Derek hurried past their family doctor, Mr. Shire, who folded a damp towel over a small handled porcelain bowl filled with fresh blood. Mr. Shire set the bleeding bowl onto a sideboard, wiped both hands onto a crimson-spattered apron and proceeded to gather various glass bottles of tonic which he organized back into his portable medicine chest.
Lingering beside the bed, Derek lowered his gaze to his father’s veined hands that trembled as they unsuccessfully attempted to grasp the linen. His father, a fit, well-muscled man of four and forty, who only a few months earlier had been dancing, boasting and riding, couldn’t even grasp the linens.
Glancing at the doctor, Derek choked out, “Isn’t there any other medicine you can give him? There must be something more you can do.”
Mr. Shire paused from fastening the medicine chest, his grey bushy brows coming together above his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I have done everything within my means.”
Derek glared. “No. You haven’t, sir. If you had done everything, he would be recovering. If you had done everything, he would be—”
“Derek, cease.” The viscount dragged his linen up to his waist, his breaths wheezing. “You…you mean to hold him accountable? He cannot make me breathe.”
Oh God. Derek tried to remain calm.
“Thank you, Mr. Shire,” his father announced. “You may…may retire.”
“I will remain close at hand, my lord.” The doctor removed his apron, bundled it and took up his medicine chest. He left the room, closing the door.
His father gritted his teeth, his breaths uneven. “I have actually known about my condition for…for some time. I simply didn’t want you and Andrew to…to worry.” He drew in several more breaths. “I had your mother swear that…that she…she wouldn’t…say anything. God knows how difficult it has been for her, especially with you…you boys in school.” Sweat-soaked, shoulder-length dark hair clung to the sides of his father’s flushed, unshaven face. He shifted. “The priest will be arriving within the hour. Do you…do you understand?”
Derek pinched his lips hard in an effort not to cry.
The viscount pointed. “Just because I’m dying before I have greyed…doesn’t mean my life wasn’t golden. So no tears. I…I don’t want to see any tears.” His gaze became penetrating and full of purpose. “I need you to be strong.”
Derek’s eyes burned as he struggled to obey. The pain of impending loss ripping at his chest was almost too vast to contain.
His father paused. “What happened to your…forehead?”
Derek swallowed, knowing that while he’d been romancing Miss Grey, his father had been in here suffering and unable to breathe. “I was being stupid. I earned it. It’s nothing.”
“Ah.” His father crackled out a few phlegmy coughs, clearing his throat thickly before continuing. “Pardon my level of…of seriousness, but I…I wish to discuss a matter of importance regarding the estate.”
Derek tried to focus but all he kept seeing were those trembling hands and that suffering, gaunt face. It haunted him. He was never going to know this great man in the way he always wanted to. Man to man. Over cards. Over brandy. Derek was graduating from Eton in only a few months. It meant nothing now.
“Are you…you listening?”
Derek searched his father’s face. “Yes. I am.”
“Sit.”
Derek sat on the bed, angling closer.
The viscount smiled and held out a trembling hand.
Grasping that large cool hand, Derek met those tired dark eyes that still tried to smile. Derek struggled to maintain his composure as slightly larger fingers gripped his weakly. The skin was dry and overly rough. Nothing like the hand he’d arm-wrestled with during Twelfth Night months earlier.
The viscount shook Derek’s hand. “For the sake of your mother and…and brother, be…be everything you are and…and more. As for Rupert, whom you have already met, he will be…be staying in London to assist you through the hardship my…my death will bring.” His father pushed out several ragged breaths, shifting against the large pillow. “He will be contributing money to the…the estate over the next few years.” His hold tightened and he smiled with quaking lips. “He has agreed to…to join our families. I wish to congratulate you on…on your betrothal to…to Miss Clementine Henrietta Grey.”
Derek’s heart skidded to a halt. Holy God.
“Mind you, she is still…very young. Only…fourteen.”
