by Allison Lane
“That’s nothing compared to Shelford’s mishap back in ‘04,” contributed Lady Stafford. “He was visiting my brother’s estate that summer and lost control of his curricle. Bounded over lawns, through Mama’s garden party, knocked over two tables, and landed in the pond.” Several ladies laughed. “Fortunately, no one was injured, but he was so embarrassed that he spent the rest of the summer working on his driving and now belongs to the Four-in-Hand Club.”
Emily caught Caroline’s eye and rose to leave. Behind them, the discussion recalled other exploits of cow-handed young men.
“I hope you successfully killed that story about Thomas,” Emily said when they were seated in her coach.
“Surely you don’t believe it!” exclaimed Caroline, detecting a hint of fatalism in Emily’s voice. When no answer was forthcoming, she snorted. “For heavens sake, Emily, think! As careful as Thomas has been, can you imagine him waltzing up to the front door at three in the afternoon if his call was not innocent?”
Emily relaxed into a smile. “Put like that, you are right. Even in his worst obsessive trances, he has never lost all signs of intelligence.”
“And she did request his analysis of her stable. Dawson got it from Cramer who saw her note.” Of course, what else might have occurred during that visit was not to be considered in company.
“I wonder if young Delaney will learn anything from today’s mishap.”
“That he needs driving lessons, one could hope.”
“Or that he should consider becoming a fop. Robert cannot handle anything more spirited than a plow horse, you know.”
“Really? What do Thomas and your father think of that?”
“Father sighs and refuses to discuss it. Thomas would never criticize him. He is very protective of Robert. And he may recall how much work it took to turn himself into a whip. The summer he was thirteen, he spent hours driving every day. He sustained three wrecks and two runaways before he mastered the art.”
“Goodness, I cannot imagine Thomas losing control of a horse.”
“Not any more. But skill at his level requires much practice. Like you and the pianoforte, I imagine.”
“Of course,” she agreed, much struck. “It is to be hoped young Delaney realizes that.”
“Too bad Thomas never had the money to support coaching. He drives better than most Four-in-Hand members.”
“Agreed, but that cannot be helped just now. Perhaps when the stable proves profitable. It would certainly enhance his image.”
“True. Are you attending Lady Jersey’s soiree this evening?” asked Emily as the carriage turned into Berkeley Square.
“Yes, and then we plan to move on to the Stokeley ball.”
“I probably will not see you, then. With Wembley out of town dancing attendance on his aunt, I am accompanying the Staffords. We go to the Warrington rout first and then on to Lady Jersey’s.”
As soon as the door opened, Caroline knew something dreadful had happened. Reeves’s face was gray, and his butler’s mask could not cover his shock.
“What is it?” she queried sharply.
“There has been an accident—” His voice quavered. He stopped to swallow before continuing. “Lord Hartford was gravely wounded.”
She gasped. “Where is her ladyship?”
“Retired.”
From the shock, or worse? She hesitated to ask. Reeves appeared ready to collapse.
“Where will I find Lord Marchgate?”
“The library.” Trepidation overwhelmed her. Who was with Robert?
Fearfully, she tapped on the door, entering though there was no response. The earl was slumped in a chair, head in his hands. His very posture confirmed her suspicion.
“Is it true?” she asked gently, kneeling before his seat.
Haggard eyes scanned her face. “Robert is gone,” he choked.
“How?”
“Carriage accident on St. James’s.”
“I heard, but there was no indication that any but young Delaney was injured,” she protested, not wanting to believe it.
“Three others were pinned under the wreckage,” he managed, though his voice cracked badly. “Two were unhurt. Robert received a blow to the head. He never regained consciousness.”
“I am so sorry.” Her hands gripped his in silent commiseration, feeling guilty at how lightheartedly news of the mishap had been treated at Lady Stafford’s. Nor could she believe that Robert was actually dead. Despite his silliness, she liked him very much.
“What can I do?”
“Portia will need you when she wakens,” he said. “Her maid gave her a strong dose of laudanum. Perhaps you could find Eleanor.” He ran his fingers absently through his hair, further disturbing it. “I cannot think clearly just now.”
“That is to be expected,” she murmured soothingly, noting a brighter glint in his eyes that showed how close to tears he was. “Is Thomas here?”
“Not to my knowledge. Footmen left to find him and Emily, but I do not know if they were successful.” His voice cracked again.
“I will see to the immediate duties,” she promised and left him to his grieving. Her heart went out to the earl, knowing he would grieve the harder because he had secretly believed his heir to be unworthy of the title.
The footman sent to locate Thomas had not yet returned, nor had the one dispatched to Wembley House. Robert’s body was upstairs, with the housekeeper supervising the laying out. Eleanor was in her room, huddled in a chair before the fire, her face puffed from a lengthy bout of tears.
“Are you all right?” Caroline asked gently.
Eleanor hesitated a moment, then threw herself into Caroline’s arms, tears again flowing freely. “It’s all so horrible,” she sobbed. “How can he be gone?”
