by Jane Feather
"Then sleep." He closed his eyes, stroking her hair as he felt her slip into a light doze.
Theo stirred and awoke. Her sleep had been so light, it didn't seem as if she'd ever lost awareness of the sun-filled bedchamber and the deep mattress. The scent of their lovemaking was still in her nostrils, his skin still clung to hers, his breath was still warm and even on her cheek, his hand heavy on her back, holding her against him. And her memory of that glorious surge of pleasure was as clear as if it had just happened.
She stretched against him. "I'm famished."
"You didn't eat anything at the reception," he murmured lazily. "Too busy preparing to attack my mother, as I recall."
"I don't wish to discuss that," she said, her lofty tone spoiled by a massive yawn. "We might quarrel."
"Might we?" He sat up and looked down on her with a quizzical smile. "I thought it was settled."
"For this time," Theo responded, wrinkling her nose. "But you can't promise me I'll never have dealings with your mother in the future, can you?"
"No," he agreed. "I can't promise you that."
"And will you always take my side?"
"I can't promise you that, either, I'm afraid."
It was intended at least in part as banter, but Theo frowned, hitching herself onto one elbow. "How old were you when your father died?"
"Three. Why?" He had only the vaguest memory of Sir Joshua Gilbraith, so vague that he thought it was probably based on the portrait hanging on the stairs of Gilbraith House.
"So you lived alone with your mother and elder sister all your life?"
He shook his head. "No. When I was five, I was sent away to school. I spent hardly any time at home after that. At ten I went to Westminster School and spent most of the year there."
"Why would they send you away so early?" Theo was horrified at such a grim picture. A five-year-old child was far too young to be sent out into a frequently brutal world on his own.
Sylvester shrugged. He'd never given his childhood much thought. It was a world he'd shared with his school friends; none of them questioned either its harshness or its rightness. Except Neil Gerard, who'd spent those years in a state of permanent terror. An English public school was no place for the physically timid – let alone the coward. Again some shadow of memory pushed insistently against the dark periphery of his mind. For a second he struggled with it, and then it was gone. Theo was looking at him in some puzzlement, waiting for an answer to her question.
"My trustees believed it wouldn't be good for a boy to grow up without a man in the house," he said. "An all-male environment is considered preferable for the upbringing of boys." Smiling, he brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "Don't look so worried, gypsy. I suffered in good company."
"But you still suffered?"
"I suppose so." He shrugged again. "But we didn't look at it that way at the time. It was, after all, a highly privileged existence."
"But didn't they beat you?"
"All the time," he said with a chuckle.
"And they never kissed you or cuddled you?"
"Good God, no!" He sounded genuinely shocked at such an idea.
Theo frowned down at the coverlet. No wonder he was such a reserved man. And yet behind that intimidating, controlling exterior she knew there was humor and warmth and sensitivity. One just had to know how to tap into it.
"Well, it sounds dreadful to me," she declared, and dropped the subject, returning to the original topic. "Shall we have a picnic? There must be plenty of food in the kitchen. I know there was a dish of dressed crab, and a salmon mousse, and I believe there was a rabbit pie." She swung her legs energetically off the bed. "I'll bring up a tray."
"Theo, I detest eating in bed," Sylvester protested, half laughing at this enthusiasm.
"Oh, do you? I like it."
"Crumbs," he said succinctly. "In the sheets, sticking to your skin."
"Oh, pah! We'll shake the sheets out afterward." Theo headed toward the connecting door between their bedchambers in search of a wrapper on her own side of the door. "We can have a bottle of the ninety-nine burgundy. You can bring it up. It's in the fourth rack on the left-hand side of the first cellar three rows in."
Sylvester raised his eyebrows. "One of these days you must draw me a map of the cellars."
"Oh, you don't need a map. If I'm not here to help you, Foster will be. He knows them as well as I do."
She disappeared into her own room and didn't see Sylvester's frown. He did not intend to be dependent on the knowledge of his wife and his butler. But his wedding night was not the moment to tackle the issue. He shrugged into a dressing gown.
