Tuesday's Child

by Jeanette Baker

  Lizzie's lashes fluttered. She opened her eyes and began to cry.

  "Hush, love," her mother soothed her. "Everything will be all right. Are you in pain, my darling?"

  "My head hurts," she whimpered.

  Devereaux moved across the room to stand near his sister.

  "Lizzie," his voice commanded her attention, "the doctor says your cut will need to be sewn up."

  Lizzie's face went chalk white. "No!" she shrieked, "Please, no!"

  Tess cringed and a strange black cloud seemed to hover about her head removing all sensation. She sat down heavily on the nearest chair and bent to rest her head in her lap. A gentle hand stroked her arm. She looked up into the sympathetic blue eyes of Leonie Devereaux. "Come, child," she said. "James has her in hand. We can do no more here."

  Tess allowed the duchess to lead her out of the room into the library.

  "Litton," Leonie said to the butler, "Mrs. Bradford and I should very much like a pot of tea."

  "Right away, Your Grace," the butler replied and disappeared, leaving them alone.

  Leonie sat down beside Tess and smiled at her disheveled appearance. The lovely burgundy pelisse was stained with blood and grime from the road. Several strands of hair had escaped from her chignon and dirt marked her cheeks and chin.

  "It seems I owe you more than I can ever repay." Leonie's voice shook.

  "I'm so sorry, m'lady." The grey eyes filled with tears. "I should have watched her more carefully."

  The duchess reached over to squeeze Tess's hand. "James told me the entire story," she said warmly. "The fault was Lizzie's. If you hadn't acted so swiftly, she would not have survived." Her eyes filled with rare emotion. "My husband died ten years ago leaving me with five children. You may have heard that ours was a marriage of convenience, but that isn't so. He was a rare man and I miss him very much. My children are all I have left. You have given me what all the wealth and power in England could not." Her eyes burned with the effort of holding back the tears. "Bless you, my dear," she whispered, holding out her arms.

  Tess responded to the warmth of the older woman's embrace with all the longing of a girl who had spent her childhood without a mother. For a timeless interval the two heads, one dark, one light, gathered comfort from each other.

  Later, when the tea tray came, they sat together for almost an hour before James came into the room with the message that Lizzie was asking for her mother. Leonie rose to her feet and hurried to her daughter's side.

  Devereaux stood before her, his eyes steady and reassuring. "Thank you," he said. "I don't believe I said that."

  "No," her laugh was shaky. "You didn't, but it isn't necessary."

  He stared at her, noting the haunted eyes framed by purple shadows, the cameo paleness of her skin, the trembling mouth, the taut, desperate pride in the set shoulders and straight back. James Devereaux had spent three years in the peninsula. He knew suffering when he saw it.

  "Tess," he said, his voice firm. "Lizzie is not injured badly. She'll be up and about again in a few days."

  For an embarrassing moment Tess felt like crying. She stood and walked to the mantel, blinking hack the telltale tears. James had seen enough of tears.

  A strong hand, warm and comforting, grasped her arm. "Tess," he commanded, "look at me."

  There was no way of avoiding him. She lifted her chin, defiantly. Let him see that she had no more control over her emotions than a child.

  "You are an extraordinary woman," he said gently. "There is no disgrace in tears."

  Drawing her into his arms, he pressed her cheek against the solid wall of his chest. She stood quietly allowing the fear to drain from her body. Her pulse stopped its erratic throbbing and the fierce pain in her chest subsided. The warmth of his embrace and the steady beating of his heart were the only sensations in the universe.

  Slowly, Tess recovered her poise and lifted her head. "Thank you," she said, smiling.

  He grinned and her legs turned to jelly. "Your servant, ma'am," was all he said.

  Later, in the quiet of her room she remembered his words. His effect on her was far too devastating for comfort. In the future she must take hold of herself more carefully. Before long, she would feel as if she actually belonged here in England with the haughty Devereauxs of Langley.

