s eye. Determinedly, she looked straight out into the pews, trying to lose herself in the sea of faces that swam before her, but nothing could shake her consciousness of Tristan’s probing stare. She knew she was pale. She’d seen her face in the mirror that morning while Betty conducted her toilette. She was utterly unaware that her paleness simply served to enhance her ethereal beauty against the folds of her pale blue bridesmaid’s dress.

  A voice in her head that would not be silenced by any device she had yet created dared her to put a stop to the ceremony, to cross the six feet that separated her from Tristan and confess her soul to him; that she had wrestled the night away with her conscience and found in the dawn the ulti mate truth of her heart; she was only marrying Avery because she was too frightened to marry Tristan, too frightened of the betrayals she might face. If he gave her just one word of encouragement, she would be his. The voice in her head begged her to ask Tristan for those words now as the last minutes of opportunity ticked away. She resisted. If she could last the hour, there would be no more temptation. In all ways that mattered, Tristan would be dead to her. She fought her demons, she would not look at him.

  She would not look at him! Tristan’s heart plunged further. This was not his wedding, but his funeral, Tristan thought as he gazed on the pageantry of the event unfolding before him with eyes that saw the irony of it all. The occasion was not so much a ceremony of joining, but a ceremony of separation; not so much the beginning of new life but the ending of an old one. Indeed, he was already dead in the ways that had come to matter to him. Everything down to his very clothing symbolized a departure from his former self. He was not marrying in his military dress uniform. That avenue of his life was closed to him now, too. His career and his true love, were both part of his past. Neither was part of his future.

  He was vaguely aware from the stir among the guests that Caroline had entered the church. Duty required he look at her with the gaze of an expectant and well-pleased bridegroom but the bride of his heart stood just a few feet away. He found his stare defiantly fixed on Isabella’s pale face, his memory taking in the whole of her as she did her best to hide her trembling hands beneath the abundant bouquet she carried. What would she do if he risked all and stepped across the dais, swept her into his arms and carried her out of the church? His coach was waiting outside. They’d be in Scotland within days and they’d never have to come home. In fact, after such action, there could be no other choice.

  When he could no longer bear her countenance, Tristan tore his eyes from her and watched Caroline Danvers come down the aisle, the epitome of the perfect, golden-haired bride, and take her place next to him.

  The reverend intoned the opening words of the ceremony. Tristan’s eyes fell on the worn Bible in his hands.

  Halfway through the ceremony, Tristan’s dazed attenti
on focused on a growing tension beside him. Alain stirred infinitesimally by his side. Tristan attributed his movement as a signal that it was time for the ring. Alain handed him the ring and Tristan noted his friend had taken the opportunity to readjust himself so that he could now see past Isabella on the left side and out into the front rows of guests. Alert now, Tristan divided his attention. With only half of his concentration, Tristan listened to Caroline recite her pledge to him while he held the ring in readiness for the giving of his own vows. The other portion of his focus was on Isabella.

  Isabella stilled as she felt Tristan’s gaze on her. Her first, fleeting thought was that Tristan was going to embarrass her with some last minute foolishness, then she realized he wasn’t looking at her but beyond her to someone else.

  “Gresham!” An angry voice rang out behind her as stifled screams emitted from the audience. Alain surged forward, tackling Caroline to the floor and covering her with his protective form. Isabella pivoted to find the voice, having only a moment to take in the sight of Middleton with a deadly pistol raised in her direction. It vaguely crossed her mind that the shot was not meant for her but that she was in the bullet’s path, a thought Middleton hadn’t had time to process before he pulled the trigger, firing the shot meant for Tristan.

  “Bella!” Tristan roared, using his whole body to roughly shove her aside, her scream swallowed in the wake of his own shout. She stumbled, falling away from him as everything in her world slowed. With horrified eyes she watched Tristan’s body ingest the full impact of the bullet striking his chest. He gave a cry as he hit the floor and went still.

  “Tristan!” Isabella scrambled across the floor to his side, her skirt ripping as it tangled with her knees as she crawled to him, barely aware of Alain launching himself from the dais onto Middleton and wrestling him to the ground. Someone rushed forward to Caroline who appeared to have fainted. She heard Giles directing people out of the church and away from the mess at the altar. In the ensuing chaos, it was Chatham and Avery who found their way to her side and helped her to tear back the fabric of Tristan’s clothing and ascertain the extent of the wound.

  “Tear up your underskirts,” Chatham commanded urgently. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding if it’s possible.”

  “Possible? What do you mean?” Panic edged her voice as her trembling hands began ripping as Chatham ordered.

  “The bullet may have hit an artery. There’s so much blood, too much blood,” Chatham said, his hands probing the wound for further clarification. “Now, tear me long strips of cloth. If we can staunch the bleeding, we can bind the wound long enough to get him to the house.”

  Avery took one look at Isabella’s stricken face and galvanized into action. “I’ll go for the doctor and have him meet us at the manor house”

  Isabella thought the waiting would drive her insane as she paced the Danvers’ parlor. The room was crowded with Tristan’s friends. Giles and Chatham sat, legs outstretched, untouched snifters of brandy in their hands. Alain stared out the window in the oncoming twilight. Avery stood stoically by the door. In a corner on the sofa, Caroline cried intermittently into a handkerchief, her radiant face blotchy, her gown crushed and wrinkled.

