by Baird Wells
His name sounded sad and desperate on her lips. “Yes, Alexandra?”
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled, hoping that the worst had finally passed. “I love you too.”
She wriggled down off of the bed, crawling on hands and knees to where he sat. His hope deflated; she was still not in her right mind.
Alix stopped just at his knee, raking fingers through her wild mane. He swallowed. She was so pale, made worse in the moonlight. Thin. Hollows around her eyes were deepened by scant light, and in silhouette she resembled a scarecrow. He rubbed a fist over his aching chest.
She reached out slowly, fingers plucking at his cravat. “I'm sick, Spencer. I'm dying.” A hand pressed over her eyes and she sobbed. “I'll die without my medicine.”
“I've sent John into the village to get more. He'll be back directly.”
A cocky smile curved up one side of her mouth, her whole frame relaxing. “That is very kind of you.” She inched closer, until his leg was wedged between her knees. “Very kind.”
“Mmm.”
She pulled his cravat again, ran a finger down the front of his shirt. “You are a very handsome man.” Her eyes were vacant in the dark, holding nothing but her hunger. When she looked at him, she might have been looking through him.
“Am I? What is my name?”
A shrug. Up on her knees now, she reached again for his throat.
Spencer snatched her arm, pushing so that she fell onto her backside.
“I need my medicine,” she demanded, and her lip rolled out in a pout.
“Soon enough. I'll have it brought up the moment it arrives.”
Alix fingered a button along the side of her bodice. “We're alone in here.”
“So we are.” Spencer fixed his eyes to the window, tracing a half of the moon not hidden from sight by the casement.
Fumbling her way along, Alix freed each button in turn. He could feel her eyes on him and refused to acknowledge it. “We could do a great many things, all alone.”
“No, we mustn’t,” he cautioned, “The servants will hear us.”
She giggled, undeterred from opening her bodice.
Servants. It was all he could think to say. Despite days of anguish, Alexandra's state of mind, his rage at Paulina, when Alix whispered his name and began to remove her dress …
He sucked in a breath, trying to keep one eye on her without truly looking. The dress was all she wore. No stays, for her own safety, and no chemise.
She grasped the hem, started to wriggle it over her head.
“John could return any moment,” he warned. “You would not want to be in such a state.”
No reply. Her dress smacked the wall beside him, landing in a heap. She inched closer again.
Spencer stretched out his legs, holding his breath while Alix fumbled her way into his lap. He rested a hand on each of her hips. It was instinct; he hadn't meant to do it. Her skin was clammy and stuck to his palms.
Heart thundering, he struggled to listen, to keep his guard. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and regretted ever opening the door. Alix fumbled his hair in a disjointed caress. “You're killing me,” she whispered. “I need my medicine.”
“Nearly here,” he murmured, turning away from breasts almost pressing his face. Alexandra's familiar shape, even thin as it was, weighed his thighs. When she turned his face back and leaned in, Spencer let her kiss him.
It was a mistake; he knew before it happened. Her teeth seized his lip, digging harder and harder until he snatched a fistful of hair and snapped her head back. Blood trickled over his chin.
Alix tensed, threw back her head and cackled. Then she slumped against his chest, buried her face in his shoulder and wept like a child.
He ran a hand up her back, calming her as hot tears soaked his shirt. With his other hand, he brushed away his own. As time passed, her body calmed and he dared to hope that she’d fallen asleep at last.
He waited, Alix cradled in his arms until the moon had passed beyond the window's narrow opening. Tense, he was ready for the next assault, for her to hit or scream, for her rest to be another ruse. She lay slack against him, breathing slowly and evenly. Finally, Spencer worked up his courage and tipped her back a little. Her eyes were closed, chest rising and falling no matter how much he shook her.
Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he scooped her up, abandoned the idea of putting her dress back on, and settled her on the bed. Tugging a quilt over her, he watched her for a long time, gaining control of the tumult inside.
He went out and locked the door again. Stretching out across the hall rug, he braced his head atop an arm and slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Broadmoore -- September 27th, 1814
Spencer. He had been telling her something, reassuring her. He wasn’t a face or even words, just sound in the darkness. She hadn’t heard him anymore after that, sad that she couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said. She hadn’t been able to listen to him, too thirsty, and no one brought her water. Sometimes she heard Laurel, or other hushed voices, but they never brought her a drink. Hungry too, but not for food; for something that would feed the crazed cyclone between her temples, an ache between each joint which made her want to run and kept her from rolling over.
She had been awake for days, but not truly aware. Foggy scraps of conversation, of people coming and going swirled in her mind, but today was the first day Alix felt that any of it truly made sense.
She remembered Laurel's smooth hand rubbing her arm, bringing her awake. Someone she didn't know had come in and out, first with a tub and then buckets. Laurel had tried to get her excited about a bath, but the tub seemed so far away. Alix wasn't certain she could sit herself up.
The maid left the room with her empty pail, and Laurel came in. “Ready?”
Alix nodded, feeling that she was supposed to. “If you wouldn't mind closing the door on your way out.”