  Chapter 12

  The Prime Minister summoned Devereaux to his office at Whitehall. He had struggled with his conscience for the better part of two days and finally came to a decision. There behind the closed door, amidst the leatherbound books and large comfortable armchairs, he would tell him, and let him deal with the matter as he saw fit. James would manage. He always had. A knock sounded on the door.

  "Come in." Liverpool's gruff voice penetrated the oak paneling.

  Devereaux walked in. Smiling pleasantly, he seated himself in a chair opposite the Prime Minister and warmed his hands at the crackling fire.

  "How are you, my lord?" he asked politely.

  Liverpool took in the serious, relaxed figure of the duke of Langley, observing his capable hands and quiet strength. Immediately he felt better.

  "I've news for you, James. Unfortunately, it isn't good."

  Devereaux liked Lord Liverpool. He respected his honesty and admired his abilities. Whatever happened, he knew the Prime Minister would hold nothing back.

  "Go on," he said.

  "Mottsinger has lost The Macedonian. An American privateer shot away all of her top masts."

  James thought of Charles Mottsinger as he last saw him, the merry brown eyes and jubilant smile. His hands clenched.

  "What of her captain?" he asked quietly.

  "Charles has been taken prisoner," replied the Prime Minister. "It's probably just as well. He'll be court-martialed for his actions. Never in the history of the world has a British frigate struck her colors to an American ship."

  "How many does this make?" asked James.

  "What do you mean?"

  Devereaux was brutally honest. "First The Constitution escaped five British vessels by damping her sails and starting her water, tricks as old as time. Nevertheless, our own exemplary captains have never even heard of them. In August," the relentless voice continued, "she came up against our own Guerriere, off the coast of Nova Scotia, and within ten minutes our ship had lost her mizzenmast and was so badly damaged she had to be set afire and abandoned. Now, we've lost The Macedonian." His blue eyes blazed contemptuously. "When will you realize we have neither the manpower nor the inclination for a war with America?"

  "We haven't lost yet," replied Liverpool.

  "Given enough time we'll manage that as well," promised Devereaux.

  "They've ten frigates and eight small cruisers," protested Liverpool. "We've over a thousand vessels."

  "All employed in Europe," Devereaux retorted. "We've also no one to compare with officers like Isaac Hull and Stephen Decatur." The flickering light from the flames cast dark shadows across his face. "The Admiralty finds it difficult to send even a squadron to the western Atlantic. When and if the time ever comes, our Navy will be so demoralized it won't be worth the effort."

  "This conversation is most edifying," the Prime Minister snapped, "but it isn't why I sent for you."

  Devereaux looked up in surprise. His voice was surprisingly humble. "Why did you send for me, sir?"

  Liverpool spared him nothing. "The American frigate, The United States, came up against The Java three weeks ago. Among the prisoners of war was one Daniel Bradford."

  Devereaux's eyes were sharp as splintered glass. "The Java was outfitted in England less than eight weeks ago," he said. "Mr. Bradford was not on board."

  "He was on the American ship," explained the Prime Minister. "Apparently he was exchanged some weeks before and had not yet reached port."

  "I see." The cryptic words spoke volumes.

  "No," contradicted Liverpool. "I don't think you do. Mr. Bradford was taken to Dartmoor prison. He died of pneumonia two weeks ago."

  A muscle jumpe
d in the taut skin of Devereaux's jaw. Given the enormity of the information he had received, there was nothing left to say. His face completely expressionless, he rose from his chair and bowed.

  "Good day, my lord," he said and left the room.

  * * *

  Tess sat on a low stool near the couch where Lizzie lay propped up on pillows. The two were playing a game of cards in the sitting room. Devereaux paused near the door. His first thought was that she looked very young, almost as young as his sister, and very happy. The next was that he would be the one to destroy her.

  James Devereaux waged a bitter battle within himself. With the candor that was part of his nature, he admitted the death of Daniel Bradford was a welcome relief. The elusive Mr. Bradford stood in the way of something he wanted more than anything in the world. He knew now, why none of the women who had thrown out lures to him since his first season held any permanent appeal. He had waited, wanting something different, something he hadn't known existed, until that day in the American minister's sitting room when Teresa Bradford held out her hand.