In the courtyard his lordship's servant was leaning on a rapidly emptying keg of ale, deep in discussion with the itinerant peddler, a fellow Londoner who had been as pleased as Henry to meet one of his own kind among the country bumpkins.
"So he's been doin' a bit o' cradle snatchin', this bloke of your'n," the peddler observed, peering at the level in his tankard.
Henry squinted up at the sun. "Not what I'd call it. That Lady Theo seems to know what's what. Bright as a button, she is. Knows her way around this estate like the back of her hand."
"But still she's a babby compared with 'er husband."
"What's it to you, any road?" Henry demanded, his sense of privacy and personal loyalty violated by these observations from a stranger.
The peddler shrugged. "Nothin' really. Just interested. Folks in the village 'ave been talkin'."
"Loose-tongued gossips, the lot of 'em," Henry declared.
"There's talk about 'ow the lass is a Belmont and his lordship's some other family and 'ow there's bad blood between the two of 'em," the peddler persisted, bending to refill his tankard at the tap of the keg. The flow was sluggish, and he swore softly, putting his shoulder against the keg to tip it up farther.
Henry grunted. "Don't know about that. Seems to me everyone's well satisfied with the arrangement. His lordship's got himself a wife, the wife's family stay put on the family estate. Suits everyone, stands to reason."
"Mebbe so." The peddler nodded gravely. " 'Is lordship much of a hunter, is 'e?"
Henry shrugged. "Much as most gentry, I reckon. Takes his gun out on a good morning."
"There's good duck huntin' on that Webster's Pond, I've been told," the peddler mused. "Village folks like to keep it to theirselves, so I've been told, so I reckon as 'ow yer bloke don't know that. Pass it along, I should." He pushed himself away from his leaning post. "Well, I'll be on me way. Nice talkin' to ye."
"Aye." Henry raised a hand in farewell, not too sure that he cared for the stranger, fellow Londoner or not. There was something unpleasant about a man who listened to gossip. But his lordship might be interested to hear about the duck hunting on Webster's Pond… once he'd become sufficiently accustomed to the marital bed to leave it early in the morning.
Grinning slightly, Henry strolled across the yard to where a group of dairymaids were giggling among themselves. He'd had his eye on that Betsy for several weeks – a rosy-cheeked girl with a nice buxom figure that a man could really get his arm around.
"He's comin' over." One of the girls nudged Betsy in the ribs, whispering vigorously. "I told ye he'd got 'is eye on you, Betsy."
"Get away wi' you, Nellie." Betsy jabbed her elbow into her sister's ribs, but her cheeks were redder than ever.
"Fancy a walk, then, little maid?" Henry winked, noting her blush with satisfaction. "I'll buy you a glass of porter down at the inn."
"Oh, me dad would kill me," Betsy exclaimed in genuine shock. "I can't go into no inn. It's not decent fer a maid to be seen in a public taproom."
Country folk, thought Henry with a derisory head shake. "Well, how about just a walk, then?"
"Go on, our Betsy." Nellie pushed her friend forward. "Our dad won't mind. Mr. Henry's a fine gentleman with a good position."
Betsy looked doubtful, and Henry began to wonder if he was getting in too deep. A simple walk didn't comm
it a man to anything, and he certainly wasn't interested in following his lordship to the altar. Not yet awhile, at least.
"Oh, well, all right then." Betsy spoke before he had time to withdraw the offer. "Jest a stroll to the village… but on the main road, mind." She took his arm with a confidence that caused Henry to doubt the earlier maidenly blushes. Perhaps these country folk were less simpleminded than they appeared.
While Henry was strolling down to the village with Betsy, the peddler was walking around Webster's Pond. The ducks were settling down for the evening, sitting on the water or hiding in the tall marsh grasses. It was, indeed, a likely hunting spot.
From which direction would a man appear from the manor? The stranger walked the circumference of the pond, decided the most natural approach would be from the south, and pushed through the undergrowth looking for likely positions for his man traps.
A man picking his way through the wet undergrowth on a misty early dawn, a gun over his shoulder, a game bag at his belt, wouldn't be looking for the evil teeth of a trap, particularly on his own land.
