A knock came.
“Yes?” answered Fitz.
Cobble, Fitz’s butler, bowed slightly. “Sir, Mr. Andrew Martin to see you, sir. Are you at home to him?”
My poor girl,” said Venetia, Duchess of Lexington, standing at the window of her drawing room and watching Helena’s carriage pull away from the curb.
“She did seem quite defeated.” Her husband placed his hand on the small of her back. “Not that she wasn’t strenuously trying to convince us of the opposite.”
“I hope the dinner tonight won’t be too taxing for her.” She wrapped her arm around his middle. “And thank you, darling, for offering your place in the Highlands for their honeymoon.”
“They can have legendary rows there without anyone knowing,” said Lexington dryly. “Besides, I’m quite fond of your sister—if it weren’t for her shenanigans, you’d never have been at Harvard to hear my lecture. So if there is ever anything I can do for her, mein Liebling, you have but to say the word.”
“Hmm.” Venetia rubbed her cheek against the summer wool of his day coat. “I’m not sure what more we can do for her right now, other than to wait and see. But, my goodness, there is much that can be done for me, the delicate, expectant mother, thrust into the middle of such demanding circumstances.”
“Ah,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Do you know, I did receive a letter from the British Museum of Natural History yesterday afternoon. But with our entire evening consumed with your sister’s fate, I’d forgotten all about it.”
Her heart thumped with excitement. She was very, very fond of the British Museum of Natural History. “Really? What does your letter say?”
“Only that a shipment of tremendous saurian fossils have just arrived and they’d be pleased to let us have a private viewing. Shall I send a note and have them expect us at ten o’clock?”
“Yes. Yes,” she said. “Nothing pleases and soothes a delicate, expectant mother like crates upon crates of enormous dinosaur remains.”
He laughed. “I never thought I’d have a wife who is more excited about going to the British Museum of Natural History than I.”
“And aren’t you glad of it, darling.” She kissed him full on the lips. “Now go write that note, Your Grace. And I will get ready as fast as I can.”
Martin had come to self-flagellate. He was everything a penitent ought to be, humble, contrite, accepting of all blame. But Hastings was unimpressed. Martin should never have crossed the line in the first place. Then, after giving his word to Fitz, he should never have crossed the line again.
Or perhaps, reflected Hastings grimly, he was only angry because the next time Martin relapsed, he’d be lying with Hastings’s wife.
Martin was still talking. “Miss—Lady Hastings was adamant that I not make decisions on her behalf. She asked me to have a care not only for her reputation, but for her happiness. I was terribly conflicted. On the one hand, I’d given my word to you, sir. On the other hand, I’d also given my word to her, earlier, that I’d do everything in my power to make her happy. And here she was, demanding that I honor that promise. When I received a cable that seemed to be from her, I’m afraid her words—rather than yours—were the ones that rang loudest in my ears.”
He stopped, biting his lips and seemingly trying to gauge Fitz’s and Hastings’s reactions. Hastings said nothing; Martin had not come to see him.
“I cannot approve of your action any more than I can approve of my sister’s,” said Fitz. “I can only hope that the fact that together you’ve brought real consequences to her is rebuke enough to you, Mr. Martin.”
Fitz’s words were not kind, but they were just. Martin’s face turned beet red. Hastings looked away. He took no pleasure in Martin’s mortification. In fact, he felt almost as uncomfortable as Martin, at being “the real consequences” that had befallen Helena.
“But what is done is done,” continued Fitz. “My sister will be Lady Hastings—as salvageable an outcome as could have happened under the circumstances. I trust you will be the soul of discretion on the matter.”
“Of course, of course.” Martin all but bowed and scraped. “And many congratulations to you, Lord Hastings.”
Hastings declined to respond. Martin, ever more red-faced, mumbled a round of good days and showed himself out.
Hastings unclenched his fist. “What a wretch.”