Derek closed his eyes in disbelief knowing how he’d behaved. He’d thought she was closer to his own age and could handle it. No wonder she had panicked.
“Rupert insists that she…she wait beyond the typical debutante years to…to ensure she is well versed for her role as…as an aristocratic lady. You will therefore wait seven years until…until she is a full one and twenty.”
Derek opened his eyes. His throat tightened, wondering how he was ever going to face Miss Grey again. “Who is Mr. Grey to you?”
“A dear friend.” Several phlegmy coughs escaped him. His father cleared his throat and let out a gruff laugh. “’Tis a…a funny story as to how we met. Your mother and I…we…we were on our honeymoon outside of Paris when the coach we were traveling in was robbed at…at gunpoint by a fellow who barely reached my…my shoulder.” He smirked, clearly amused, even for the state he was in. “We were left with no money, no trunks and…and your mother’s French…her French wasn’t enough to save us. Fortunately, Rupert was at a…a tavern where we ended up. He assisted us. Sadly, with the amount of…of traveling he does, our close association has…has dwindled to mere letters. Rupert, you see, is a very…influential diplomat well known all over the world. Very important man.” His father hesitated, dragging in more unsteady breaths. “This union will allow the estate, its lands and…and our legacy to survive difficult times. Do you…understand?”
Dearest God. “Is this about money?” Derek half-whispered in disbelief.
His father lowered his gaze and adjusted the linen. “It was my duty to ensure we…we all lived well. Perhaps we lived too well. Aside from our own expenses, none of…none of your cousins were ever capable of financially…supporting themselves. I had to…to bestow them all with yearly allowances and…and I’m afraid it depleted quite a bit of our funds.”
Derek’s eyes widened. “You’ve been giving yearly allowances to all eighteen of our cousins and their children? Father, how could you—”
“They are family, Derek. And…and we always take care of our family. No matter the burden it brings. I…I expect you to be as generous as…as I was. Continue to give whatever they…they need.”
It was a mess. All of this. What defined need? A new house? A new carriage? His cousins weren’t living in straw huts and starving. “Will Mr. Grey’s assets even be capable of sustaining the burden of generosity you speak of?”
“More than capable.” The viscount adjusted the bandage on his arm with trembling fingers. “Rupert is worth…well…an astounding amount. You and he will negotiate the financial aspect of the…the marriage contract when it is time. He assured me it will be generous.”
Derek fingered the middle button on his coat. “Does Miss Grey know of our union?”
“She was informed of it shortly before arriving in London.” His tired eyes brightened. “Did you get a chance to…to meet her?”
He was such an arse. “Yes. I did meet her.”
A small smile cracked those lips. “Respect her and…and your bond will be…unbreakable. My own marriage was…was arranged as well and it…it was…beautiful.” His father hesitated. “Promise me that you will…you will honor this arrangement. Promise me.”
Derek searched those ragged, pleading features. Just as his father had never denied him anything, he was not about to deny his own father peace. He loved the man too much. “Our families will become one.”
A shaky breath escaped his father. “My secretary and…and solicitors will guide you until you come of age.” He searched Derek’s face. “You…you have always m
ade me proud.”
Derek’s lip trembled, knowing his father was saying good-bye. Those words were too staggered and not at all reflective of the playful, witty man who raised him.
“Embrace your blessings and…and always take life with a smile.”
A tear traced its way down Derek’s cheek. He couldn’t hold it in. A sob escaped him.
“Oh, now, now, none of that. You…you must live up to what I have given you. Honor me by…by showing the world you can laugh even at the worst times. As I have done.” The viscount adjusted his head against the pillow in between rasping breaths. His mouth curved into a playful but broken smile. “Do tell me. Is Andrew still…still writing those female penny novels about romance and…and love? Has he started wearing a bonnet yet?”
A strangled laugh escaped Derek at the unexpected quip. “No. Not yet.”
