Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  “I should like to see him in action. How old is he?”

  “Alec is seven now.”

  “Cat racing is an amazing thing, really unknown outside of England. I understand that some French devotees of the sport introduced cat races there, but the French were, evidently, too emotional, too uncontrolled, and so the cats never could get the hang of what was expected of them.”

  Meggie laughed, then shrugged her shoulders as if to say, what can you expect? He smiled again. She said, “At the McCaulty racetrack, all the cats would desert their owners in a moment if Alec called to them. He must be very careful not to unwittingly seduce them.”

  “When are the cat races held? Surely now it is too cold.”

  “They begin again in April and run through October.”

  “And you are a trainer.”

  “Oh yes, for a long time now. You can call me the boss.”

  “Ah, you’re the one who makes all final decisions, decides which techniques are the most efficacious, the overlord trainer?”

  “I like the sound of that. I will tell my brothers that my new title is overlord. They can drop the trainer part. I will demand that they use my new title or I will make them very sorry.” He looked very interested, and so Meggie added, “As a matter of fact, I did spend one entire summer at Lord Mountvale’s racing mews being tutored by the Harker brothers.” She lowered her voice into a confidence. “They are the ones who developed the technique of the Flying Feather.”

  “I have heard of the Harker brothers. I understand they have a special intuition when it comes to selecting champion racers. What is the Flying Feather technique?”

  “Curled feathers are tied to the end of a three-foot pole. It is waved in a clockwise motion—it must always be clockwise, at no less than a six-foot distance. It evidently has a mesmerizing effect. Goodness, I hadn’t intended to tell you all about the Flying Feather technique; it is still supposed to be a secret. I am considering adopting it when I have a proper candidate. Ah, listen, I don’t hear anything. It is a good sign,” she added, pointing to the orchid, “its leaves are no longer quivering from the vibrations of her voice.”

  He laughed, just couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t recall having laughed so much with one single human being. Life had always been rather difficult.

  And Meggie thought it was as if he laughed only when he planned to and surely that was rather calculated and cold-blooded. She watched him closely as he said, “Actually, I set that glass there beside the orchid so I would know when it was safe to return to the drawing room. It isn’t trembling either now.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s see if your finger has stopped bleeding yet.”

  He unwound the handkerchief and lifted her hand to inspect the finger. “Yes, it has.”

  Meggie said, “Thank you, my lord. Perhaps I don’t know all the ways of the world, but I have never before had anyone suck my blood. Or lick my finger.”

  He felt a lurch in his gut; it was lust and it hit him hard. He looked at her closely, realizing that she didn’t understand the teasing promise of her guileless words, didn’t realize that they promised, on the surface at least, a woman’s very pleasurable skills. No, she was outspoken, a vicar’s daughter, just turned nineteen. “No?” he said slowly, then added, “Then I have added to your education.”

  She said abruptly, “My father will wonder where I am,” and she turned to go. “Sharing sanctuary was pleasant, my lord.”

  She was just going to leave him? Another blow to his manhood. “Miss Sherbrooke, a moment please. Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?”

  That got her attention, but she didn’t hesitate, just said pleasantly, “I thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no, I don’t want to ride with you tomorrow morning.”

  He looked as she’d slapped him, as if he simply couldn’t believe her gall in turning him down. He looked, quite simply, flummoxed. She wanted to smile at his obvious male conceit, but she didn’t. She just wanted to leave. She realized now that she shouldn’t have remained in here, alone with him. He had gotten the wrong idea about her. She didn’t want any attention from him, she didn’t want any attention from any man. She wouldn’t have stayed in here with him if she’d been in London, but this was her home. No matter, she’d been wrong.

  He saw her withdraw completely from him. He didn’t understand it. She’d been so confiding, so natural. But no longer. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, he persevered. “I understand from my steward, a very old man with fingers that tap by themselves when the weather is going to turn bad, that it will be unseasonably warm tomorrow morning, a fine morning for a ride.”

  “Mr. Hengis is famed for his weather predictions in these parts. I did not know about the tapping fingers. I hope it will be a fine morning and you will enjoy yourself. As for me, no thank you, my lord. I must go now.”

  He said as she turned to leave the conservatory, “I understand you enjoyed your first Season in London last spring. Do you intend to return to London in April?”

  “No,” she said, not turning to face him. She could feel his frustration, pouring off him in waves, and something else. Why did he wish to be with her so badly? It made no sense. “Goodbye, my lord.”

  “My name is Thomas.” She would swear she heard a damn you under his breath.

  “Yes,” she said, “I know,” and left the Strapthorpe conservatory with its dizzying smells and hair-wilting heat.

  He stood there, watching the back of her head as she walked quickly out of the overly warm room. Lovely hair, he thought, blondish brownish hair with every color in-between thrown in, the same hair as the vicar’s, her father. Their eyes were the same light blue as well. He sighed, then left the conservatory some minutes after her. Truth be told, he was getting nauseated from the overpowering mix of all the flowers.

  He met several guests in the large entrance hall. Meggie Sherbrooke wasn’t among them. Damn her. He wasn’t a troll. What was wrong with her? He was polite and charming to everyone before he took his leave.

