He spat on the ground, narrowly missing her skirts. He didn’t know a worse insult he could pay a lady without actually breaking her nose. “Now get off of my land.”
The swift retreat of pink lace was the only welcome sight since before her arrival. Now he had to deal with his interfering mother.
****
Andrew soaked in the tub long after the water cooled. He felt terrible, physically, and in every other way. Perhaps he had overworked himself. He couldn’t relieve the feverish ache in his muscles. It had been ugly with his mother, and that accounted for the pounding ache in his head. She thought him unruly and ungrateful, as well as destined to bring the entire house of Tilmore to ruin. At least she had gone back to London, and was so offended she had threatened to go abroad and never speak to him again. The distance was welcome, in his estimation. But just the same, it left him feeling guilty; he didn’t like treating his mother in such a way.
Her parting words had been a threat. As soon as Lord Courtenay returned from his own journey abroad, she would see to it that he flayed his son alive. It was in sharp contrast to the motherly kiss on the cheek and shoulder squeeze Lady Devon gave him when he last saw her — strange that the two women were great friends. Andrew supposed a good number of people might fight like badgers with their family yet be perfectly delightful to their friends.
He now had the unenviable task of getting rid of Lady Langton, that odious shrew who had entrenched herself in his guest house. The mere thought of her made his headache flare and throb.
He had put his heart and soul into this old castle, and it was finally taking shape. The smooth stone walls seemed to welcome him, inviting him to grow old there with his own family. Three long, intense years he had labored, and it was nearly ready to present to his bride, right on schedule. Dunsbury needed a woman’s touch, he knew.
The only problem remaining was his missing bride. Lady Devon had assured him Alysia was safe. If it had been anyone other than Lady Devon who withheld information he needed, he would have wrung it from them, but second only to God, Andrew answered to Lord Devon. Andrew had no choice but to trust his friends and slowly go out of his mind.
Alysia visited him in his dreams, where they conversed lazily or made passionate half-crazed love in their secluded cave back home at Ashton. More often than not, he woke frustrated and aroused and spent most of the day attacking a field, upending an unsuspecting hill, or digging out a bog to make a lake. He thought he had enough nervous energy to finish it single-handedly.
Andrew took a brush to his fingernails again in a half-hearted attempt to dislodge months’ worth of dirt. If anyone had ever accused him of being a dandy before, they certainly wouldn’t now. He knew he hardly even looked a gentleman, but it mattered little. His mind idle, the sudden rush of a long-forgotten memory made him still as he replayed it. It was an old memory, but powerful.
He remembered lounging behind a local farmer’s barn with a young Henry Westwood, who had sneaked two cheroots from his father’s study for them to try. They clipped the ends with a knife, lit the cheroots, then both took a long drag as they had seen their fathers do. They erupted into hacking coughs and wiped the water from their burning eyes. Such was their first attempt at smoking, Andrew at age sixteen and Henry seventeen, just months before he inherited his title and became Lord Graham.
In a guilty panic they hid the evidence of their experiment when Christian rounded the corner of the barn, calling their names and waving his arms. The older boys ran after Christian, who sprinted toward the schoolhouse. The sound of muffled shouting became Alysia’s voice, and Andrew dashed ahead to find her, imagining terrible misfortunes of every variety¯
He found the source of the commotion at the rear of the schoolhouse. At first he saw only Alysia screaming, pulling on the arm of an older boy who was throwing rocks at a wood-paneled tool shed. Black anger poured over his head, darkening his vision.
Then he took in the sight of three other boys, aged between fourteen and eighteen, also hurling rocks at the shed and shouting. Alysia scrambled to get their attention while they either ignored or taunted her. Andrew heard pounding on the door and terrified wails coming from inside the shed.
“Stop! Stop that now, Bert Carter!” Alysia shouted, tears streaming down her face. “Please! Stop that!”
Andrew had nearly reached the scene when Bert grabbed a stick and banged on the shed. The cruel words he shouted, and the cursing from the other boys were branded in Andrew’s mind. The victim locked in the shed wailed and pleaded. Alysia tried to wrestle the stick away from Bert Carter, who shoved her down, sending her sprawling on the ground.
