A Wealthy Widow

by Anne Herries

  ‘I am not sure that he is a stranger,’ Arabella said, still pensive. ‘I believe we may have met—at my wedding, if memory serves me right. I think he was a friend of Ben’s.’ She was certain of it in her own mind, even though he had not seemed to recognise her at the inn.

  ‘You did not say earlier.’ Tilda looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘No, for it was not important. We met only once—and I may be mistaken, but I am willing to take that chance. For Ben’s sake, I cannot abandon him.’ Tears stood in her eyes. ‘I have often prayed that there was someone to care for Ben…’ Her throat was tight and she shook her head. The thought that her husband might have died alone was too painful.

  ‘I see…’ Tilda did not understand such sentimentality. The expression on her face was plainly one of disbelief and disagreement, but there was really very little she could do to dissuade Arabella. ‘If you are set on this madness, I suppose you must do as you think fit.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think it so very foolish,’ Arabella reassured her. ‘It will only be for a day or so. Aunt Hester will be happy to see you, Tilda, and I shall join you both quite soon.’

  Tilda’s mouth pursed, but she gave up her efforts to change Arabella’s mind. However, when she reached the house in Hanover Square, she would consider whether it was right to confide in Lady Tate.

  Her silent disapproval became almost oppressive when Arabella left her three times during the evening to visit the patient’s bedchamber. Iris had taken it upon herself to sit with him at her mistress’s request, but to Tilda’s mind it seemed that nothing would do for Arabella but to sit with him herself while Iris ate her supper. Had Tilda known that Arabella crept out from the bedchamber they shared that night to relieve Iris from her vigil, she would have been most distressed. Fortunately, she was a heavy sleeper and remained in ignorance.

  However, Iris looked relieved when her mistress entered the sick room. It was now the early hours of the morning and Iris had been finding it hard to keep awake.

  ‘Has there been any change, Iris?’

  ‘No, my lady,’ the maid replied, yawning. She was a plump girl, plain faced but agreeable and devoted to her mistress. ‘He muttered something a while ago—a girl’s name, I think—but he hasn’t woken.’

  ‘Go and rest now,’ Arabella told her. ‘We may have to nurse him for some days and nights. We shall both need our sleep.’

  ‘Are you sure, my lady? Mrs Blackstone said that she would help us and she seems a good woman.’

  ‘I imagine she has enough to do looking after her customers, Iris. I shall sit with the gentleman for the time being. You may return in the morning.’

  ‘Poor gentleman,’ Iris said. ‘He has a handsome face, my lady, but he looks gaunt, as though he has been ill—before this, I mean. When the doctor undressed him, he discovered that he had a wound to his thigh. It seemed to have recovered, but the scarring was fresh. There were other wounds on his body, and the doctor thought he might have been a soldier.’

  ‘Yes, I dare say he may have been. I thought that he had suffered recently,’ Arabella said. Her thoughtful eyes moved to the man in the bed. ‘I believe he may have suffered a great deal, Iris. I saw him briefly earlier today and remarked it. You see, I think I may know him. He was a friend of my husband’s.’

  ‘Did he come for your wedding, my lady? I did wonder if I had seen him before, though I do not know his name.’

  ‘Mr Charles Hunter, if I am right. For the moment it is best if we do not speak of him by his name. It will be easier if Mrs Blackstone continues to believe him my husband.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Iris bobbed a curtsy and went out, leaving Arabella alone with her patient.

  Arabella crossed to the bed, bending over him to lay a gentle hand on his brow. He seemed hot and his forehead was damp. Noticing that Iris had left a bowl of water and a cloth by the bed, she wrung the cloth out, laying it on his brow for a moment before gently wiping away the perspiration. However, in a moment or two he was sweating again, and Arabella thought that he seemed feverish.

  ‘Poor Charles,’ she murmured, feeling strangely drawn to him. She felt that he had experienced some terrible grief quite recently. She had seen it in his face earlier and it touched her, arousing her sympathy. ‘You have suffered much already and it is unkind of Fate to offer you this further blow,’ she said and stroked the damp hair back from his forehead. ‘Rest now, Charles. We shall take care of you.’