  Perhaps she didn’t ride. Yes, perhaps that was it and she was ashamed to admit it. He would think of something else. She was nineteen years old; for a girl she could have been long married by now, well, at least a year or so. As for himself, he was rich and young and healthy and now he even sported a title. What more could a girl possibly want?

  She was a vicar’s daughter, for God’s sake.

  And she trained racing cats.

  6

  MEGGIE WAS PLAYING with Rory, telling him stories about famous cat champions from years past. The most famous of all the cat racers in this century was Gilly of Mountvale mews, who had died of extreme old age some two years before.

  “No one had much of a chance when Gilly was racing,” she was saying as she handed Rory a small cat carved in cherry, painted in Gilly’s distinctive black, gray, and white colors. “See how high his tail is? Racers always carry their tails high. I’m told it means they’re very proud, that they know their own worth, and they are very pleased with the world and their place in it.”

  “Meggie?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I don’t feel very good.”

  Meggie felt fear so strong that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Automatically she laid the flat of her palm against his forehead. He was roasting. The fever. Somehow he’d gotten the fever. They’d all been so careful, kept both Alec and Rory home, entertained them endlessly, taken such care, and still he’d gotten ill.

  She lifted him in her arms, no mean feat because Rory was quite good-sized for his age. “Let’s go see your mama.”

  He didn’t try to pull away, as was his wont, for he was a very independent little boy, no, he became boneless in her arms, his cheek resting on her shoulder. It scared Meggie spitless.

  Meggie was praying frantically as she quickly walked from the nursery downstairs to the drawing room. Both her father and Mary Rose were there with his curate, Mr. Samuel Pritchert.

  “Mary Rose,” she said quietly from the
door. Mary Rose looked up. The smile on her face froze because she knew, oh yes, she knew immediately that something was very wrong, wrong with Rory. Rory was ill, he had the fever. She said blankly, “Oh no, not Rory. Oh no, Tysen.”

  Tysen immediately went to Meggie and lifted Rory off her shoulder. “What’s this, my boy? You are feeling a bit pecked?” Tysen felt his cheeks, his forehead, and felt fear cramp his guts. “All right,” he said, all calm and easy, “I’m going to give you to your mother and be right back. You just rest, Rory.”

  “Yes, Papa. I don’t feel good.”

  “I know. But you will be pulling on Meggie’s hair again in no time at all.” He hugged his son against him, then laid his palm against his cheek.

  Tysen then lightly touched his palm to Mary Rose’s cheek. Much cooler than his son’s. “It will be all right. I’m going to fetch Dr. Dreyfus. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Tysen had never moved so fast in his life. He didn’t realize that Meggie was trotting beside him he was so locked into himself, so frightened he wanted to curse loud and long to keep the awful fear at bay.

  “He will be all right, Papa, you’ll see.” Meggie was panting, running now, and everyone got out of their way. They arrived at Dr. Dreyfus’s cottage in just under seven minutes, out of breath, nearly beside themselves.

  Dr. Dreyfus, Mrs. Midderd told them, was seeing to the Clay boy, no, not the fever, none of those this week, thank the good Lord, and thank you, Vicar, for all your prayers. No, the Clay boy had broken his leg, something very very serious.

  “How long as he been gone, Mrs. Midderd?”

  “At least three hours, Vicar. What is the matter?”

  “It is my son, Rory. He has the fever.”

  Mrs. Midderd, a former Catholic, converted to the Anglican church upon her marriage to Mr. Midderd some thirty years before, crossed herself.

  “I will send him to you immediately upon his return, Vicar.”

  Back at the Vicarage, both Tysen and Meggie stood at the end of Rory’s bed watching Mary Rose bathe his small face. He was flushed, he whispered to his mother that his bones ached as he clutched her hand.

  It was nearly another hour before Dr. Dreyfus walked into Rory’s small bedroom, the longest hour of Tysen’s life. Meggie hadn’t moved from the other side of Rory’s bed, holding the little boy’s hand, speaking quietly to him. As for Tysen, he’d sent Alec with Leo to Northcliffe Hall. Why hadn’t he sent both of them? No, he as the vicar, couldn’t very well send his own children out of harm’s way when no one else had that luxury. Because of his idiotic sense of what was proper, he might lose his son. He was a fool.

  Dr. Dreyfus’s large hand was on Rory’s forehead, then he was sitting beside him, his ear to his chest.

  When he looked up, he saw the corrosive fear on the vicar’s face, and slowly nodded. “I have some laudanum for him. It will keep him comfortable. But the fever, Vicar, it will climb and climb, so we must keep it down as best we can.” He rose and took both Mary Rose’s and Tysen’s hands. “Listen to me. We can pull him through. The Dixon girl survived it, so can Rory. Now, first things first. Let’s give him the laudanum, then begin wiping him down.”

  It was near dawn; Meggie was sitting beside Rory, having taken over from her father an hour earlier. Mary Rose was asleep on a small cot that Tysen had brought into Rory’s room. She looked frightened even in sleep, all stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching.

  There had been other illnesses in Rory’s young life, but none so frightening as this one.