The next moment, Bert Carter also fell flat on the ground, his nose pouring blood. Andrew smiled to recall that Bert Carter’s nose was still crooked the last time Andrew had seen him. He hadn’t minded the satisfying sharp ache in his knuckles afterward.
He knelt and gathered Alysia in his arms, but she fought her way out. “Andrew! Help Lindy. They trapped her in there. Stop them!” She scrambled to her feet. “Please!”
Henry Westwood and Christian ran into the yard in time to see the other three boys frozen, staring at a miserable and gory Bert Carter.
“What is all this?” Andrew thundered at the boys, who stared at the ground. Henry and Christian moved to flank Andrew on either side, marking the line foe for foe. “Explain yourselves!”
“Pretty little lord in shortcoats come to throw his weight about?” taunted the eldest boy, at a height with Andrew but three stone heavier — Penhurst, the illegitimate son of a local baronet. He spat in Andrew’s direction then pitched a melon-sized rock at the shed; it cracked the wood and made the girl inside shriek then break into more sobbing. Alysia answered with the same desolate sound, and Andrew erupted. He sprang on Penhurst and rammed a fist into his jaw. Penhurst stumbled backward and yelped in pain, clutching his face.
Andrew grabbed the nearest boy by the back of his collar and shoved him toward the door of the tool shed. “Now!” he thundered. “Let her out, now!” It took two boys and a claw hammer to pry away the strip of wood they had nailed over the door. Alysia pushed them aside and retrieved a bawling, hysterical girl who clutched her arms around Alysia’s neck.
Indeed it was Lindy Chandler from the village; her father worked the harvest at Ashton’s home farm. Others called Lindy mongoloid, and Andrew had little idea what that meant, except that she was small for her age and childlike. Seeing her weep in fright, grime streaked on her tiny, sweet face, made him want to smash something. His fists clenched so tightly his tendons burned, and he could barely breathe.
“Carter! Hayward, Hayward.” Andrew glowered at the brothers and their bloodied cousin then looked to the oldest boy with an already swollen jaw. “Penhurst.” He ordered, “You will kneel before Lindy and beg her forgiveness.”
They gaped, and before any could protest, he roared, “Now!” They looked wide-eyed at Andrew, trembling with barely contained anger, then one by one did as he commanded.
Poor Lindy Chandler cowered in fright, but Alysia held her firm with an arm around her shoulders, glaring with sincere hatred at the four boys.
They had the good sense to duck their heads in shame and mumble their apologies to her as well. Those same boys would be groveling at her feet not a year and a half later, when Alysia grew out of her pixie looks and into her present form of a goddess.
Andrew, Henry, and Christian stood with their arms crossed over their chests and watched while the four boys walked away down the road. Andrew clearly recalled the throbbing burn radiating from his fingers to elbow and the realization that diplomacy and temperance were lacking in his character.
When Andrew returned, he found Alysia sitting on the steps of the schoolhouse with Lindy tucked in her lap. The little girl was much smaller than she should have been, by cause of her condition, and fit as a small child should in a mother’s lap.
He watched, entranced as Alysia murmured soothing words and brushed disheveled hair out
of the little girl’s face. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her nose, and when Lindy admired the embroidery, Alysia gave it to her to keep.
“No, no, that isn’t true. Your papa is a fine, good man. He makes beautiful, straight candles that burn with almost no smoke at all. Lord Courtenay himself said so. There is no shame in that, is there?” Alysia rocked Lindy in her lap and stroked her back, and soon Lindy’s tears dried.
Andrew heard next, “Of course not. You are lovely, Lindy. A beautiful princess.” He couldn’t make out Lindy’s soft protest, but he heard Alysia’s answer, “Those boys have something ugly inside of them, and they need to grow up. You have beauty inside you, Lindy. I can see it when you smile. Your papa sees it too.”
Alysia kissed her forehead. “There, now, don’t worry. They won’t do it again; Lord Preston will see to it.” She said in a stage whisper, “They are scared of him.” Lindy finally giggled.