  He was so hot! She must do something to cool him.

  Arabella removed one of the heavy quilts, and then, on impulse, pulled back the sheets. His body was damp with sweat and she could feel the heat coming from him. She took the cloth Iris had been using to bathe his forehead, wringing it out in the water again and beginning to sponge his arms, chest and then his legs. She would have bathed his back, but was not sure she could turn him alone. But perhaps it would not be necessary, for at last he seemed easier. He sighed and murmured something that might have been a name, but too softly for her to hear.

  For a while after she had bathed his heated body he seemed to rest more comfortably, but after an hour or so he became hot again, throwing his arms and legs about as if he were in distress. His head moved restlessly on the pillow and Arabella soothed him as best she could, whispering words of reassurance and stroking his hair. Pity wrenched at her heart, and she felt a flicker of tenderness stir inside her. He looked so vulnerable, so needy as he lay there tossing in his fever, that she longed to comfort him. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide and he stared at her.

  ‘Sarah,’ he croaked. ‘Thank God I have found you, my dear one. Forgive me, I beg you. Forgive me…’

  ‘Charles…’ Arabella said, but his eyes had closed and she knew that he had fallen back into the unconscious state in which she had found him. ‘Please do not die. I do not want you to die.’

  Arabella did not know why his survival was so important to her. It could only be that she was transferring her longing to help Ben to his friend, almost as though by saving Charles Hunter she could atone for not being able to save her beloved husband.

  ‘You must get well,’ she whispered and stroked his forehead. ‘I shall stay with you until you are able to fend for yourself, Charles. I promise that I shall not desert you.’

  ‘Are you sure you will not give up this nonsense and come with me?’ Tilda asked the next morning. ‘I do not like to leave you here like this, Arabella—and without your carriage. I could travel in the baggage coach…’

  ‘No, indeed, I shall not put you to such torture,’ Arabella said, a smile on her lips. Her companion was not the best of travellers at any time. ‘Both vehicles may travel with you—I need only my small trunk here. My baggage may as well go with you, and the coachman will come back for me in a day or so after the horses are rested. There is no reason for you to worry at all, Tilda. I shall be quite comfortable.’

  Tilda was doubtful and had to be coaxed into the carriage, but at last it was accomplished and Arabella sighed her relief. She tried not to think it, for she did not wish to be unkind, but she would be much happier here alone. Her companion’s fretting had begun to seem tedious after two days’ travelling. She felt relieved that for a short time she need not consider anyone but her patient and herself.

  Going upstairs to her own chamber, she tidied her hair and smoothed the skirts of her serviceable gown. She had chosen one of her oldest, which was normally kept for working in her stillroom. She preferred not to dress too richly while staying at the inn, for she had now realised that she and Mr Hunter were not the only guests. She had seen another gentleman as she came downstairs that morning. By his dress he was a countryman, perhaps a merchant or a farmer of ample means, for though well turned out he did not aspire to fashion. Arabella was glad that she had allowed her hosts to believe Charles was her husband. She would not care to be thought fast in any way, which she might have had they known that she was regularly visiting the bedchamber of a stranger.

  Entering Charles’s room a
little later, she saw that Iris was bending over him, trying to give him a little water from a pewter cup, and he seemed to be fighting her. When she went closer, Arabella realised that he was once again in the grip of a fever.

  ‘What are you giving him?’ she asked because she could see now that the cup contained more than water.

  ‘The doctor has been again and he left a powder to be mixed with water and administered every few hours. As you can see, my lady, the gentleman is much worse this morning than he was last night.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Arabella said and laid a hand on his forehead. ‘He is burning up, Iris. We must do something to help him. I think we should bathe him. Strip back the bedcovers while I bring fresh water.’

