“Yes.”
“Did it break his arm?
“No, but its horn wounded him in the side.”
The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Will he be alright?”
Jane forced a smile. “Yes, I’m sure he will.”
Peter hung his head. “Are you very angry with me?” he asked in a tremulous voice. “I know what I did was wrong but...”
Jane pulled him close. “Little lambkin, I’m not angry— I’m very happy that you are alright.”
He snuggled closer to her. For a few moments she sat silent, stroking his hair. Then she sent Mary to the kitchen for a bowl of porridge. Peter managed to eat half of it before his eyes began to droop—the laudanum was taking effect. Jane tucked the covers around him, took the candle from the night table and motioned the maid to follow her into the hall.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to sit up with him anymore,” she told the tired girl. “I shall check on him throughout the night—it is night, isn’t it?”
“It’s past ten in the evening, But Miss, surely you should be getting some sleep, too. We’re all afraid you are wearing yourself to the bone. You’ve not had a proper...”
“Yes, I will, thank you.” She cut off the girl’s protests. “You may bring some breakfast for Peter and perhaps then I will lie down for a bit.”
“Well, if you’re sure...”
“Good night, Mary.”
* * * *
Jane returned to Saybrook’s room. His condition had not changed. His breathing was harsh and ragged. When she felt his forehead, it was still hot, but it did seem that the fever had abated slightly. She hoped it wasn’t just her imagination.
She placed the candle down and picked up the book she had been reading at odd moments throughout the past few days. How she would manage to keep her eyes open was beyond her, but she must. She opened the slim volume to where her marker lay. It was one of her favorite books, Byron’s The Corsair. Saybrook had teased her about her liking for Lord Byron, she remembered with a tiny smile. She shot a glance at his chiseled features and watched how the candlelight flickered off the high cheekbones, straight nose and sensuous lips. She forced he eyes back to the page and let the romantic poetry overwhelm her thoughts.
It was well past midnight when she put the slim leather-bound book aside and rose stiffly from the chair. Every bone ached with weariness and she looked at the large shadowed bed with longing. Rubbing at her temples, it took her a few moments to realize that something seemed different. Saybrook’s sleep suddenly sounded more restful, his breathing more normal. A touch to his brow confirmed that the fever had indeed gone.
“Thank God,” she whispered to herself as her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude. Her hand slipped down to his and squeezed it gently. It was more than a few minutes before she could bring herself to move from his side. Soon she would not be needed in the sickroom. Then what? It did not bear thinking about in her tired state. Taking up her candle, she went to look in on Peter.
The boy was sleeping peacefully, helped, no doubt, by the influence of the laudanum. There was little for her to do, but she was loath to return to Saybrook’s room just yet. A small pile of freshly laundered shirts lay on the mahogany dresser in the far corner of the room. Mary must have forgotten them, so Jane moved to put them away in one of the drawers.
The flicker of another candle caught her eye. She turned, expecting Mrs. Fairchild but instead, the figure of the Marquess appeared in the doorway. He looked every bit as piratical as the hero in the epic poem she had been reading. His long hair was tangled, a dark stubble covered his chin and his linen shirt hung open, revealing his bare chest. The fever had left hollows under his cheeks and though his eyes appeared sunken, they were as green as ever. He seemed unaware of her presence. With slow, shuffling steps he moved towards Peter.
Jane almost spoke out, but something held her back. She watched as Saybrook slowly sat on the edge of the bed. His hand ran lightly over Peter’s cheek, then he gathered the boy in his arms, taking great care not to jostle the splint, and hugged him tight to his chest. He remained holding the boy in an embrace for some time. Then, brushing a kiss to the boy’s forehead, he lay Peter back down and made to rise.
The effort caused his lips to compress with pain. His hand gripped one of the bedposts as he stood unsteadily on his feet.
“Miss Langley,” he whispered hoarsely, not turning to look at her. “I regret that I must ask what is no doubt an odious task of you—but without your assistance I fear I shall not be able to return to my chamber.”
