A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  He hurried away and Mary stood for a moment, one hand pressed to her cheek. How could Sarah be so thoughtless? She should have known her actions would enrage her brother. Randall would doubtless put this, too, at her door, and blame her for encouraging Sarah to kick over the traces. She heard the earl’s angry voice calling for his man and she went into the bedroom. Randall glared at her, his eyes blazing.

  ‘Where is Robbins?’ His voice was full of suppressed fury.

  ‘Gone to fetch pen and paper, as you requested.’ She went a little closer. ‘Please, Randall, this anger is not good for you. You should be resting.’

  ‘Hah, how can I rest when my sister is, is consorting with one of the most notorious libertines in Europe? Robbins, bring that pen and paper. Now, man!’

  She noted with alarm that his colour was mounting.

  ‘He is on his way.’ She paused. ‘If you will permit me to say so, Lady Sarah is no longer a child to be ordered about. In fact, I had the distinct impression there is a will of iron beneath that soft exterior.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ He glowered at her. ‘And what would you know about it?’

  Her temper snapped. ‘A great deal more than you give me credit for! It is a Latymor trait that I have come to recognise, my lord.’

  ‘Well, by God, I do not intend to let her ruin herself,’ he exclaimed furiously. ‘In fact, I will go and find her myself—’

  He threw back the bedcovers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, but even as Mary protested he stopped, a spasm of pain crossing his face and his colour draining away.

  ‘Randall!’

  He did not hear her, but fell back against the pillows, his face a deathly white.

  ‘Randall!’

  Her second cry brought Robbins hurrying in and together they eased the earl back into bed, flinging away the pillows and laying him flat. An erratic pulse was beating in his neck, but that and his ragged breathing were the only signs of life. Mary took one of his hands and began to chafe it between her own. It was a very inadequate gesture, but she did not know what else to do.

  ‘Thank heaven the surgeon’s due here any minute,’ muttered Robbins. ‘I’ll go down to the door to look out for him.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Mary. ‘And bring him here as quickly as possible.’

  She had barely finished her first prayer when she heard footsteps on the stairs and moments later Lieutenant Foster came in. Mary stood back to allow him room to examine Lord Randall, but she hovered at the end of the bed, clasping and unclasping her hands as she explained what had happened.

  ‘He seemed so well this morning,’ she said. ‘Then he flew into a rage when Major Flint called upon him and he tried to get out of bed.’

  ‘Ah. Then the musket ball has moved,’ said the lieutenant. ‘It will be pressing upon some vital organ.’

  ‘Then it must be removed.’

  ‘Not by me. We must hope it will shift again.’ Mary stared at him and he shook his head at her. ‘To remove it would be far too dangerous. The ball entered the chest with remarkably little harm. To take it out again we would have to cause considerably more damage. Why, I should have the whole of the Latymor family clamouring for my head if he was to die under my knife.’

  ‘But he cannot live like this.’

  He sighed.

  ‘I agree it is unlikely he will survive, but operating would undoubtedly be fatal. This way—well, we can pray for a miracle, Miss Endacott. That is my professional opinion.’

  Helplessly Mary looked at Randall’s immobile figure lying in the bed. She glanced at Robbins. He was almost as pale as his master and he fixed her with troubled eyes, as if looking to her for a solution. She breathed in deeply and drew herself up.

  ‘Would you object, Lieutenant, if I called for another opinion?’

  The officer looked almost relieved at the suggestion.

  ‘Not at all, miss, but I think the answer will be the same.’

  ‘We shall see. Robbins, you must go and find Dr Lebbeke for me.’

  * * *

  It seemed an eternity before Bertrand arrived, although the chiming of the church clock told Mary it had not been an hour. Lieutenant Foster had gone, declaring that he had many patients to visit that day and could not wait. However, he had written a note before he left and Mary thrust it into Bertrand’s hands as soon as he came through the door.

  Bertrand read it in silence while Mary carefully removed the bandages from Randall’s body. The wound was nothing more than a small, dark hole and looked quite insignificant in the broad, powerful chest. Bertrand’s examination did not take long.

  ‘And what is it you expect me to do for him, Mary?’ He looked at her gravely. ‘The army surgeon explains the case most carefully.’

  She fixed her eyes upon him.

  ‘If the ball stays in him he will die.’

  ‘I am afraid that is almost inevitable.’

  ‘But if the musket ball were removed?’

  ‘What you are asking, ma chère, is an operation of the most delicate.’

  ‘But could you do it?’

  ‘Bien sûr, but I cannot guarantee the colonel will survive.’

  ‘At least he would have a chance and that is more than he has at the moment.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Bertrand waved towards the surgeon’s letter. ‘Lieutenant Foster has counselled against an operation.’

  Mary fixed her eyes on the figure in the bed.

  ‘He has to live. He has to.’

  ‘Because you wish it?’ said Bertrand. ‘Because you love him?

  She met his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I cannot marry him, and once this is over I will never see him again, but...’ she blinked away the threatening tears ‘...I c-cannot bear the thought of a world without him.’

  ‘Then we must try to save him for you, Mary.’