  She went over to the washstand and poured water from the jug into a bowl, bringing it back to the bedside as Iris folded back the heavy cover. Charles was naked and the girl blushed—she had only ever seen one naked man before and that was her young brother. She placed a towel over his private parts, turning to wring out her cloth and recover her composure. Arabella came to join her, a little amused that the girl had thought fit to protect his modesty. She had felt no shame in looking at his body, finding it beautiful. He had strong firm legs, and was well formed without the slightest hint of anything to spoil the perfection.

  ‘We shall do it together, Iris. You bathe that arm and I shall do this one. That way we can hold him more easily if he fights us.’

  ‘He seems quieter now,’ Iris pointed out. ‘I think it was the sound of your voice. He kept trying to push me away, but he settled when you touched him.’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Arabella agreed. ‘I think he mistook me for someone he cares for last night. He woke for a moment, though I do not think he knew what he said, because in seconds he had gone back into his unconscious state. The fever had not gripped him so much then, but we shall do what we can ourselves to care for him; then, if he is no better in an hour or so, I shall send for the doctor again.’

  They carefully bathed most of his body in the cool water, turning him one way and then the other. Arabella stroked the red marks on his thigh where he had been wounded previously, thinking that the flesh still looked sore. She had some healing creams in her baggage, and instructed Iris to fetch the pots for her once they had dried his skin. While the girl was gone, Arabella stroked his forehead, speaking him to him tenderly. It was true that the sound of her voice did soothe him. He was not quite as hot now, and, when Iris returned, she smoothed a little cream into his thigh, massaging it for some minutes before drawing the covers over him again. Then she applied the ointment to the wound at the side of his head. He had received a nasty cut, but it was not deep and she thought it would soon heal.

  ‘There, I think he will do for the time being,’ she said. ‘I shall go and have my breakfast now, and you can have yours in half an hour. I shall order it made ready for you, Iris.’

  Glancing at the man in the bed once more before she left, Arabella was aware of a warm glow inside her. He was resting now. Their nursing had certainly helped him. It might be only a temporary respite, but it could be a turning point. She prayed that it might be so.

  When Iris came down to partake of her meal, Arabella went back to the sick room. She sat by the bedside for more than an hour and then went to fetch a book from her own room. Charles Hunter was sleeping peacefully and she would be better with something to do for a while.

  After another hour, Iris came to take her place as they had agreed. Arabella went out for a walk, feeling the need for a little air. The inn was quite warm and rather stuffy as it had only small windows. She felt pleased with their patient’s progress, for he seemed to be throwing the fever off. However, when she returned, Iris told her that he had begun to sweat heavily and throw the bedcovers off once more.

  Arabella resorted to the same remedy as before, and once again he quietened under her hand. She was a little concerned and sent Iris to ask the landlord to send for the doctor again.

  When he visited later that morning, the doctor declared himself satisfied with the patient’s progress.

  ‘You must expect a little fever,’ he said. ‘I warned you that he might be violent, for brain fever can be dangerous, though you seem to be nursing him very well, Lady Arabella. I had expected your husband to be in a worse case than this. Continue to give him the powders I left you and I am sure all will be well.’

  Arabella thanked him, forbearing to tell him that her patient had not taken much of the doctor’s remedy. She walked downstairs with him to the parlour where she took her midday meal alone. There was no sign of the country gentleman she had seen earlier and she was pleased that the inn seemed not to get too many visitors. It was as she was preparing to go back upstairs once more that Mrs Blackstone came up to her with a smile.

  ‘Your husband is much better, Lady Arabella. He woke a few moments ago when I went in with some more water. He asked me where he was and I told him that he was staying at the Fox and Hounds in Thornborough, and that his wife was caring for him. He seemed a little mazed, my lady, but I am sure that is only to be expected in the circumstances. The poor man said he had no wife, but he will remember when he sees you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Arabella said and went hastily up the stairs. It was little wonder if Charles Hunter felt confused by being told his wife was caring for him! She entered the bedchamber and found Iris wrestling with him as she tried to keep him from leaving his bed.

  ‘You must not, sir,’ Arabella said and crossed to the bedside. ‘You have been ill and I think you should stay in bed for a little longer.’