Chapter Twelve
"Theo… Theo! Theo, where are you?" Emily burst through the front door two days later, her urgent cry ascending the stairs to the long gallery where Theo was waiting for Sylvester to join her. He'd agreed to a friendly bout of unarmed combat, but with some reluctance, and she was beginning to suspect he was looking for a way to postpone the engagement.
At Emily's cry, however, she ran from the room, her heart thumping with sudden premonition. It was the first visit by any of her family since the wedding, and as her mother had said the duration of the honeymoon was hers to dictate, she knew that only something desperate would have brought Emily in this unceremonious fashion.
Her sister's face confirmed her fears. Tears poured down Emily's distraught countenance, and her appearance was a far cry from her usual crisp elegance. It had rained heavily in the night, and she was hatless, her hair disheveled, her linen gown splattered, her shoes muddied from where she'd splashed through puddles on the drive.
"What is it?" Theo hurtled down the stairs.
"Edward!" Emily gasped. "It's Edward -"
"Killed?" Theo felt the blood drain from her cheeks, and a sick, leaden dread settled in her belly.
Emily shook her head, but she was crying so hard now that she couldn't speak.
Theo seized her by the shoulders and shook her with desperate urgency. "What happened to him, Emily? For God's sake, tell me!"
"Easy now." Sylvester strode across the hall from the front door. He'd been talking to the head gardener in the shrubbery when his sister-in-law had pelted past them up the driveway, her distress so obvious that he'd followed immediately.
"Easy, Theo," he repeated, taking her waist and moving her to one side. "What's happened?"
"It's Edward," Theo said, now almost as distraught as her sister. "Something's happened to him, but Emily won't tell me."
"Well, screaming isn't going to do anyone any good," he declared, taking Emily's arm and ushering the sobbing girl into the library, leaving Theo to follow.
His firm authority for the moment had a calming effect, and Emily struggled to control her sobs, accepting the large handkerchief he pressed into her hand.
Theo was hopping from foot to foot in despairing impatience as her sister finally controlled herself sufficiently to be coherent.
"Edward's been wounded," Emily at last managed to blurt out.
"Seriously?" Theo was white beneath the sun's bronzing, and the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out in sharp relief. Her eyes were so large with distress, they dwarfed her other features.
"His arm… they amputated his arm," Emily gasped before collapsing onto the sofa in a renewed burst of uncontrollable sobs.
"Oh, no." Theo stood in shock, trying to imagine Edward crippled – a man who loved all physical sports; the friend who'd taught her unarmed combat and how to fence; the friend with whom she'd swum in the cove as a child, scrambled over the cliffs, climbed trees in search of birds' nests, ridden to hounds.
Sylvester moved to the weeping girl on the sofa. Her sobs were beginning to catch in her throat in an alarming fashion, and he was afraid she was about to go into strong hysterics.
"Emily!" He took her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. But her eyes were wild and unseeing. She opened her mouth on a soundless scream.
Sylvester slapped her cheek with calculated force, and the wildness in her eyes was replaced with shock and then recognition. "I do beg your pardon, Emily," he said. "But you were about to go into hysterics."
"Mama always does that," Theo said, her own voice shaky as she struggled with her own distress. "Emily's of a nervous disposition, she can't help it." She sat beside her sister, wrapping her arms around her. Her sister needed her support at the moment more than she herself needed time to come to terms with this news. "Poor sweet, what a terrible shock for you. How did you hear about this?"
"Lady Fairfax." Emily's voice still trembled, but it was clear she was in control of herself again and obviously didn't resent Sylvester's swift intervention. "She came to the dower house. They'd received a letter from Edward's colonel."
"How did it happen?" Sylvester asked calmly, going to the sideboard and filling a glass with ratafia. It wasn't what he would have chosen for shock, but he knew his sister-in-law's tastes.
"A sniper," Emily said, accepting the glass with a tearfully polite smile. "He was shot in the shoulder. But why would they have to amputate his whole arm?"