  * * *

  Once the decision was made there was no time for regrets or second thoughts. The room was prepared, the bed stripped of blankets and a table placed beside it, upon which Bertrand spread a fearsome array of instruments. Mary fetched a clean sheet which they used to cover Randall from the waist down. As she straightened it carefully over his lower body she thought that it would very likely be his shroud, if things went wrong.

  * * *

  Outside the ordinary sounds of the city life continued. The cries of the street sellers, the barking dogs, the rattle of wagons all floated in through the window as Bertrand worked. Mary could only watch. When she saw the sweat gathering on his brow she wiped it away with a damp cloth, then she stood back again, watching silently as he slowly, delicately probed the wound.

  Time lost its meaning. She did not hear the clock chime, did not notice the square of sunlight moving across the floor, her whole attention was fixed upon Randall. She felt quite helpless and she knew Robbins was outside the door, equally anxious, equally keen to go anywhere, do anything that might help the earl to live.

  After what seemed like eternity Bertrand gave a little huff of satisfaction.

  ‘Enfin.’

  Mary stared at the bloody musket ball he held between the jaws of the forceps. It was such a tiny object, yet it could fell a man. She shifted her gaze back to Randall.

  ‘He lives still,’ murmured the doctor, as if reading her mind. ‘We will clean the wound with spirits and then cover it again. No salves, just clean bandages. And then we wait. If there is no fever, no infection, then he may survive.’

  * * *

  It was another hour before they had finished and by that time the light was fading. While Bertrand cleaned and packed away his surgical tools Mary looked doubtfully at the figure in the bed.

  ‘He has not regained consciousness at all,’ she said, biting her lip and trying not to sound a
nxious.

  ‘But his pulse is steady.’

  ‘Perhaps you should bleed him again.’

  ‘Mais non, it is your English doctors who like to drain the life blood out of a man. We will let him rest for another day at least. Now, I must go. I am needed at the hospital.’

  ‘You are working tonight?’

  ‘Mais oui. There are many more wounded that need my attention. When he wakes or if you become anxious, send for me.’ He gripped her shoulder. ‘I have done all I can, Mary.’

  ‘I know. And I am very grateful, especially when you have so many injured men to attend.’

  ‘Ah, but this one, he is special to you, Mary.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Another night-time vigil at Randall’s bedside left Mary exhausted. She slept away the morning and spent her waking hours catching up on correspondence, including replying to another enquiry by Lady Sarah with a curt note, in which she did not minimise Randall’s critical condition.

  She felt a surge of irritation. It should be Randall’s family who were here, nursing him. The thought occurred only to be instantly dismissed. Lady Sarah had been brought up to a life of ease and privilege; she would know nothing of nursing a sick man. And Randall’s only other female relative in the country was Lady Blanchards, whose delicate condition would preclude her from attending the sickroom.

  No, the Latymors could not help her and agonising as it was to spend hour upon hour sitting at Randall’s bedside, Mary knew it was where she wanted to be, as if her loving him might make a difference to his recovery.

  * * *

  Bertrand called the following day, took one look at Mary and ordered her out of the house to get some fresh air.

  ‘You are too pale,’ he told her. ‘It does you no good to be in the sickroom all the time.’

  ‘I am not here all the time. I share the nursing with Robbins.’

  ‘And when do you ever leave the building?’

  She spread her hands. ‘I want to be here with him, just in case.’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to Lord Randall while I am here, Mary. Maintenant, you will go out, if you please. The sun is shining, you might walk in the park. The sight of the flowers will lift your spirits.’

  She shook her head. ‘I would rather not. The proud English ladies will look down their noses at me. But there is something I could do; there is a notebook here that Major Flint left behind on his last visit.’ The visit that had enraged Randall so much that he had tried to get out of bed. The visit that had almost killed him. She knew she was being unfair, but misery and a lack of sleep had stretched her nerves to breaking point. ‘I will return the major’s book to him. That will get me out of your way for a while.’

  She put on her bonnet and set off, but even the sunshine could not dispel the anxiety that constantly pervaded her thoughts. While Randall was ill, while there was some doubt whether he would recover, she could stay and nurse him. She could coax the tiny amounts of honeyed water between his lips, lovingly smooth his hair from his brow. But when he recovered—or otherwise—she would have to leave and the future stretched out before her bleak and empty. Yet there was no question of staying with Randall. She could not forget the look in his eyes when he had accused her of stealing his lucky sword. She could not forgive his lack of trust. It would always be there, ready to be recalled, to come between them whenever they had a disagreement.

  * * *

  When she arrived at the major’s lodgings the door was opened to her by a young woman with striking red-gold hair and hazel eyes. She was slightly taller than Mary and dressed simply, like a servant, but there was something about her that made Mary think she was—or had been—a lady.

  Mary held out the small, leather-bound book.

  ‘I have come from Lord Randall’s lodgings. Major Flint left this when he called there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman put out her hand. ‘He told me that Lord Randall was injured in the battle. How is he now?’

  There was genuine concern in the woman’s eyes and the kindness in her voice almost overset Mary. She struggled for words.

  ‘I, that is, he...’ It was too much. She dare not express her fears. ‘We are hoping, praying—excuse me!’