Andrew observed them from the shade under a row of trees, his heart in a knot. He dried his eyes on his sleeve. He saw Lindy’s books and pencils strewn on the ground and gathered them. He caught Alysia’s eye, and she shot him a meaningful glance that warmed him from head to toe.
He bundled Lindy’s things and brought them to her, staying two steps below so he didn’t loom over her. “I am so sorry, Lindy. You needn’t worry they will harm you again. You are my friend now, and I will take care of you.”
Alysia’s tender expression conveyed approval and gratitude, and his heart beat in double time. He sat on the stair because Alysia hadn’t risen yet, and he wasn’t going anywhere without her. Henry and Christian came to say they would bring Andrew’s horse if he would wait.
Henry looked between Andrew and Alysia then bounced his brows, making an obvious, suggestive smirk, then followed Christian out of the schoolyard.
Alysia spotted a drawing tablet among Lindy’s things. “My, Lindy! What is this?” Alysia flipped through the book of bent and crinkled pages, cooing over rather terrible, rudimentary drawings.
It took him a moment to realize Lindy’s drawings were imitations of pieces Alysia had recently donated to a local charity bazaar. He remembered there had been no small excitement over Alysia’s paintings of Lancashire landscapes, and she barely fourteen years old.
Henry brought Andrew’s black gelding and tethered him to a tree, then signaled he would take Christian home.
Andrew watched with great interest as Alysia drew a portrait of Lindy in her book. He remembered it as the first time he understood the depth of her talent. He recognized what Alysia was doing when he noticed that she drew longer, slightly wavy hair around the face; which delighted Lindy since her hair was as flat as a sheet and thin.
Alysia subtly rounded Lindy’s oblique-shaped eyes, raised the bridge of her nose, and gently sculpted more prominent cheekbones and chin. It was no great change, but Alysia’s purpose was clear: she drew Lindy’s beauty as she saw it.
He watched incredulously as a delicate angel took shape on the paper. Friendly, guileless eyes. A modest smile pulling one corner of her lips into an adorable dimple. Heart-breaking innocence in her expression.
Lindy clapped and cheered as Alysia improvised an elaborate tiara with sparkling jewels. Andrew found himself covertly dabbing his eyes again, which Alysia politely ignored. He resisted cursing under his breath. The few instances he remembered being laid so low as to fall victim to the deplorable vice of weeping all involved Alysia, an underhanded enchantress. He positively adored her.
Andrew saw the sun hovering low over the west hills and finally persuaded the girls to move along. He suspected he scored Alysia’s favor when he lifted Lindy into the saddle and announced she would have dinner at Ashton, and he would send for her papa as well. Both Lord and Lady Courtenay were away, so no one would contradict him. His horse was too large for Lindy to ride alone, so he asked Alysia to ride behind her. Alysia had never needed help into the saddle before, but that time she behaved as though she did.
He stepped near and looked down at her, feeling ridiculously alert for no reason and high-strung, his heartbeat erratic. He put his hands on her waist and for a moment did nothing other than revel in the feel of her under his hands, stricken with the primitive awareness that he was male and she female. His fingers had a mind of their own; they spread on her ribs and stroked. The moment he touched her he had calmed. It was so correct, yet bewildering.
He realized he should do something. Alysia stifled a squeal as he tightened his grip and lifted her into the saddle. He ordered himself to retrieve his hands and stop staring like an idiot.
Andrew walked home leading his horse, feeling tall and mighty. The girl riding in his saddle, whom he had grown up teasing, who saw true beauty and could create it with her hands, who made his heart dance and the rest of him burn, was the answer to a question he hadn’t yet thought to ask. He had never doubted it since.
The heavenly dream replayed in his head as he lay down to sleep, a welcome diversion from the persistent ache in his bones. He tossed and fidgeted, growing more uncomfortable by the hour. Hot. Too hot. His entire body seemed to be on fire. Before dawn peeked through the curtains, his muscles screamed with a nerve-riding pain, his stomach roiled, and his sheets soaked through with sweat.