Jane wiped away the tears the poignant scene had brought to her eyes and moved quietly to his side. “Steady, sir. If you just put your arm around my shoulder...” She in turn slipped hers around his waist. “Now, rest some of your weight on me.”
In that manner they were able to slowly cross the hall. With a repressed groan, Saybrook sank onto his bed. His shirt was damp from the effort.
“Please, sir, you must not try to walk yet or you’ll bring back the fever,” she said as she helped lift his legs onto the bed and pulled the coverlet over them. “You have been very ill...”
“Peter—how is Peter?”
“He is going to fine.”
Saybrook let out his breath. “And how long have I been unconscious?”
“Over three days.”
“Three days,” he muttered. “I...” He turned his head and, for the first time, took in her rumpled clothes and drawn face. “Surely Hastings could have hired a nurse,” he exclaimed. “It is not right that you have been forced...” He let out an involuntary gasp as Jane felt at his wound.
“The dressing must be changed, sir. If you will just lie still.”
Saybrook fell silent. By the clenching of his jaw, Jane could see he was in terrible pain. Hurriedly she cut away the linen bandage and applied the salve as gently as she could. Even so, she could hear a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
To rewrap the bandage she had to reach around his back, bringing her own body so close to his that she could feel its heat, feel his breath on her cheek. It was all she could do to keep from imitating his own gesture towards Peter.
A small groan escaped his lips.
“Are you in terrible pain, my lord?” She reached for the glass on the night table. “You must try to drink some of this.”
His eyes had been closed. At her words they opened slowly and Jane saw they were a bit glazed. He gave a short, bitter laugh. She feared he was slipping back into delirium.
“In pain, my dear Miss Langley? Shall I tell you what pain is?”
She pressed the glass to his lips and was relieved to see he took a few swallows before continuing.
“My mother died when I was fourteen. She had encouraged my interests in the piano and drawing against my father’s grumbling that it wasn’t manly. After she was gone, he became determined to change me—perhaps in looking back now, it was because I reminded him too much of her, for indeed he did at least love her. She was a remarkable lady. Beautiful, witty, intelligent and strong enough to moderate my father’s rash temper. On her death, he became…angry. With the world, with me.”
Saybrook stopped to take a few breathes. He seemed to have forgotten Jane’s presence. His eyes had closed again, and it was as if he were speaking to himself as he continued on in barely a whisper.
“My sister was a number of years older than I and had already married and moved to Yorkshire, so I was the only one at home. I begged him to send me away to school, but he refused, saying he would make a man of me before he allowed me to disgrace the family name.”
“I learned to ride and hunt and manage the estate well, but I also learned to hate my father. He had become a hard, unforgiving man. If he caught me playing the piano, or with a sketchpad or a book he would beat me.”
“Naturally I took to avoiding his presence. I found solace elsewhere.” Saybrook’s lips compressed. There was such a long silence that Jane feared he ha
d dropped into unconsciousness. But after a heavy sigh, he went on. “There was a tenant family whose daughter had been allowed to get some schooling in the village. We were of the same age, and during my rides around the estate we chanced to talk a few times. I discovered that she loved books, too, and hungered to learn more. I took to lending her some. Then we began to meet—to read, to talk. Her name was Elizabeth. We became…friends.”
“When my father finally realized he could not beat me into submission, he relented and allowed me to go up to Oxford. It was like a whole new world had opened up for me. I reveled in the studying and had no interest in going with my peers to London to cut a swath in Society. I fear I was rather serious—and rather naive.”
“I spent my free time back here, to be with Elizabeth. I was so young in many ways—she was the only person who seemed to understand me. We believed we were in love. I wanted to marry her.”
He gave another harsh laugh, low and barely audible. “You can imagine my father’s reaction. I was not of age—why I thought he would understand... We would have to wait until I attained my majority.”