  She hurried away, dashing a hand across her cheeks. She would not cry. It was a sign of weakness and she despised such emotions. Besides, it would do no good. She must think of the future.

  * * *

  Bertrand had gone by the time she returned to the Rue Ducale and Robbins was pottering around Randall’s room. When he heard her in the sitting room he came out to join her.

  ‘How is his lordship?’

  ‘The sawbones says he is going on well, miss.’ The manservant’s cheerful smile was heartening. ‘He woke up while the doctor was here and he was perfectly lucid. Cursed me roundly, he did, just like his old self.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary removed her bonnet and set it carefully on the table. She said casually, ‘And did he ask for me?’

  ‘No, miss, but he was only awake for a little while and Dr Lebbeke’s examination seemed to tire him. But his heart is beating strongly now and the doctor sees no reason why he shouldn’t make a good recovery.’

  ‘I hope so, Robbins.’

  ‘I’m going to prepare a little broth for when he wakes up again. He’ll be very pleased to see you here, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve been like a tonic to him and that’s a fact.’

  ‘I have?’ She managed a smile. ‘Well that is good. But I have always said I should leave as soon as we were sure he was out of danger.’

  The manservant shook his head, saying confidently, ‘He’ll be needin’ you for months yet, miss.’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so, but we both know that isn’t true. Lord Randall will recover perfectly well without me.’

  Robbins looked troubled and Mary guessed his thoughts. They had worked closely together over the past few days and had come to respect each other, too much for the manservant now to lie to her. Instead he said diffidently,

  ‘Very stiff-rumped, his lordship...’

  ‘And so am I stiff...er...rumped!’ Mary stumbled a little but was determined not to be mealy-mouthed about it. ‘I was wrong to think we could ever be anything to one another. I do not agree with the earl’s principles or his station. I would be going against everything my parents taught me if I were to remain. As I shall tell him in my note. I will write it now and then I can be gone.’

  ‘No!’ The manservant looked startled. ‘You can’t leave us just like that.’

  ‘I can and I think I should.’

  ‘No, miss, not tonight. At least say you will stay until the morning. His lordship has only come round the once. The sawbones might not have got it right. He might have another turn and then where should I be if you was gone?’

  Mary bit her lip. Robbins would manage, he had been with his master too long not to be able to cope with any situation, but his concern was touching and the temptation to stay near Randall was too great.

  ‘Very well, I will remain a little longer, just to make sure he is doing as well as you say, but you must tend him. If he does wake again I do not want to see him.’

  That was a lie, of course. She wanted to see him more than anything in the world.

  ‘Very well, miss, if he asks for you I’ll tell him you are sleeping.’

  Mary sat down at the little desk to write her letter to Randall. She could hear Robbins moving around in the bedchamber. Her pen spluttered when she heard the low murmur of voices. Randall was awake. Robbins came hurrying out and went downstairs, returning a few minutes later carrying a tray containing broth and a glass of wine. He went back into the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Mary waited, the ink drying on her pen. Would he ask for her? Would he demand tha
t she come and see him? Robbins could hardly refuse a direct order. She strained her ears, but the muffled sounds from the next room could not be distinguished. Her last hope died when Robbins came out of the room again with the empty dishes and carefully closed the door behind him. He grinned at her.

  ‘Took the lot he did, miss, even the wine, and looks the better for it. The effort tired him, though. I think he’ll sleep like a log now.’

  Mary nodded. ‘That is very good news, Robbins.’

  How could information be so welcome and yet so bitter?

  Swallowing a sigh, she dipped her pen in the ink again and finished her letter.

  * * *

  The food put heart into Randall. He felt as weak as a kitten, but a good night’s rest should put that right. And in the morning he would see Mary, make his peace with her. Robbins had told him she was still here, that surely was a good sign. Sleep came quickly, but it was disturbed by dreams. At one point he dreamed he woke up. It was very dark and someone was standing by the bed. Mary. He recognised the smell of her, the no-nonsense scent of fresh linen and soap with just a hint of sweet herbs. He did not move as she leaned over him, her lips brushing his temple and he heard her soft words.

  ‘Goodbye, my love.’

  * * *

  ‘Good morning, my lord. I took the liberty of bringing your breakfast.’

  Randall opened his eyes and peered blearily at Robbins. It took him a few moments to realise where he was and how he felt. He had had his first night’s sleep without laudanum and for once his head was clear. He felt hungry, too. Robbins eased him up on to the pillows before setting the breakfast tray across his legs.

  ‘Thank you, Robbins. Since it was you who brought my supper I thought Miss Endacott might be tending me this morning.’

  ‘Miss Endacott has gone, sir.’

  ‘The devil she has!’ He remembered his dream. ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Around midnight, sir.’

  Goodbye, my love.

  ‘She left a letter for you.’ Robbins drew a folded paper from his pocket and held it out. After a moment’s hesitation Randall took it and scanned its contents. Suddenly having a clear head was no advantage. She had spelled out the reasons why they would not suit all too well and ended with an instruction—nay, a plea—that he did not try to find her. Carefully he folded the paper and put it down on the covers.