Laurel scrunched her face. “I was going to stay. I thought you would need –”
“No.” She hadn't meant to snap. Her head throbbed almost too much to keep her eyes open, but she didn’t trust anyone to touch her yet. She might need someone's help, but she certainly didn't want it after months of forced dependence, not even from Laurel.
She managed a smile for Laurel's benefit. “Thank you, but I'd feel better doing it alone. Can I call for you, if I need help?”
The compromise pleased Laurel, who nodded. “Just call out. I'll be in the next room.”
Alone again, Alix scrunched her belly and tested her ability to sit. Finally, she rolled onto an arm and pushed herself up. Sparks erupted at the edge of her vision; she was going to be sick. Panting, she closed her eyes and after a moment it passed.
Getting her feet onto the rug was easy enough. Putting weight on them was an entirely different matter. It took the help of a nightstand, a curtain, and the mantle to get herself to the tub. Trembling arms braced her against its wooden edge, requiring an exhausting amount of maneuvering to step in, sit down and not dump the whole thing. The process left her gasping and sobbing quietly, but she would not give up.
Steaming water seared her skin, biting her wounds and turning her red from her toes to the tops of her breasts. She welcomed the sensation. Any feeling other than numbness was a blessing, made her feel awake and aware. Taking a towel from the hearth, she rolled it up, stuffed it beneath her head and leaned back as much as the tub would allow.
A bath would make her feel better, she'd told herself, but despite the hot water on her skin, it didn’t really help. She gave herself a cursory scrub with the soap from head to toe, and then she lay in the water until it was cold, waiting for something to happen. Mind unoccupied, her attention settled on her wounds.
She tensed, pulse hammering in her throat. Panic beaded into sweat along her forehead. It was the second time in as many days, when thoughts of Paulina tried to slither inside her mind. She couldn’t summon up
one single recollection of the torture, but a churning in her gut and the urge to run screaming in any direction told Alix that some part of her had been aware as it happened.
It was over now, done. Thanks to Spencer, Paulina was imprisoned and Chas was finally being made to face his part in things, however passive.
Spencer. He felt so far away; had he forgotten her? She couldn't really conceive of how much time had passed. It felt like years. Her memory wasn’t just a flash of blank space. She almost wished it were; that might have been easier. Instead, she had just enough spots of lucidity, enough memory to light the darkness, to feel how much had been stolen from her.
She took the towel from behind her head, rested it atop her knees, and buried her face in it to hide the sobs. Terror lashed at her from the shadows. A part of her could sense heat burning her skin, or stabbing pain piercing her flesh. Fingernails tearing at her neck, or forcing her head back to drink. They were just sensations, vague hints of memory. Somehow, they felt worse than actually remembering every moment.
When she'd got hold of herself, Alix wiped her face and dared standing up. It was a little easier this time, though her stomach clenched and her limbs trembled. Toweling off, it occurred that she was hungry. She could call for Laurel, ask for something to eat. She opened her mouth to call out, but couldn’t make the words come. An emptiness welled up inside her, drowning her courage.
Instead, she ignored clean clothes and fell onto the bed. Rolling onto her side, she drew the blankets up almost over her head, and lay there. She stared at the wall, blinking, willing sleep to come.
* * *
Two mornings later she woke ravenous, less delicate and more determined to put space between now and her awful memories. Laurel consulted Doctor Ashby, who agreed that she could be allowed downstairs for breakfast which sated her desire for company, the first she’d felt since waking.
No one avoided her eyes or made a fuss, and Alix was grateful. John and Laurel picked things up as though she had just seen them the day before, including her without singling her out.
She had held her breath down the stairs, hoping that Spencer would be there, afraid to ask and be disappointed. He was not at the table, only John and Laurel. For a moment she thought tears would come, and disappointment strangled her words. Swallowing an ache in her throat, she nodded to John, who was just getting up. “Leaving already?”
“Business in the village. Someone has to pick up all of Reed's slack,” he teased.
Laurel swatted as he passed, shaking her head and casting Alix a look. “Secretly John enjoys it.”
Alix kept silent until he'd gone, overly focused on slicing a boiled egg. She worked up her courage, exchanging a few glances with Laurel. “Where … Where is Lord Reed?” she asked, hating how weak and yet formal the words sounded.
Laurel blinked, surprised. “You mean Spencer? He's in London testifying against –” Laurel glanced away, “Testifying in the inquest.”
“Oh.” Crushed, Alix stiffened her face and went on scraping at her egg. She couldn’t name her gratitude, her love for him and what he must be suffering now. Fear at his absence melted away.
“John had a letter from him early this morning.” Laurel sounded surprised. “Third this week, and he is not much of a writer. He starts every one by asking after you.”
The news warmed her, and something like peace settled in.
Laurel leaned over, laying a hand on hers. “If you'd like to write, John can send it with his answer tomorrow.”
Alix stared at her plate, thinking of how she would begin, of what she should say to him. Wondering what she had said to him when she wasn’t herself. The simple human contact of Laurel's hand was a welcome comfort, and she pressed back.