“But then Elizabeth found she was with child. I renewed my arguments with my father, begging to be allowed to do the honorable thing. He merely laughed at me and said I was finally acting like a man—one bedded the neighborhood girls for sport, one didn’t marry them. I think it was the first time he had ever approved of me.”
“I threatened to run off to Gretna Green if he didn’t give in, and he must have finally believed I was serious.” Saybrook hesitated, his face looking even more tortured. “The next day Elizabeth was gone, a note in her hand informing me that she hated me for ruining her and that she never wanted to lay eyes on me again. Callow youth that I was, I believed it! I didn’t blame her for thinking ill of me.”
“Her parents said she had gone to stay with relatives. They refused to say where. I tried to write, but they would not give me any address nor would they accept a missive to deliver themselves. I was told she was better off if I left her alone... I believed it.”
“I returned to university feeling bitter and disillusioned, with nothing but contempt for myself. Instead of applying myself to my studies, I threw myself into the kind of debaucheries I had previously shunned. Much of my time was spent in Town, drinking, gambling and indulging in…the attractions of the muslin set. I suppose I sought to give my father what he wanted—with a vengeance. After one particularly bad incident, I was sent down.”
“One evening, when my father had made one of his trips to London, I was working at his desk. In looking for some correspondence concerning the sale of some stud horses we were interested in buying, I came across a letter hidden in the back of the drawer. It had been addressed to me at Oxford, and forwarded home. I recognized the hand immediately—it was from Elizabeth, asking why I didn’t at least take the time to answer any of her other letters. It begged me to be with her for the birth of our child and to see that some provision would be made for its welfare. I knew her well enough to read the anguish and despair.”
“In a rage, I raced to her father’s cottage and confronted him. He must have sensed that in my mood I was capable of anything, so he confessed that my father had threatened him and his family with ruin if Elizabeth wasn’t sent away from me. She was forced to write the note I received and Father arranged for her to be taken on at my sister’s estate—though Sarah never knew the truth. Her father was paid—paid—for his silence. He knew that my father had bribed someone at Oxford to see that I received none of her letters.”
“I rode all that night, and the next day and night as well. But I was a day too late. She had given birth to a healthy baby boy, yet was so despondent and ashamed that she couldn’t face going on. She…threw herself from the roof of the manor house.”
Saybrook halted to steady his voice. “My sister and her husband had been trying for years to have children. When she learned the truth, she begged me to let her keep the child and raise it as her own. Theirs was a remote estate, with loyal servants who would not gossip. No one would ever know it was not hers.”
“I didn’t care. In fact, for the next few months, it was as if I was living in a daze. I considered putting a period to my own existence, but was too cowardly to do so. Finally, I roused myself enough to go home, telling Sara to do what she saw fit— I couldn’t bear to even look at the child. I confronted my father with what he had done. We had a terrible quarrel and, by God, I struck him— I’ll never forget the shock in his eyes as he looked up at me from the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his lip. I swore that I would never see him again, turned on my heel and left. I never did. He died three years later.”
“I threw myself into a dissolute life with even more abandon, but even London seemed too close, too much of a reminder. I went abroad…” he trailed off. “You can imagine my shock on hearing of my sister and brother-in-law’s deaths, and that they had made me Peter—my son’s—guardian. How ironic!” His voice was getting softer, the words less distinct as the laudanum took its effect. “So you see, Miss Langley, you were quite right to take a disgust of me. I am quite beyond the pale, don’t you think?”
Jane placed her hand on his arm and bent close by his head. “I think it is a very sad story, sir. And I also think it is time you forgave yourself. Anyone would—most of all Elizabeth.”
His face looked bleak. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Did you…love her that much?”
He shook his head slightly. “I was…grateful for her friendship. Was it love? I don’t know. I fancied it was then, but now I doubt that we would have suited as we grew...”