Fitz sighed. “A wretch he may be, but remember, David, he is not what stands in your way. You are.”
Helena had just alighted before Fitz’s house when she saw Andrew disappearing around the bend. Her heart prickled with a hot pain. She picked up her skirt and started after him, only to have someone grip her by the arm.
“Let him go,” said Hastings. “It’s hardly becoming for my wife to chase another man in the streets.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame for that. Mr. Martin and I could have met in a civilized manner, but you had to blackmail me with your daughter. So if you think I won’t exploit an accidental meeting, you should be run over by an omnibus for your stupid arrogance.”
She yanked her arm free and ran, bittersweet memories flashing before her eyes: Andrew’s long-ago shy confession that someday he hoped to author a book worthy of being published by her; a shower of pressed flowers falling out of his letter to land at her feet, one for every day they’d been apart; walking along the Norfolk coast, Andrew telling her that it was his heart’s fondest wish to still amble those rough, beautiful cliffs with her when he was an old man, and, when they were too decrepit to walk, to be carried there in chairs to sit hand in hand as they gazed out to the North Sea.
She rounded the street corner but could not see him. Then, as if she’d conjured him, he materialized on the opposite side of the road.
She raced into the street, trying her best not to shout his name aloud. He was walking slowly. She was closing the distance between them. But he’d yet to become aware of her.
And now he was. He turned around. There were shouts. He, too, shouted, his face contorting with horror.
All too late she saw that she was directly in the path of a carriage-and-four. The coachman tried desperately to rein in his horses, but already those in the front reared, their screeches lost in the general din.
The last thing she saw was a hoof the size of a dinner plate coming directly at her face.
CHAPTER 7
The silence choked Hastings.
Compared to the chaos and black fear of the morning—on his knees before Helena’s inert body, the scent of her blood pungent in his nostrils, the shouts of the gathering crowd surging like his panic, the screams of the still shying horses piercing his ears—this quiet and order should have seemed a paradise.
And it had for a while. After she’d been brought back to Fitz’s house under Miss Redmayne’s supervision, after the dining room had been made into an emergency surgery for stitching the wound in her scalp, after Miss Redmayne assured everyone that her life was not in immediate danger, still shaking, but relieved beyond measure, Hastings had sat down to wait for her to wake up.
And waited. And waited. And waited.
He’d waved away offers of elevenses, luncheon, and tea—this last twice. The third time Millie set the tray down on his lap and ordered him in no uncertain terms to eat or be ejected from her house.
Helena, her face bruised and swollen, her head wrapped in white gauze, lay quietly. Much too quietly. From time to time Venetia, her teeth clenched over her lower lip, would lift her wrist and feel her pulse. They’d all tense—and breathe again only when Venetia nodded, signaling that all was still, if not well, then at least no worse.
Someone came to take the tea tray from Hastings. He had no idea whether he’d eaten anything or merely guarded the tray for a while. Fitz sat with his hand gripping his wife’s. Venetia, still wearing the mismatched shoes in which she’d arrived in the morning, had one hand on her husband’s sleeve, the other around a handkerchief.
There had been a burst of conversation fo
llowing the first “Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” They’d grilled the nurse Miss Redmayne had stationed in the room. The nurse assured them that Miss Redmayne had not used any narcotics, only a surface analgesic. There was no morphia or opium in Lady Hastings’s body, holding her consciousness hostage. But yes, she had most certainly suffered a concussion, so perhaps the wait would be slightly more extensive?
For the past hour, no one had spoken a single word.
“Would anyone mind if I read to her?” Hastings broke the silence at last.
There were no responses for a moment; then Venetia dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and said, “Go ahead.”
He was seated next to the small shelf Helena kept in her room. Her clothes had been taken to his house, but the possessions that truly mattered to her, her books, had stayed behind. He pulled out the book nearest him, moved his chair to the side of the bed, and began to read.