His father tsked in a manner an old woman would, wobbling his head. “I worry about that one. The Lower Master forever complains about…about him. Where is he? I…I want to see him.”
A shaky breath escaped Derek. Opening the door, he stepped out of the room. Seeing his brother against the nearest wall, Derek managed, “He wishes to see you. His breaths are short and uneven. Try not to make him talk too much. I made him talk too much.”
Andrew scrambled away from the wall and darted into the room.
Mr. Grey and his mother intently spoke to each other in grief-stricken whispers. Knowing his mother had kept this from him, regardless of his father’s insistence was…unforgivable. All the hours and days and weeks lost. To school. To nothing. He should have been with his father.
Miss Grey quietly lingered barely a few feet away.
He swallowed hard and eased himself against the wall beside the door in an effort to remain standing. “I’m sorry about my earlier behavior, Miss Grey. I…” He dug deep into himself and smiled at her, even though he wanted to collapse and cry. “Who knew I was proposing to a girl who was already mine?”
She pulled in her chin. “You didn’t know about our engagement?”
This was not how he imagined his life turning out. His eyes burned but he managed to keep his smile from wavering. “No. I didn’t. I just found out.”
She slowly wandered toward him and lingered before him. “Why are you smiling?”
Painful though it was, he broadened his lopsided smile. “Because as my father always says, grief only bites your soul if you let it.”
She stared. “You are dishonoring your grief by even saying that.”
Maybe. But it was how a Banfield had always handled a crisis: with a smile.
Unable to maintain his façade, he said, “Forgive me. I must go to him.” He swung away and entered the darkness of his father’s room so he didn’t have to focus. Rounding the bed, he paused beside his brother and chanted to himself not to cry.
The viscount dragged in several uneven breaths and searched Andrew’s face. “Do not remember me like this. For this is not…not who I am. I…I want you to remember the man who…who dances and…and laughs and…and…” His weathered lips parted as his shadowed eyes stared straight out and through them. “Andrew?” His father reached out. His trembling hand blindly drifted through the air between them. “Derek, I cannot see.”
Andrew scrambled back.
Oh God. “Andrew, take his hand.” Derek frantically grabbed his brother’s hand and forced it into that outstretched hand. There was only one thing he knew he could do for his father. The one thing his father loved most. “Tell him a quip.”
Andrew glanced up at him through tears, his eyes widening. “A quip?” he echoed.
“A quip,” Derek insisted. “You know how he loves them. Tell him anything you might have heard. Because I can’t think of anything right now.”
“I uh…know one.” Stumbling against the side of the bed, Andrew tightened his hold on that hand and offered, “Two London girls living at the docks with their families had been sent by the kindness of the vicar’s wife to have a happy day in the country. On their return and upon being asked about their experience the girls said, ‘Oh yes, mum, we did ‘ave a ‘appy day. We saw three pigs killed and a gentleman buried. But sadly, no one died of the pox.’”
A gargled chuckle grabbed the air. “That is…this is by far the…the best quip yet,” their father rasped with a smile, blindly touching Andrew’s face with quaking fingers. “Bless you both for…for always…making me…” He unevenly sucked in breaths as his hand fell onto his chest. His eyes fluttered closed as he struggled to breathe. His chest quaked.
Derek edged closer. “Father?”
That chest rose and fell but his father otherwise didn’t respond. It was as if his mind had drifted from his body. His breaths loudly wheezed and rasped.
Andrew laid his head on their father’s arm.
They listened to those gasping breaths not knowing what to do. Their mother quickly came into the room, leaned over the bed and brushed away the damp hair clinging to their father’s forehead.
Mr. Grey and his daughter lingered off to the side.
The priest soon entered, read words from the Bible in a monotone voice that promised salvation, and receiving no response other than wheezing breaths of Lord Banfield, he departed.
Their mother let out a sob, touching the hand hidden beneath the linen. “George?” she whispered. “George, do you hear me?”
He didn’t respond. His breaths kept wheezing.
