by Jo Beverley
“You’re a saucy piece and you tire me out. Go away.”
“But I may stay?”
“If you insist.”
She curtsied. “Good night, Edgar.”
When he smiled, she was able to take her leave knowing she was doing the right thing. She entered her bedroom and was even happier to remember that she now had it to herself. William and Polly were back together and the boys and Henrietta were in a room of their own, attended by two maids. Peace, quiet, and Guy Mannering. However, she soon found that the tangled misadventures of a stolen heir no longer thrilled. Instead, his constant peril seemed too close to her own situation.
Two days ago she would have berated herself for a wild imagination, but now it seemed there truly were villains in this world who wanted to harm her, and one was almost a twin of the brute who could still make her shudder. She couldn’t shed the memory of being snatched from her family and carried off by that man, who had been ready to kill her on the spot.
Take the papers.
Break your neck.
Despite the ample fire, she hugged herself and for a weak moment thought of leaving with William and Polly. Perhaps she’d be safer in Yorkshire. But then she loosened her arms and walked around to shake off idiocy. She was safe enough in this house, with an abundance of servants, and Thayne had said that those concerned would soon know that she no longer had their papers.
Dangerous damp letters. Perhaps he was mad, poor man.
To counter her melodramatic thoughts, she’d write to one of her Hampshire friends. Margaret Millhouse was a levelheaded member of that orderly, tranquil world, now married with a child. There was writing paper in the drawer of a small desk, so she sat to relate her journey and the reason for it and the brush with drama in Ardwick. She said nothing about truly dangerous events.
Margaret had been at that ball. She might remember Thayne. Hermione was tempted to slip in a mention. Can you imagine who I bumped into in Warrington? No, the less she thought about the man, the better. She filled the page with weather and fashion and all the things that used to occupy conversation back in those leisurely days. It seemed rather dull, but dull equaled safe, and that was what she wanted. Despite the awkwardness of being the daughter of the Moneyless Marquess, her life in Hampshire had been pleasant, comfortable, and ordinary.
If only her father hadn’t died.
If only her father had thought to explore for coal.
She could blame herself, too, however. Her father had been an indolent man who never had a new idea in his head, but he’d have acted if she’d urged him to. She’d known that people had prospered from finding coal in other areas of Northumberland. Their land was unpromising, but they could have hired people to look. Carsheld had been so far away, however, and her father would have resisted spending any money on it, and it was all in the past. No point in crying over spilled milk.
She folded, addressed, and sealed the letter, then went to draw the curtains. She looked down at the lights of Tranmere. Thayne had said he could see this side of the house. That meant one window down there was his. Was he looking up, watchful for a candle in the window? She drew the curtains firmly together and went to put more wood on the fire. No more folly!
Chapter 19
The next day Hermione saw Polly, William, and the children off in the coach. The children were already in a whiny mood, so she didn’t regret the parting. She might enjoy being on her own for a while, with no one to take care of and no one who felt the need to take care of her. As she turned to go back into the house, however, she realized it was full of servants who would expect the master’s female relative to take charge. She’d run her father’s house for three years, so she was accustomed to it, but how would Mrs. Digby and the other servants react? She considered the situation and then summoned the housekeeper to the drawing room, inviting her to sit. The housekeeper did so, but warily.
“Everything here seems in excellent order, Mrs. Digby, so I don’t mean to disturb the management, but are there any improvements you would like?”
The woman relaxed a little. “No, milady, but you must ask for any additions to the menu you want. We’ve grown used to providing for an elderly invalid.”
“The food I’ve eaten so far has been good, but we’ve not been served fish. Is it not good hereabouts?”
“It’s excellent, milady. It’s that Mr. Peake doesn’t like it.”
“I do if it’s fresh and well cooked.”
“Then I’ll see to it, milady.”
“Does Mr. Peake get a newspaper?”
“He did in the beginning, milady, but then he lost interest.”
“I would like us to receive one. Which ones are there?”
“There’s the Liverpool Mercury, milady. He used to get that over on the ferry once a week.”
“That will do for now. I’ll find out about others. I intend to read to him about what’s going on in the world.”
“Very well, milady,” the housekeeper said, perhaps doubtfully.
“I would also like to speak with his doctor.”
“That’d be Dr. Onslow, milady, but he’s not been here for nigh on a month now.”
“Please send for him to come and call on me.”
“I’ll see if he will, milady, but the master was right sharp with him the last time.”
Hermione wasn’t surprised. She enquired about Edgar, but Peter said he was sleeping, so she decided to go out in the sun again. This time, however, she provided herself with a large, warm shawl, and kept to the upper paths, far from concealing trees.
* * *
Mark watched from the inn as the ancient Selby coach came down the hill and turned toward Chester, surprised but pleased that they were leaving so soon. Perhaps Hermione had seen sense and persuaded them to it. Two young boys had faces pressed to the window. He waved to them. Rather hesitantly, they waved back.