  Meggie felt Rory’s cheeks. He was not quite so hot to the touch, she was sure of it. Then he was trembling, jerking about, shoving his covers off. “No, no, baby, don’t do that.” His teeth were chattering. “Oh goodness, you’re freezing now, aren’t you? Don’t worry, baby, I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

  Meggie shrugged out of her soft warm velvet dressing gown and wrapped Rory in it. Then she got into his small bed and pulled him close. She whispered to him even as she stroked her hands up and down his small back. Suddenly he stiffened, moaned, and became perfectly still.

  Oh God.

  Meggie very nearly yelled, then, suddenly, she felt him jerk, heave in on himself, and he was breathing once again, shallow spiking breaths. She was crying now, holding him so close to her heart, so afraid, so very afraid. She was rubbing his back as she said over and over, “No, Rory, hang on, I know you can do it. Breathe, baby, breathe.”

  He was fighting for every breath now, wheezing. Oh, God, no. No.

  “Meggie, what is it?”

  Meggie didn’t know how she managed it, but she said very quietly, “Mary Rose, get Papa. It’s bad, really bad. Go, hurry. Send someone for Dr. Dreyfus.”

  Mary Rose stuffed her fist in her mouth and ran from the small room. When they returned, Tysen eased down and gently pulled Rory into his arms.

  “He just stops breathing, Papa. Then when you think it’s over, he manages to draw in a bit more air. He can’t go on like this.”

  Tysen didn’t look up. He just held his precious boy against him and willed him to breathe. Then he rose and carried him to the rocking chair that he himself had made for Mary Rose when Alec was born. Meggie and Mary Rose sat on the bed, watching the father and the vicar hold his child. Tysen rubbed the palm of his hand over his son’s chest, pressing in, then out, trying to help him breathe. He knew he should send for Dr. Dreyfus. He also knew that he couldn’t do anything for Rory that hadn’t already been done. Rory would either survive this or he wouldn’t. Tysen pressed and massaged his son’s chest, over and over, and spoke to him, encouraging him, and he prayed; he, the vicar, was making agreements with God. If he could have, he would have freely offered his soul if the Devil had but come to bargain.

  Mary Rose took Meggie’s hand. “He can’t die, Meggie, he just can’t.”

  Meggie nodded, words beyond her. She didn’t want to cry, it would gain naught. They sat together until the sun came up, until shafts of soft pink slipped beneath the pale cream draperies to bathe the room in dim light.

  Samuel Pritchert came to tell them that Dr. Dreyfus’s carriage had been thrown on its side and the doctor was in bed, his back wrenched. He couldn’t move. He said there was nothing more he could do in any case. He was praying for them, Samuel assured them.

  Some minutes later Meggie heard Mrs. Priddle moving about downstairs. Then, quite suddenly, she head a knock on the vicarage door.

  Mrs. Priddle was breathless when she stuck her head in Rory’s room. “Forgive me, Miss Meggie, it’s Lord Lancaster. He says it’s very important.”

  Thomas Malcombe? What could that man possibly want at dawn, for God’s sake? She didn’t want to hear him again ask her to go riding.

  She simply nodded to her father and to Mary Rose and quietly left the room. She stopped by her own bedchamber, pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.

  He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.

  Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. “What do you want?”

  He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. “I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn’t hurt. It’s a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It’s for the fever. Is Rory better?”

  “No,” Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, “No, I don’t think he will get better. What is this?”

  She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.

  “It’s a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for
virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that’s all that’s needed. Then another drink every hour, until—well, until he’s better.”

  Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn’t correct them. She managed to get Rory’s little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.

  They said nothing at all, just watched the little boy continue to labor for each breath. Suddenly, without warning, he went into convulsions.

  Tysen held him firmly while Meggie tried to keep him from swallowing or biting his tongue. Mary Rose rubbed his arms, his legs, to keep him still and warm. After an eternity, the convulsions passed. Rory became utterly still.

  Mary Rose fell back on her heels. “Oh God, no! Tysen, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t!”

  “No, just wait, just wait.”

  Meggie was praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. She couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t hear him do anything. He was dying. Oh, please God, no, not this wonderful little boy. She watched her father squeeze Rory’s chest, then massage it, again and again as he whispered, “Breathe, Rory, breathe.”

  Meggie looked up then to see Lord Lancaster standing in the doorway, saying nothing, just standing there quietly, watching the tableau in front of him, his face pale, his dark eyes hooded.

  “Thank God,” Tysen said then, unutterable relief mixed with tears in his voice, “he’s breathing.” He grabbed Mary Rose to him and held both Rory and her close. “Thank the good Lord, our boy is breathing again.”

  He lifted Mary Rose onto his lap and on her lap she held Rory, her white hands shaking even as she stroked them up and down his small back, steady circular motions while Tysen still massaged his small chest. Finally, Mary Rose laid her head against his neck. He kissed her hair even as his arms tightened around the two of them. Meggie knew she would never forget that moment her whole life. Rory was breathing, not just the stingy little gasps, but full breaths that sounded more and more normal. His cheeks were flushed, but now it wasn’t with fever. She took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it over all three of them.