Derek edged away, his vision blurring as tears slipped down his face. Those breaths continued, yes, but the father he knew was gone. A part of him refused to forgive his mother knowing it. How could she have left their father to suffer like this alone?
Andrew swiped his reddened eyes with the sleeve of his coat and darted out of the room.
Their mother frantically looked around. Clapping a trembling hand against her mouth, his mother hurried out of the room and down the corridor. “Dr. Shire!”
It was a known fact that a Banfield never cried in front of anyone. They laughed, they danced, they played and maybe even shouted at a few people who deserved it, but everything else was reserved for when one was entirely alone. They usually suffered in silence and alone.
A male hand gripped his shoulder. Mr. Grey quietly walked over to his father’s body that still quaked for breaths and gently laid a hand atop of that resting head. He drew in close and murmured something in that ear, as if sharing one last conversation with his friend. Slowly taking back his hand, he straightened and walking past Derek said, “I adored him.” He blinked back tears and sniffed hard. “I’ll be in London a few weeks to help you and your family through this. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
Derek ruthlessly struggled to keep himself from crying before a man he didn’t know.
Mr. Grey patted his shoulder one last time and strode past toward his daughter. “I will leave you to give your condolences to Mr. Holbrook, Tine. Meet me out in the corridor when you are done. We should let his family share their final moments alone with him.” He left the room.
Miss Grey walked up to Derek. “I’m so sorry.”
Derek didn’t meet her gaze. He waited for her to leave the room. So he could cry.
She edged closer. Reaching up, she awkwardly embraced him with one arm, the scent of marzipan and soap filling his breath. She buried her head against him, her bonnet bumping into his chest. “I don’t usually embrace people.” She adjusted her arm against him. “But you need it.”
The unexpected gesture and genuine warmth she offered despite the way he treated her made him bring his arms around her. He released a much-needed breath that kept him standing and savagely tightened his hold knowing his father would soon be gone. Unable to keep it in and feeling as if he could be himself in her arms, Derek sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He dug his fingers harder into those soft shoulders, biting back the need to scream and felt as if he were betraying his father by letting out his grief. Even as a child of six, when he found himself wailing about skinning his knee, h
is father always nudged his chin up and said, ‘If a tear could save the world, I would tell you to use it. But given it can’t, I am telling you to save yourself and smile.’
Miss Grey stiffened against him, her hands rigidly gripping at his school coat.
Realizing he was holding her too tightly, he loosened his grasp. “I’m sorry,” he choked out against her bonnet. “I’m sorry about the way I treated you earlier. I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m fine.” She rocked him for a long moment, setting her cheek once again against his chest. “Don’t apologize.”
Something told him he was going to love this girl for the rest of his life. She cradled him as if he deserved it. He swallowed and tightened his hold again, settling into a sense of calm knowing what his future would bring: her.
They rocked each other in silence.
She eventually pried herself from his arms but didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Holbrook. Losing a parent is never easy. I should know. I’ll leave you alone with him. Please let my father know if you need anything.” She quietly walked over to the door and lingered for a moment before her steps echoed down the corridor.
A gargled breath trembled from his father’s body, startling Derek. Knowing his father needed him, he stumbled toward him. Sinking against the side of the bed, Derek grabbed his limp hand, his hands trembling in an effort to hold onto his father’s warmth. “I know you always tell me to never cry. So don’t think I’m dishonoring you. I’m not. I simply need to honor you in my way. And crying is my way of—”
A deep anguished sob escaped him knowing his perfect world wasn’t perfect anymore. Perhaps it had never been. Perhaps the laughter they always shared in had hidden the worst in all of them. Regardless, it was now up to him to uphold the family name. For the world, for Andrew, for his mother and cousins, he would be what he was expected to be: strong, responsible and reliable. But for Clementine, he would be everything he already was and wanted to be: hers.
February 26, 1830 – early evening
Essex, England – The Banfield country estate
Night of Pleasure Page 3