“He would not stay away for anything less, Alix. He visited you every day when … He never abandoned you. But his bloodlust is up, as John puts it.” Laurel’s green eyes narrowed to slits. “He'll see Paulina gets what she deserves.” A squeeze, and Laurel took her hand away. “It's hard on him, but he would do anything for you.”
Alix groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God, I don't remember it. It's as though we've been apart forever. Sometimes I hear things in my mind, inconsequential things. Who bought a new horse, the price of corn.” She laughed. “I hear them in Spencer's voice. From his visits? They don't feel real.”
Laurel shook her head, eyes wide. “Such a nightmare. What is the last thing you recall?”
Alix pressed her eyes shut, struggling for anything. There were fragments of London, of an argument with Chas, Paulina and a letter, but nothing fused together. “My last easy memories are of my week at Haywood.”
“Stirling, you mean,” corrected Laurel, pouring more tea.
“No, I mean Hay –” Her eyes snapped open, meeting Laurel's, “Wood.”
Laurel’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned close as though trying to read Alexandra’s mind. “Lord Reed was at Haywood.”
A smile spread against her will, and Alix looked away. “You are correct. He was.”
“Hmph.” Laurel pursed her lips, folding in a grin.
“What?”
“Nothing. It's no great matter.”
“What?” Alix demanded again, hating that she had been baited.
Laurel shrugged, studying her nails. “It's just that Spencer never invites anyone there. Not even John.”
“Oh.”
“How did you pass the time during your week at Haywood?”
Laurel was her only close friend; if she could confess herself to anyone, now was the time. “How would you and John pass a week at Haywood?”
“Little clothing and plenty of wine.”
Alexandra nodded, not fighting a grin. “Precisely.”
Laurel's smile was triumphant. “Mm. You should write him this afternoon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Old Bailey, London -- September 29th, 1814
Spencer squinted at Paulina from the gallery's second row, grinding his back teeth as another frustrating bit of testimony concluded. A gavel rapped against the judge's high bench and a bailiff called in his long monotone for the gallery to empty. Feet pounded the scaffolding overhead, both the idle and the curious public shuffling out.
The longest trial he could recall had lasted just shy of forty-five minutes. Proceedings today had become so convoluted that the judge had been obliged to retire everyone for lunch, reconvening at four thirty that afternoon. He stared at blotches of sun on the room's white plaster walls, the stars of dust drifting from the ceiling's high peak, and took some comfort in the silence. London had never been the great love of his life, as it was for so many of his peers. The trial's noise, agitation, the sickening bites of testimony he was forced to swallow had made him resentful toward the city.
“You should go home for a bit.” Ethan folded himself onto the bench, setting his hat between them.
“Not a chance.” Spencer damned himself with a yawn, then shook his head. “The streets are beyond congested this time of day. I'd only have to turn around and come right back.”
He glanced at Ethan, polished from his short black hair to his smart blue wool coat and high boots. The man could easily have just woken, but Spencer knew better. “Where have you been today?”
Ethan grimaced. “Seeing to Chas Paton. Utterly foxed and taken in for being disorderly at the coach station.”
Spencer groaned. “Going where?”
“To see his sister, of course. Despite her pleas in the last letter to be left alone. He was out in the middle of Oxford Street raving that she's mad for saying she doesn't want to see him.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I very nearly cocked him in his damned mouth. It’s just what we need, when Paulina's lawyer is already doing his best to prove Miss Paton is not of sound mind. He wouldn't shut up, so I dragged him back to the hotel.”
“One of the runners alerted you, I take it?”
Ethan nodded. “And he is now posted on Mister
Paton's door. Bow Street can be a well-oiled intelligence machine when it chooses.”
Spencer nodded, still set on the news that Alix did not want to see her brother, wondering if the same feelings extended to him. “It is bleeding difficult to not feel discouraged. Our evidence seemed perfectly set, irrefutable. That bastard Lawrence has done his job, giving everyone pause.”
Paulina's lawyer was naturally the best money could buy, certainly getting every last coin he could from a man like Silas Van der Verre. He was smirking, arrogant, and with enough false bravado to get heads nodding in the dock when he called a witness into question.
“It would help if Alexandra were here to speak on her own behalf.” Ethan’s words were carefully spoken, the entreaty of a man already sure of an answer but trying anyway.
“Impossible. I'm not dragging her fifty miles over bad roads in her present state. And I’m not making her face that woman.” Spencer massaged his jaw. “Besides, what would it accomplish? She was heavily drugged the entire time, and Lawrence will just use his forked tongue on her, too.”
“It would establish a clear line, if she could describe how she felt while in Stirling, versus the changes here in town. Paulina has claimed her sister-in-law's mental break began during that week.”
It would establish perjury. “You know as well as I that it didn’t start then.”
Ethan nodded. “But we are neither of us qualified to testify to it.”
He held his tongue.
“We cannot know Miss Paton's state of mind in Stirling. Precisely what she said and did during that missing week.”
He glanced to his friend, but Ethan stared ahead with a bland expression.
Spencer shifted. “Hmm.”
Ethan sank deeper in his seat, leaned closer. “It would help if we knew how she behaved during that time...”
Understanding struck with a lightning jolt. “You know where she was,” Spencer grumbled.