When a footman summoned him, the urgent-sounding words swam in his head, but he understood something about Christian. Temples throbbing and screaming, he dragged himself from bed and tried to answer the footman. He stumbled a few steps, and the blood drained from his head. He protested the disoriented sensation, then it reared, consuming him in a black wave.
Chapter Eighteen
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
Cymbeline, William Shakespeare
August 12, 1873, Rougemont Park in Devonshire, England
Alysia felt it crawling on her skin, tingling in her bones long before she heard the words. Something was wrong. She knew it was Andrew. She watched with narrowed eyes as a bedraggled courier delivered the message, the envelope rain-soaked and smeared with dirt and grease.
The others in the breakfast room fell silent, watching Lady Devon open the urgent missive in the absence of Lord Devon. It was a telegram sent from the Torquay office. Lady Devon hadn’t finished reading aloud the first line when Alysia shot to her feet and ran for the door.
Andrew’s steward at Dunsbury was beside himself, unable to reach Lord and Lady Courtenay. Alysia already knew they were abroad. The steward requested help from the Montegues, and Alysia wouldn’t wait for Lord Devon to return home.
“The brougham! My valise! Now, please!” she barked to the staff. None dared contest her, stern-voiced but fighting tears of panic. She must have appeared fit to charge the gates of hell.
She thanked heaven she had stayed in the neighboring county of Devon instead going to France, as she had planned, and nervously counted off the miles until she reached Dunsbury.
****
August 12, 1873, Dunsbury Castle in Somerset, England
“What are you doing here?” came Andrew’s hoarse voice.
Alysia scoffed impatiently at the footman who wouldn’t move the handkerchief from his mouth. She pushed past him through the doorway and found Andrew at Christian’s bedside, slumped over. “That is what I usually say to you.”
“Shouldn’t be here. Where’s May?” He looked awful. Pale, a bruised look around his eyes and cheeks.
“I sent her away.”
“Lisa, mmm good of you to come, but don’t want you ill. May can—”
“May is with child, and I don’t want her ill. I am staying.” She tested his forehead and his skin burned her hand. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary.
She leaned over Christian’s bed and stifled a gasp — finally his chest moved up and down, but he looked dead. She quickly tied her hair back and pushed her sleeves to the elbow. Andrew grasped the arms of the chair and tried to stand. Judging by his nauseated look and swaying balance, he was in no condition to help. She pushed on his shoul
der and he collapsed back in the chair. “Why don’t you just supervise, Drew?”
“Mmm fine.”
“Sure you are.” Alysia felt Christian’s forehead and pressed an ear to his chest. The rattling sound in his lungs was a bad sign. His breath wheezed through a dangerously swollen throat. She pinched the skin on the back of his hand — tight and ashen. Water-deprived. Delirious with fever, or infection. Perhaps both.
She swallowed the urge to whimper. “When was he last conscious? Will he eat and drink? How long has he struggled for breath? What does the doctor say?”
Andrew blinked, as though she’d spoken in Zulu. He scrubbed his hands over his face and tried to answer her questions. “Never came back, mmm Chris got worse. Sent ‘spress for Greyes. Here hmm-morrow.”
Oh, good. Mr. Greyes, the Montegue’s family surgeon, was coming. She had to make do until then. Alysia studied Christian, unconscious with fever and infected lungs. He might not last until morning. The worry etched in Andrew’s face and the desperate way he hung his head in his hands meant knew that and believed it was his fault.
“It cannot be cholera, Andrew, I swear it.” She sat on the bed, unsure of what to do first. “Influenza is my guess, perhaps pneumonia. And you mustn’t blame yourself. He will pull through.”
He shook his head, still gripped in his hands. The green tinge to his skin worried her.
“I will watch over Chris until the surgeon arrives. Go to bed, Drew.” He groaned and shook his head again. “If anything happens I will wake you. Meanwhile, you will be of no use to anyone if you drop dead. Go away, Andrew.” She tugged on his arm. “Go!”
He finally rose. That he was too weak to argue indicated he was worse than he let on. “Who is here to run errands for me?”
Andrew answered with the names of a few footmen and rang for the butler, then left the room in a dizzy meander, and she was glad she hadn’t wasted a single minute in coming.
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 22