"To prevent mortification," Sylvester explained, pouring sherry for himself and Theo. "Instant amputation may seem an extreme move, Emily, but it saves life." He saw the blood-soaked tables in the hospital tents, the bins overflowing with amputated limbs, the flickering candlelight, the exhausted, blood-reeking surgeons with their great smoking knives; the anguished screams filled his head.
He kept his voice matter-of-fact. "The French do much better than we do with their wounded, because they discovered early that the sooner an injured limb is removed, the better the chance of survival. Before any battle, or even skirmish, they have hospital tents set up and an army of carts and limbers to remove the wounded from the field the instant a truce is declared. We're learning from them slowly, getting our wounded off the field faster, but still not fast enough. Our butcher's bills in the hospital tents still exceed theirs."
Edward Fairfax, although he probably wouldn't acknowledge it at the moment, was a lucky man if an enlightened surgeon had taken drastic action in time.
"What else did the letter say?" Theo took a gulp of her sherry, fighting to keep the horrifying images from overrunning her mind. Edward in agony, biting a bullet as they sawed through bone and sinew…
She glanced at Emily and realized that her sister's imagination hadn't stretched to those horrors. She told herself that that agony was over for Edward now, so there was no point in morbid imaginings, but the dreadful pictures still played behind her eyes.
"He's coming home," Emily said. "Obviously he'll never be able to fight again."
There were small mercies, Theo thought resolutely, even in tragedy. A crippled Edward was not a body lying inert on a battlefield. "He'll manage," she said. "You know how strong-minded he is. He won't let something like this ruin his life."
Sylvester perched on the edge of the table, regarding the sisters, hearing Theo's struggle to comfort Emily, understanding her struggle to believe in her own reassurances. He knew better than they the devastating effects of amputation. A young man learning to accept that he was no longer whole. How would this Edward Fairfax handle the card that fate had dealt him? Most men were embittered and filled with self-disgust, seeing in the words and gestures of love and support the patronizing charity of people who pitied them. If Emily was expecting her fiance to run into her arms as if nothing had happened, she was in for a rude awakening when the wounded man returned.
Returned to the neighborhood and the close contact he'd alwa
ys had with the Belmonts. The thought obtruded violently into his musings. "What regiment is he in?"
"Seventh Hussars," Theo replied.
"When did he buy his colors?"
"A year ago."
The Seventh Hussars would probably know nothing of the affairs of the Third Dragoons. A young man in the Seventh Hussars would know nothing of Vimiera. His regiment hadn't been part of that expeditionary force, and Fairfax hadn't been in the army then, anyway. Unless he'd heard something… but why would he have? He'd know nothing of the past of the present Earl of Stoneridge. Even if he'd heard rumors of the scandal of Vimiera, he'd not associate them with Theo's husband. And it was such an old story now, superseded by so many other scandals.
He glanced at Theo, still sitting with her arm around her sister. Her face was set, that firm jaw unwavering. How would such a straightforward, bold creature view a husband tainted with the charge of cowardice? It wasn't difficult to imagine the answer, and it chilled him to the marrow. He told himself again that there was no reason why the dishonorable past should ever rear its head, but he wished Edward Fairfax to the devil.
"How long will it take him to journey from Spain, sir?" Emily asked, her voice much stronger now, although she was twisting his handkerchief convulsively between her hands.
A man weakened by pain and loss of blood would make slow progress unless he had comrades who would look out for him and ensure he found transport in carts and wagons across country until they reached the coast and a naval ship.
"It's hard to say, Emily. Anywhere from a week to a month."
"That's an eternity," Theo muttered, her mind uncannily following Sylvester's along the route of a severely wounded soldier making shift through war-torn Spain. "Come, Emily, we'll walk back to the dower house and talk to Mama. Does she know about this?"
Emily shook her head. "She was out when Lady Fairfax called. Lady Fairfax didn't want to tell me the news without Mama, but she was so upset, she couldn't keep it to herself."
"I can imagine." Theo rose briskly. "I don't know how long I'll be, Stoneridge." Without a backward glance she hustled Emily into the hall.