Now to follow. He’d watch over the Selby coach as far as Warrington. If they hadn’t encountered any trouble by then, he’d feel free to go to London. He went in search of the innkeeper to enquire about hiring a horse, but met Jilly crossing the hall with fistfuls of flagons.
“Old Mr. Peake’s guests are gone, then,” she said. “The servants’ll be right pleased about that. Not used to extra work, they aren’t.”
“Lazy?” he asked.
“Not with Ella Digby in charge,” she said with a chuckle. “But a sick old man don’t make much work.”
“Do you know where I might hire a horse for a day or two?”
“Bill’d know. Bill!” she called.
A bowlegged groom came in, one Mark had noticed always looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his sinewy shoulders. “What d’you want now?”
“Gentleman wants to know where to ’ire an ’orse.”
“Povey’s livery in Birkenhead, sir. I could ride there and bring one back for you.”
For a coin or two, Mark understood. “Thank you.”
“Where you off to, then, me ’andsome?” Jilly asked.
He laughed at her sauce. “Merely Warrington. A bit of business.”
“If you wanted to go to Warrington,” said the groom, “you should have seen if you could go with that lot from Riverview. They’re off that way, back to Yorkshire.”
“That’s Bill for you,” Jilly said. “Always knows everythin’.”
“So would you, lass, if y’kept your eyes and ears open and blathered on less.”
“Tell me this, then—is old Mr. Peake dead? Their coachman said as they’d come to his deathbed.”
The Selbys’ coachman had visited the inn? Mark wished he’d encountered him.
“Course not,” said Bill. “There’d be things ’appening, wouldn’t there? Doctor. Undertaker. Armbands and black ribbons. And his relatives would’ve stayed for t’funeral. As it is, just one lady’s staye
d. Lady ’ermin or something.”
“’Er-mi-on-e!” Jilly said triumphantly, pronouncing the four syllables with care. “Georgie told me that. A bit too square in’t chin and bold in’t manner, he said.”
“Bold?” Bill snorted. “That from you? There’s a pot calling a kettle black.”
“My chin’s not square. Reckon it’s that name. Lord knows where it comes from.”
“Hermione was a Greek princess,” Mark said, disturbing the squabble. “Lady Hermione? She must be very highly born.”
“Don’t know about that . . . ,” Bill said.
“Fancy that!” Jilly taunted.
“. . . but she’s staying to nurse the old man, and rather her than me, ’im with some nasty foreign plague on ’im. I’ll be off, then, sir.”
Damnation. “I’ve reconsidered. My business in Warrington can wait and the weather looks fine for more explorations of this area today. Thank you.”
The groom sighed and slouched away.
Jilly eyed Mark, hip cocked. “Sweet on this Lady ’ermione, are you, sir?”
“Why think that?”
“I’ve eyes and ears, never mind what Bill ’orrocks says, and there’s a fair view of that garden from the front here. You were up there talking to ’er yesterday and it looked like you didn’t want anyone in the ’ouse to see you. Proper Romeo and Juliet, are you?”
Devil take it. He’d survived the war by never underestimating the common people, but he’d thought only of what could be seen from the house, not from the town. The lovers’ tale could serve, however.
“Something like that. I’m not a suitable husband for such a lady.”
“But she’ll have you anyway?”
“Alas, she has more sense than Juliet.”
“Good for ’er, but she’s sweet on you, too.”
“She is?” he asked, ridiculously pleased.
“Could tell by the way she stood at times. You’ll have to improve your circumstances.”
“Do you think I can?”
She assessed him. “Strong man. Clever. Have t’manners of a gentleman. Reckon you could go far if you tried.”
“Perhaps you’re right. There’s a good position waiting for me when I’ve done with what I’m about.”
“Then get about it and get on to t’other. A pot can boil dry, you know.”
He kissed her dimpled cheek. “That’s very good advice.”
“See that you take it, then,” she said, and sauntered off to the taproom, her ample buttocks swaying.
Mark’s smile faded. He’d love to get on with his task, but that was in London and Lady Hermione Merryhew had not left with her family for the safety of Yorkshire. He went to the window that gave a view up the hill. Could Bill the oracle be wrong? Why would she stay when he’d warned her of all the dangers?
He was beginning to convince himself that she’d gone when he saw her emerge and stroll along a path. Today she had a large shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but no bonnet. Her chestnut hair glinted warmly in the sun.
He left the inn and was heading toward the lane when she turned and went back into the house. He returned to the inn to watch from his window as he thought the situation through. No matter how he twisted the threads, he couldn’t stay here for much longer. If he heard that the whole Crimson Band was under arrest, perhaps.
Was Hermione really drawn to him? She’d sent him to right-abouts twice, but in her room at the King’s Head she’d been warmer. Much warmer. He’d never forget that kiss. Both those kisses, for the sweet one had been as potent as the fiery.
He smiled wryly at the thought of that good position waiting for him. What would Jilly say if she learned it was a viscountcy? That he was a moonling not to be on his estate, surrounded by servants, living a life of ease. Anyone would. It should be so easy. He merely had to step out of the shadows to become Lord Faringay, returned from Mauritius, an eligible gentleman who could aspire to the hand of a marquess’s daughter.