  Several events had transpired while Tristan lay unconscious in the hands of the surgeon. Alain had brought down Middleton and the local officials had taken him into town to be held until the appropriate magistrates could pick him up for questioning. Giles, after organizing the evacuation of the church and seeing to the guests, had the unwelcome task of explaining to Caroline that her almost-husband was a secret agent for the crown.

  Avery had said nothing after summoning the doctor but had stood silently watching them all as they waited for the surgeon’s verdict. He was acutely aware that he was an outsider to these affairs, as was Caroline, regardless of the fact that it was her house. The two of them were not part of this tight knit group that waited anxiously for news of their dear friend. He had no doubt that Caroline would not complete her wedding to Gresham. Just as he knew with a dread certainty that he would not see his marriage to Isabella come to fruition in June. He didn’t belong here but he stayed for Isabella. If the worst should happen, she would need what comfort he could offer and he would give it freely. A movement in the room caught his eye. His gaze shifted, following Caroline as she crossed the room to Isabella and touched her gently on the sleeve.

  Isabella felt a lite touch on her arm and heard Caroline whisper beside her. “Come walk with me”

  The two women strolled the hallway, coming to stop by a window that overlooked the back gardens. At length, Caroline spoke. “I must speak frankly with you, Lady Westbrooke. This has been a nightmarish day, this wedding that wasn’t. We weren’t truly married, you know. He never spoke his vows” There was a break in her voice as it trembled. “And he never will, at least he will never speak them to me”

  At a loss, Isabella struggled to find comforting words. “He will recover. He is a strong man. The wedding can take place later.”

  “No. I cannot marry him now that I know,” Caroline sniffed. “I cannot live with the danger that surrounds him. I am not naive enough to believe that his enemies will leave him alone, that there will be no repeats of attacks like the one today. I haven’t your courage, Lady Westbrooke. Even more so, I cannot marry a man who loves another. I saw it in his eyes today that he loves you. When I came down the aisle, every pair of eyes were on me, but not his. He was looking at you as if you were his life and when he did look at me, his eyes were dead. I do not want to live with a shell of a man, knowing that his very sorrow stems from being with me.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Isabella stammered. “I think perhaps you overrate the situation,” she offered the hasty denial, thinking to spare Caroline’s feelings. No bride should discover on her wedding day that the groom favored the bridesmaid.

  “Don’t pretend it isn’t true,” Caroline said with a quiet sternness that did her credit. “He took that bullet for you. Middleton realized too late that you were in the line of fire. Whatever doubts you had about Tristan’s devotion to you, you can doubt no longer.” Tears threatened to overcome her after her brave speech. “I will retire privately for a few moments, if you’ll excuse me?” Caroline turned and fled to an empty room, overwhelmed.

  Isabella walked slowly back to the parlor alone. Caroline’s words confirmed the truths she had recognized as she’d knelt next to Tristan on the dais. She and Tristan belonged together but that knowledge had come too late. She’d seen the wound first hand when Chatham had pulled the blood soaked cloth of Tristan’s shirt away from his chest. She had seen the futility of the white wadding Chatham had pressed against the gaping hole as pad after pad of her underskirt had become drenched in Tristan’s blood. That Chatham had been able to get Tristan stabilized enough to get to the manor house a half mile away had been nothing short of miraculous. She did not think she’d get another miracle.

  The surgeon confirmed her worst suspicions when she returned to the parlor. Tristan would not last the night. The bullet had been removed and had impossibly missed striking his heart or lungs, but the extraction and the loss of blood had weakened him considerably. Already, he was in the throes of a fever with no strength left to fight it.

  “It’s only a fever! Surely you can do something for him? Give him something to help him fight!” Isabella lashed out angrily at the doctor, who spread his hands helplessly against her tirade. “You can’t let him simply slip away! You can’t give up.” Her eyes were wild in her desperation.

  It was Avery who stepped in when the others were silent, ingesting their own desperation over Tristan. “Of course, we won’t let him give up” He had tried for two years to make Isabella happy. He saw clearly now why he’d fallen short of the mark. Her heart had never been hers to give, for it had been given years ago. Her happiness would be his parting gift to her. He would fight with her for Tristan’s life. He felt Alain step up beside him, having recovered himself sufficiently to see his s
ister’s incredible need. “We will fight for him, Bella, just as he has fought for us”

  The group drew watches and set their guard around their friend, bathing him as his fever raged; pressing a glass of water between his lips to assuage his thirst, checking his bandages to ensure bleeding hadn’t begun again. Avery took Isabella aside and forced her to rest, saying that if Tristan were to die it would be at the bridge of the night as dark passed to dawn. He would need her then to fight the ebbing tides that would tug at his soul and lure him away as surely as any siren of mythology lured Odysseus. True to his word, Avery fetched her for the fourth watch.

  Isabella was not ready for the sight that lay before her as she entered the sickroom. Tristan was a pale, lifeless form in the midst of the big bed, only his dark hair contrasted with the white linens around him. She thought for a moment that he’d already slipped away without waking. Alain sat by the bed, his head drooping in weariness.

  “Alain?” Her voice quaked with her unspoken fear. She looked to her brother for hope.

  Alain had none to give her as he rose from the chair near the bed, his face stubbled, and his voice hoarse as he spoke. “He is struggling, Bella. You can see how shallow his breath ing is.” He nodded at the covers, which barely rose beneath Tristan’s chest.

  “The fever has him quite thoroughly now. He tried to leave a few hours ago, I think, but I took his hand and began to talk to him of our days at school together and all the funny pranks I could remember. It seemed to help.” Alain paused, unsure what more to say.