The question is often asked, “Shall I go to the expense of having my manuscript typewritten?” Yes, most decidedly. The advantages that writing by machinery possesses over the old method of pen writing are numerous. First, there is increased speed. Ordinary penmanship becomes illegible when twenty to thirty words a minute is exceeded. With the typewriter, fifty to sixty-five words a minute can be accomplished and kept up for several hours without the operator becoming afflicted with “writer’s cramp.” A clear saving of forty minutes in the hour means money gained.’”
“She wrote the book herself, you said?” Lexington asked.
Hastings nodded. “And published it end of last year, to advise writers concerning the inner workings of publishing.”
He’d mocked her for it, as he’d done with every one of her endeavors, telling her that if all she wanted was a publisher for herself, there were easier ways to go about it than forming her own publishing concern.
It boggled the mind that he’d thought it possible for her to fall in love with him, when he’d never been anything but the embodiment of vile smugness.
He glanced at her. She hadn’t made so much as a whimper in the nearly ten hours since she’d been brought back into her room. Was she dreaming or was her mind altogether elsewhere?
“‘Secondly, in addition to this great increase of speed is the combined legibility and boldness of typewritten matter as compared with the most copperplate handwriting. Thirdly, by using carbon paper, from two to seven copies can be taken at one operation, twenty by using flimsy, and two to three thousand by a stencil process.’”
“I didn’t know that,” said Millie. “What else does Helena talk about in this book?”
“Advertising, the entirety of the production process, and all the various means of cost and profit sharing.”
Venetia dabbed at her eyes again. “She is very good at her profession, isn’t she?”
“Helena has always been good at everything she does,” said Fitz, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.
They were speaking of her in present tense—of course they were. But to Hastings’s ears their words seemed to carry every characteristic of a eulogy. He felt like a hollow shell, nothing inside but fear.
“I’m sorry,” said Millie. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your reading, Hastings. By all means, continue.”
He rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. “She should have awakened.”
“It wasn’t just Miss Redmayne who said her life is not in immediate danger,” Venetia reminded him, even though anxiety tinged her own voice. “Fitz’s physician, Lexington’s, and your own—they’ve all said the same thing.”
He knew what they’d said—words that meant nothing to the fear inside.
“There is someone very well spoken of in Paris for this kind of trauma,” Lexington said quietly. “Shall I cable him?”
Hastings turned gratefully in Lexington’s direction. “I would be most obliged, sir. I’d like to know that we are doing everything possible for her.”
Chances were the Parisian fellow would not be of any more help than the London doctors. But sending for him would give the illusion of action and alleviate the futility of waiting.
“I will compose a telegram,” said Lexington. “May I have use of pen and paper, Lord Fitzhugh?”
“Call me Fitz. I’ll show you to my study. And, Venetia, why don’t you come down with us? You haven’t eaten anything all day—that can’t be good for the baby. Millie, you, too.”
“I’ll stay here,” said Hastings. “I’m still full from my tea.”
Fitz clasped a hand over Hastings’s shoulder. “We’ll be back soon.”
The room emptied, except for the nurse. “Would you care for a bit of supper, Nurse Jennings?” Hastings asked.
“Oh, no, thank you, your lordship, I had a plentiful tea,” replied Nurse Jennings. She had a deep, scratchy voice. “But…if your lordship don’t mind, I could do with a few minutes of fresh air.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“I won’t be but five minutes.”
When Nurse Jennings had gone, his gaze returned to Helena. “I think Nurse Jennings was hurting for a cigarette.”
She remained as silent and still as Sleeping Beauty, caught in a cursed slumber.
“Wake up, Helena. Wake up.”
Not a muscle moved in her face.
He fought back sudden tears and looked down at the book in his hands. “I’ve—I’ve lost my place. What do you want to hear? The section on advertisements to be placed in the books? The use and abuse of reviews? Trade prices and discounts?”