Caroline held her and rocked her, encouraging her to talk and offering condolences. What emerged between sobs was a tale of shock and distress. Eleanor had never been close to her oldest brother, as the ten-year age difference was an insurmountable barrier. By the time she was born, he had left for school. And he spent many holidays with friends. Yet his death affected her deeply. Perhaps it was the suddenness, or the realization that someone sauntering along an elegant street could be cut down without warning. But the reminder of life’s uncertainties shattered her security.
And then there was her anger. It was as much a product of shock and misery as it was a reality. For Robert’s death also marked the death of her Season. As soon as the funeral concluded, the family would retire to their respective estates. Even country entertainments were banned during deep mourning. For a girl in her first Season, this constituted personal punishment rather than respect for the deceased. Her reaction was understandable, yet Caroline hoped Eleanor could hide her feelings. Neither of the Marchgates needed this additional burden.
“Go to sleep for a while,” she urged when Eleanor had at last aired her distress and come to terms with it. “It can do nothing but good. And there is nought you can do just now. But your mother will need comfort when she wakens. You must be strong and in control.”
She pulled a chair close to the bed, vowing to stay until Eleanor slept. But she could not deaden her own thoughts.
Had Thomas been located yet? She had heard no one come in, and the footman must have had time to search all the usual places. Where was he? She forced the image of Alicia’s house on Davies Street from her mind. The idea of him making passionate love to another while his brother lay dying was too horrifying to contemplate. But if he was anywhere near his club that day, he must surely have heard the news. Emily had described him as protective of Robert. What hell was he enduring now?
A new thought surfaced and her eyes widened at her own slowness. Thomas was now Viscount Hartford and the heir to the earldom. What difference would that make to his life? With an increased allowance and his future prospects, he might have further cause to regret their hasty marriage. Would it affect his attitude toward Crawley? The derelict estate no longer represented his entire
fortune. Perhaps he would welcome a return to London and resumption of the frivolous waiting game indulged in by most of his peers.
Sounds of arrival drifted up from the foyer. Eleanor was finally asleep. Caroline slipped quietly from the room, hoping it was he.
Emily paced the drawing room, tears streaming down her face. She raised pained eyes as Caroline entered and quietly shut the door.
“Is it true?”
She nodded.
“And we were laughing...” But she could not complete the sentence.
Caroline understood. She had faced the same horror when she realized the details of Robert’s death.
“We could not know,” she declared. “There is no reason to feel guilty. And he did not suffer. He did not even have time to feel pain.” She led Emily to a sofa and handed her a glass of sherry.
“How are they taking it?”
“Your father is in shock, grief numbing most of his senses. He will go through worse when that wears off. Your mother is asleep, under a heavy dose of laudanum. I have not yet seen her. Eleanor is also asleep, after a long cry. She is shocked, terrified, and also angry over the cancellation of her Season. Guilt will rescue her from airing that reaction to your parents. And she knows I will listen when she needs to talk. Thomas has not yet returned.”
“He will take it hard,” said Emily, dabbing ineffectively at her eyes. “For all their differences in character and understanding, he and Robert were very close. He always protected Robert, helping him out of scrapes and shielding him from the contempt of those who maligned his silliness. At times he almost appeared to be Robert’s father. There was that much difference in their abilities.”
“I hope this does not trigger another bout of drinking,” Caroline said with a frown.
“I doubt it. But he will not return home until he can control himself. He has always cared deeply about appearances. Displaying emotion is not considered manly in his circle. I remember when he was fourteen. He had a favorite dog that followed him everywhere. One day it wandered into a pasture and was killed by a bull. Thomas was heartbroken. He disappeared and did not return until dusk the next day. Papa was furious, though he understood as well as I did. But Thomas never mentioned Charley again.”
“I hope he does not do that now. How many months would it take to submerge a brother’s death?”
“We shall see.” Tears again filled her eyes. Caroline pulled her close and let her cry on her shoulder. Her gown was becoming soaked with salt. Eventually, Emily pulled away and blew her nose. “Thank you. I think I am empty enough now to speak with Father.”
“He is in the library. Shall I have a tea tray sent in?”
“Not there. But I would welcome one in here later.” She drew a deep breath and resolutely left the room.
Caroline followed. She must consult with Reeves and with the housekeeper. To say nothing of the cook. So many details needed immediate attention. Was there mourning stationery for the death notices or would she have to send a footman out? What about clothing? And funeral arrangements. Which decisions were important enough to make her disturb the earl? Which could she make on her own to ease his burden?
* * * *
Thomas was still sitting in White’s when George suddenly reappeared at his side.
“That was a fast trip. Was your tailor otherwise occupied?” But a closer look at his friend’s face wiped the smile from his own. “What is it, George?”
“Young Delaney tried out his new team, hitched to a high-perch phaeton of the less stable variety.” His voice wavered.
“Oh, my God. What did he do?”
“Broke his leg in the ensuing crash.” He hesitated, searching for words and finding none. “There were other victims, including one fatality.”
Thomas blanched.
“Your brother.”
“No–” But George’s expression eliminated all possibility of jest.
“Let me see you home,” he offered gently.
“No,” protested Thomas again. “I cannot face–”
“Then come with me.” They had to get out of White’s before word spread. Thomas could not hold up under the sympathy he would be offered. And it would be embarrassing all around if he did not.