Jane felt an unreasonable spasm of relief. She let her hand find his and hold it tightly. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, my lord. You acted honorably and as a gentleman should—it is you and not your father who are a credit to your family name.”
He tried to say something in reply, but the words were thick, incoherent. Already his breathing had lapsed into the regular rhythm of opium-induced sleep. She moved to pull the covers up over his chest, then, impulsively, brushed a light kiss to his cheek.
* * * *
“Enough!” cried Mrs. Fairchild in the morning upon finding Jane slumped in her chair. “Both gentlemen are out of danger now and I’ll brook no more argument from you! You will go to your own chamber and sleep or I shall have James and Charles carry you there!”
Jane was too exhausted to argue. She allowed the older woman to shoo her out of Saybrook’s room, and on reaching her own bed, she collapsed without undressing and fell into a deep, deep sleep.
* * * *
Saybrook awoke in the late afternoon, his head finally feeling clear and lucid. He tried to remember all that had taken place, but the events of the past number of days seemed hazy and confused. He wasn’t sure exactly what was real and what had been merely dreams—or nightmares. The pain in his side told him that the accident was no figment of his imagination. He remembered the bull and Peter on the ground... But had Miss Langley truly been there in his chamber throughout his ordeal, or had it been just a feverish delusion?”
* * * *
He opened his eyes slowly.
“Oh, Mr. Edward! Thank God the fever has passed!” Mrs. Fairchild put down her knitting and came to hover by his bedside.
“Miss Langley. Is she here?” he said softly.
Mrs. Fairchild shook her head reprovingly. “Now sir, the poor dear has not been to sleep for four days. Cared for both of you, she did, and wouldn’t let anyone else near. Surely you wouldn’t wish her disturbed— I can get you whatever you need.”
So it hadn’t been a dream. She had been there.
“Of course,” he murmured. “And Peter?”
The housekeeper smiled. “Our biggest worry will be keeping the lad still in bed so that his arm can mend properly.”
“That is good news. If you please, I would like a glass of water.” He eased himself higher in bed as Mrs. Fairchild fetched the glass, then began t
o fuss over the pillows.
“I shall manage on my own, thank you,” he said, taking the glass. “There is no need for anyone to hover at my bedside— I have no intention of sticking my spoon in the wall in the near future.”
“Well, you may tease me, Mr. Edward, but it was a serious thing, it was. Why, without Miss Langley...” she trailed off, confused. “I shall send to Cook for some porridge. You must try to eat.”
* * * *
Saybrook lapsed into deep thought. Miss Langley’s behavior was puzzling. He could well understand her concern for Peter, and that her sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow her to leave in a crisis. But why had she insisted on nursing him as well, when he well knew her disgust of him. Disgust—nay, hatred. And with good reason.
So why had he imagined the tender touch of her lips? Because he was a fool, he chided himself angrily. A fool and delirious. It made no sense. Too weak to think any more on it, he fell back into an uneasy sleep.
* * * *
The fresh breeze still felt like a tonic even though four days had passed since Jane had emerged from the sickroom. She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders, but kept walking, reveling in the sound of the leaves rustling and the shrill cries of the starlings flying over the meadows.
Peter’s protests at having to remain abed still echoed in her ears, but his restlessness cheered all of them, for it meant there were no lingering aftereffects from the blow to the head. She spent mornings with him, fighting grand battles with his lead soldiers among the myriad folds of his bedclothes or reading aloud from one of the Waverly novels.
Mary, the young maid who had shared in the nursing duties, had shown a marked aptitude for dealing with the boy as well. She came from a large family and loved children. Jane was happy to see that Peter took to her, too. She had already mentioned to Mrs. Fairchild that the girl would make a good substitute until another governess—or tutor—could be found.
Of Saybrook she had seen nothing. She had heard he was recovering remarkable well, and that to Doctor Hastings consternation, he had even been up and about for brief periods of time. But she had made it a point to avoid his room and to give the library a wide berth. It was just as well that they didn’t have to face each other...
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