It didn’t matter, of course. She already knew everything—they were her words, her expertise. He only thought—idiotic of him—that she would hate the smothering silence as much as he did.
He took hold of her hand. “Come, wake up. Tell me to keep my hand to myself. Tell me to get out of your room. Tell me to—”
This time he could no longer hold back his tears. And with them came words that he’d never been able to say to her his entire life. “I love you, Helena. I have always loved you. Wake up and let me prove it to you.”
Twenty-four hours later, she was still unconscious.
The bruises on her face had turned purple and green. The swelling had gone down, but her cheeks and firmly closed eyes were beginning to look sunken—they’d not been able to feed her much, not even water.
She’d always been slender, but there had been an energetic strength to her—a presence that was greater than her size. Now, for the first time since he’d met her, she looked frail, as if she might float away without the bedcover keeping her in place.
Hastings stood in a corner of the room, his arms crossed, one shoulder against the wall. He’d finished reading her book on publishing. He’d read the entirety of the day’s newspaper. He’d grown quite weary of the sound of his own voice.
Venetia was out in the passage, weeping in her husband’s arms. Fitz’s eyes were red-rimmed, as were Millie’s. Hastings hadn’t cried again, but he had taken to drinking quantities of strong spirits out of Fitz’s view—Fitz had warned Hastings not to bring a bottle near him, as he hadn’t been so tempted in years.
More of London’s best physicians had been in to see her, as well as the expert from Paris. They all said the same thing: The family must wait and see. Lexington had summoned another expert from Berlin; Hastings doubted the fellow would have a different diagnosis to offer.
From time to time she shivered and mumbled, and they’d all rush to the edges of her bed, calling her name in unison, willing her to awaken. But invariably, as if caught in the sticky grip of a nightmare, she’d sink back into the void that incarcerated her. Ice and heat had both been tried. Venetia and Millie rubbed her hands and forearms. Once, Venetia, feeling desperate, even slapped Helena, only to burst into tears herself.
Miss Redmayne had pulled the family aside and spoken to them of the need to start tube feeding her, should her coma persist. Hastings had listened with what had seemed to him tremendous stoicism. Only later did he realize he had been
shaking.
He’d known a few medical students during his time at Oxford. On long-ago nights of drinking and merrymaking, they used to regale him with the more outlandish aspects of their knowledge. Tube feeding involved the insertion of a tube lubricated with glycerin inside the patient’s nostril. He’d laughed then at the oddity of such a procedure; now the thought of it terrified him.
Because she would be terrified. And she had to know, somehow. Imprisoned inside her mind, she must be beating at the bars to get out, to be once again mistress of her own fate.
And while they could keep her alive, her muscles would waste away from inactivity. She would become a breathing corpse, someone whose biological functions persisted even though the spirit had fled.
Out in the passage Lexington was gently calming Venetia—persuading her to take a few hours of rest, if only for the sake of the baby. And she was reluctantly agreeing. Inside the room, Fitz and Millie sat shoulder to shoulder on a small chaise, holding on to each other.
Hastings’s own fear was riddled with regret. No more. No more lies. No more cowardice. No more hiding his true sentiments behind mockery and derision. If she’d only awaken, he would become a man worthy of her.
If she’d only awaken.
He read her Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and gave each character a different voice.
The White Rabbit babbled in a high-pitched squeak. The Cheshire Cat purred languorously. The Queen of Hearts brayed with impetuosity and high passion. Alice herself he made impish, with a touch of both bravado and naïveté.
He didn’t know why he bothered. Helena had shown no sign of having heard a single word he’d uttered. But he did it all the same.
At the end of a chapter, Fitz asked, “Are you not tired, David? Your voice must be worn-out.”
His voice was worn-out, but he shook his head. “I’m all right. I don’t want her to feel as if we are sitting here in a silent vigil.”
“We have not been a cheerful bunch, have we?” Fitz sighed. “Thank you, David. None of the rest of us would have read half as well.”
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