In a fog, Thomas allowed George to lead him away. They quickly traversed the block to Albany.
“I must leave,” said George as he unlocked his door and pushed him inside. Thomas needed to be alone. “I still have to visit my tailor. Help yourself.” He pointed to the brandy decanter.
Thomas’s mind was still groping with the enormity of what had just occurred. He had lost friends before. A close one had died at Badajoz a year before, another in a hunting accident just after coming down from Oxford. But losing a brother was far worse. And to have an accident cut him down as he walked along St. James’s Street seemed almost blasphemous.
Protecting his brother had been a lifelong activity, dating to their earliest years. Robert was a little simpleminded. He could not help his lack of understanding, nor his unsuitability for the more masculine pastimes. But he had found a niche in Mayfair’s world of fashion and gossip, creating a life that kept him happy. And now he was gone. Gone...
Despite his resolution, tears welled and sobs tore at his throat. Thank God George was so understanding. He gave in and wept...
* * * *
Had hours passed? Or days?
Thomas splashed cold water on his face, finally able to exert some control over his emotions. Memories had flooded his mind, each new picture triggering a new round of tears. Robert excited over his first trip to London... Robert ecstatic when acclaimed a tulip of fashion... Robert decorating Marchgate House for Emily’s come-out… Robert giggling in his affected way over the latest scandal... The snowy Christmas when the eleven-year-old viscount had squealed like a toddler as they whizzed down the Abbey’s hills, tumbling into snow banks at the bottom... The night their father had prodded Robert to take a wife, to assure the succession...
Shock collapsed Thomas back into his chair. He was now Viscount Hartford.
What would this mean for his own future? Financial security. It would be far easier to restore Crawley, and he would one day have the Abbey. And with the backing of a title and fortune, his stables would lose any taint of dabbling in trade.
Alicia will be furious at passing me over, whispered a voice.
How absurd! She regretted their position as much as he, but neither of them had contributed to it. Her parents had forced that match on her.
He thrust his mind back to Crawley. His allowance would not cease at the end of the year. In fact, it would substantially increase, allowing more scope for his stable. And he would have to study the Marchgate estates. Not that he would take an active role in managing them, but it was imperative that he fully understand his future inheritance. For another result of today’s tragedy was a better appreciation of just how uncertain life could be. He needed to prepare for any eventuality. And that meant making an honest effort to repair the breach with Caroline. One of his duties would be providing an heir. Immediately. The next in line was an unscrupulous, spendthrift cousin.
George returned, stepping noisily through the door to allow him time to compose himself.
“A footman has been searching for you for several hours,” he reported. “Are you ready to return home?”
“Yes, I must. Father will need support. And I hate to think how Mother and the girls are taking this.”
“You are all right?”
“I believe so. Thank you, George.”
He headed for Berkeley Square, emotions in check, mind divorced from reality. It hardly surprised him to find Caroline firmly in charge. Nor did he find her management irritating. In fact, he had known she would take care of everything until he was able to return and see to things himself. That certainty had given him time to come to terms with his own shock and grief.
He dealt with his parents and his sisters without breaking down. Caroline orchestrated the meetings so that h
e first spoke to each separately. She had arranged a cold collation in the breakfast room, allowing everyone to eat when and if they wanted, without pressure. Emily told him of all that Caroline had accomplished, praising her tact and her compassion. His parents each expressed gratitude for her presence. Eleanor seemed unnaturally reticent, offering commiseration but displaying no emotion on her own part. Recalling Emily’s comments, he suspected Caroline was responsible for sparing him the expected outburst. Not until he steeled himself to view Robert’s body did his composure again slip.
The wound that had killed him was on the back of his head, so he looked perfectly normal. His valet had dressed him, his cravat as stiff and perfect as ever in life, his hair curled in deliberate dishevelment around his face. Tears again filled Thomas’s eyes despite his efforts. Not even the sound of someone entering the room could stop his wracking sobs.
Soft hands grasped his arms and led him to a settee in the corner.
“Cry it out, Thomas. No one else will come in,” murmured Caroline, pulling his head down onto her shoulder.
Amazed at himself, he willingly complied, not caring that she saw him at his vulnerable worst. He did not stop to consider why he would feel that way, desolation sweeping all thought aside. His arms moved around her, and he again let his overwhelming loss control his actions.
Caroline said nothing. She would not intrude on his grief. But neither could she leave him alone at this wrenching time. He needed warmth and comfort, but no words. Words required thought in order to respond. His grief placed him beyond thought. She smoothed a hand over his hair and gently massaged the stiffness from his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he finally choked as his sobs abated.
“It is nothing.” She watched as he pulled himself upright, satisfied that he was again in control. Then she slipped out of the room. He still needed to commune with his brother. And that was best accomplished in private.
Chapter 16
Oh, God! Make it not be true!
Thomas buried his head in the pillow, unable to decide if sleep or rising offered the least pain. His few hours in bed had been endless torture, round after round of memories, tears, and nightmares. But the day promised equal torture without the purge of emotion.