He inhaled, startled to have gone so far even in his thoughts.
Marry Hermione Merryhew? A leap of excitement told him the answer, but it couldn’t be. The Crimson Band were finished, but there were other Spenceans with the same purpose. How could he loll around at Faringay with his country still in peril? With innocents like Hermione and her family in danger of being dragged to the guillotine?
He was committed to his cause until every danger of revolution was over.
* * *
Dr. Onslow came in the afternoon, all smiles until he realized that Hermione wasn’t the patient. “Mr. Peake made it perfectly clear, my lady, that he did not wish to use my services.”
She coaxed him to take a seat and sent for tea. “He may not know what’s best for him, Doctor.”
“He most certainly does not.” The doctor was a thin man with a fringe of gray hair around a bald dome of a head, and a chilly demeanor, but he seemed the sort to know his trade.
“What ails him, Doctor?”
“A virulent ague brought back from the Orient.”
“Yet he’s not fevered now.”
“As with most agues, it is intermittent.”
“Does ague explain his other symptoms, such as his gray skin?”
The doctor’s face pinched. “Are you an expert on symptoms, Lady Hermione? His major organs are affected so that a general debilitation has set in, yet he refuses treatment.”
“What treatment did you prescribe?”
“Bark, calomel, and James’s powder, with blistering to help draw out the poisons. Living close by a large port, I do understand something of tropical diseases.”
“I’m sure you do, Doctor, and it’s to Mr. Peake’s advantage that you are available. Peruvian bark is for fever, is it not? What is James’s powder?”
“An antimonial, and very effective.” He was using complicated language to confuse her, but she kept her temper.
“What is an antimonial, Doctor?”
“An elaboration of antimony.”
She was irritated with herself. She should have been able to deduce antimony from antimonial. It was a purgative considered effective against many complaints. Her father had taken it at one point.
“You need not concern yourself with these details,” Onslow said, reminding Hermione of similar tussles with her father’s doctors. There she’d had a marquess’s stature and authority behind her, but here she’d have to step more gently.
“I’m sure you’re correct, Doctor, but I do like to understand the words I use. Did Mr. Peake show improvement under your treatments?”
“His fever reduced and then ceased and his organs improved. Considerable toxins were discharged. You would not wish to know details of that, ma’am.”
“I nursed my father in his last illness, Doctor.”
“Ah, I see. All the same, suffice to say that I saw hope until he dismissed me.”
The tea came and she busied herself with it, remembering how ineffective her father’s treatments had been, despite sweating, vomiting, and loose bowels.
“I wonder how the toxicity got into his body,” she said as she passed over his tea.
The doctor sipped before replying. “Undoubtedly miasma, my lady, caused by decaying animal and vegetable matter in a hot climate. That is why the commonest affliction of those who venture into such climes is called malaria, which means ‘bad air.’”
She smiled as if she’d no idea what “malaria” meant. He doubtless thought “miasma” beyond her feeble brain.
“My great-uncle speaks of something called kala-azar.”
He tutted. “Some Indian superstition. He admitted that the words merely mean the ‘black sickness’, which is descriptive of symptoms, not causes, and he could offer no suggestion of treatment. He believed it to be fatal and gave that as his excuse to refuse treatment.”
H
ermione drank some tea, considering the medicines he’d mentioned. “Calomel is mercury, is it not?”
He inclined his head.
“The side effects are somewhat drastic.”
“That is proof that it is effective, my lady.”
“And the antimonial powder? How does that work?”
“By cleansing the body of toxins.”
Sweating, vomiting, and all the rest. That would be hard on Edgar, but she couldn’t sit by and watch him die, especially not when she might gain by it. According to the doctor, he’d improved under treatment.
“Perhaps we could try James’s powder on its own, Doctor. If that brings about improvement, it might coax him back into other treatments. If opium was added to give relief to his symptoms, might he not be quicker to admit the benefit?”
The doctor put down his cup. “You are now the physician, Lady Hermione? Opium is too often a prop for constitutional weakness upon which a patient comes to depend.”
Hermione put down her cup in turn. “Addiction is not an issue if he is dying, Doctor. I wish my great-uncle to resume treatment and if opium is part of achieving that, I wish him to have it. I can easily obtain it for myself.”
He rose, flushed with anger, but said, “I would not like to see any patient in amateur hands. I will send up a preparation. Good day to you.”
And good day to you, Hermione thought, picking up her cup again, wondering whether she’d done the right thing. But she couldn’t help questioning the man. Her father’s last weeks had destroyed her faith in doctors. He’d endured any number of unpleasant treatments, all to no purpose. Even the doctors who’d seemed honest had felt obliged to prescribe something, especially if it had a dramatic effect. She’d lacked the courage to challenge them, but she’d do better for Edgar Peake. No mercury.
Yet she’d agreed to the antimonial powders, which would also be drastic. Perhaps she was as bad, willing to try anything, in blind hope. Not blind, no. Something had worked before, and the antimonial seemed the most likely.