  ‘And who the hell are you?’ he demanded, looking angry. ‘Are you the designing wench who has been masquerading as my wife? I have no wife and if you hope to force me into proposing because you have compromised yourself, let me tell you that you are much mistaken. I have no intention of taking a wife—and certainly not a female I have never met before in my life!’

  ‘Thank you, Iris, you may go,’ Arabella said. She fixed a cool stare on Charles, lifting her head proudly. Now she became the lady of the manor, wealth and power at her back. ‘You are the one who is mistaken, sir. I found you lying on the road and in a parlous state. Had I not taken you up in my carriage, you might have died. Indeed, the rogue who attacked you might have returned to finish his work.’

  ‘Was I attacked?’ Charles stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Something about her voice was very attractive. He found it soothing, despite his shock at the discovery that he was supposed to have a wife. ‘Who are you, ma’am—and why does the innkeeper’s wife imagine I am your husband?’

  ‘Because I was determined to nurse you,’ Arabella told him calmly. ‘It seemed easier to allow that good lady to think us married, but I assure you that you stand in no danger of being coerced into offering for me. I have no intention of marrying again—and, I assure you, nothing would make me marry you, sir.’

  Charles stared at her for a few seconds, a frown on his face. ‘You are a widow?’

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ she replied. ‘I had thought you might know me, Mr Hunter, but it seems that you have forgot me.’

  ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Once—at my wedding. I am Lady Arabella Marshall. My late husband was then your good friend. It was for his sake that I have done what I have. I always prayed that someone nursed Ben when he was dying and thought it my duty to help you.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Charles said and gave a little moan of anguish. He lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘Forgive me. My head aches like the very devil and I thought…I have been damnably rude!’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ she said and smiled a little wryly. ‘However, the doctor told me that you might be violent or abusive. Indeed, I was prepared for much worse. Forgive me for taking a liberty concerning my relationship with yourself, Mr Hunter—but it did seem the best way at the time. I could hardly have cared for you as I have if I’d confessed that you were a stranger to me. I am four and twenty, no longer a green
girl, but I do not think it would have been thought proper even so.’

  He opened his eyes and looked at her again, a wry expression on his lips. ‘I am a fool. I tend to think the worst of people these days. Of course I remember Ben’s wife. I am sorry for not having known you—and even more sorry that Ben died. It was a terrible thing to happen so soon after you were wed.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Arabella agreed, her eyes shadowed with sadness. ‘Now, sir, may I have something brought for you? A little nourishing broth or some wine?’

  ‘I detest nourishing broth,’ Charles said with a grimace. ‘I will eat some bread and cold meat—and a glass of wine if you please.’

  ‘I think a little brandy might be restorative,’ Arabella said. ‘But not the meat and bread just yet. I shall ask Mrs Blackstone if she will cook a coddled egg for you.’ She laughed as he pulled a face. ‘Yes, I know what you will think of that, sir—but red meat might not suit you for the moment.’

  ‘Do you think it might make me violent? I promise I shall not attack you, ma’am.’

  ‘I have no fear of it,’ Arabella laughed huskily. Her eyes lit up and in that moment she was very beautiful. ‘You may have a little chicken this evening if you do not relapse into the fever again. Please, for my peace of mind, be sensible, sir.’

  ‘Only if you call me Charles,’ he said, looking rueful. ‘We should be friends—if Ben had lived we would have known each other well. Besides, it would look odd if you called me sir in front of our good hostess. She will think me quite mad for not knowing I had a wife.’

  ‘Just a little mazed, understandably so after the blow to your head,’ Arabella told him. ‘Lie still and rest, Charles. I shall order your meal and then perhaps you will sleep again.’

  Smiling at him, she went out, leaving Charles to rest against the pillows and remember the soft voice and hands that had soothed him in his fever…had done things for him, intimate things that he could not possibly have expected of her. Yet perhaps it had been her maid. He had thought she was Sarah…a swift slash of pain cut through him as he remembered that his sister was still lost.