  That very quality that drew him, the one that made her unique from every other woman he had known, was the very thing that would make her deny him. She was beautiful and brilliant. She was also loyal and principled. Devereaux knew, as surely as he knew himself, that she would run from him as quickly as a ship could be found to brave the blockade, and spirit her across the Atlantic to the safety of Nathanial Harrington's house on the Chesapeake. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room.

  "Hello," he said softly.

  Lizzie turned her head, a delighted smile on her face. "James," she showed him her cards. "See, I'm winning."

  He had eyes only for Tess. His answer to Lizzie was sensible enough, but it lacked the warmth she was accustomed to.

  "So you are," he replied, "but if Tess is as skilled at cards as she is at chess, you are only fooling yourself, brat."

  Lizzie frowned. James was thinking of something else as he was so often lately.

  Tess searched his face and knew at once that something was wrong. He looked tense, as if his nerves were on edge, like a tightly strung bow. She sensed that the slightest pressure would cause him to snap in two.

  Gathering her cards together, she gave Lizzie a meaningful look. "I think we've had enough of card games for now. I've letters to write." She rose gracefully to her feet. "If you'll excuse me."

  "Not yet." James looked at Lizzie. "I'll carry you back to your room," he said, "and later I'll come up. But now, I must speak to Tess privately."

  Lizzie looked carefully at her brother's face and then nodded without protesting. With no apparent effort, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

  Tess walked to the window and looked out on the square. She was still there when Devereaux came back into the room. He was reminded of the first time they met. She looked at him then, as she did now, her eyes mirroring the same mixture of suspicion and anxiety. He came directly to the point.

  "I'm terribly sorry, Tess. The news isn't good."

  Her face whitened. "What is it?"

  "Daniel died two weeks ago."

  "How?" The single word came out as a harsh gasp.

  Devereaux, fearful of the bleached white of her face, stepped forward and gripped her arms above the elbow. He would give anything to spare her further pain. But he knew of no way to soften the truth.

  "He contracted pneumonia at Dartmoor Prison."

  Horrified eyes met his. Her mind went numb as she recalled the rumors of that dreadful prison in Devonshire where damp fog and freezing rains reduced even the healthiest man to a skeleton of his former self. At Dartmoor men ate rats for lack of food, drank from muddy puddles of rainwater that collected in their cells and eventually died of smallpox.

  "All this time, he was here in England and I never knew? We might have found him, if we'd only known." She bit back a sob. "I'll never forgive myself for this."

  Devereaux shook her slightly. "Stop it, Tess. Your husband was a grown man. He was captured by a British frigate while fighting on an American ship. If he had been a mere passenger, he would have been exchanged." His eyes narrowed, searching her face. There was something familiar and disturbing in the pale cheeks and pinched blue lips. Cursing fluently, he slid his arm beneath her knees just as they buckled and she collapsed against his chest.

  Lifting her into his arms, he shouted for Litton as he carried Tess's limp body up the stairs. She barely weighed more than Lizzie. Miraculously the butler appeared at his elbow.

  "Send for the physician," he ordered. "Mrs. Bradford is in shock."

  "Right away, sir."

  "James," Leonie appeared at the top of the landing. "What on earth is the matter?" Her eyes widened in alarm as she spied the unconscious form supported in his arms.

  "Quickly," she hurried to the door of Tess's bedchamber and threw it open. "In here." Pulling off the satin spread, she moved aside for James to lay Tess on the bed and watched him remove her leather half-boots and tuck the blankets around her.

  "The doctor should be here shortly," he said, moving to the grate to stir the embers to greater warmth.

  "What happened?" Leonie asked.

  "Daniel Bradford died two weeks ago."

  Leonie sat down on the side of the bed and smoothed the pale hair from Tess's forehead.

  "The poor child," she murmured.

  Devereaux stared at his mother. Rarely were her emotions stirred by anyone outside her immediate family. Tess had indeed worked a miracle if she could invoke sympathy in the outwardly cold and unapproachable Duchess of Langley.

  Twenty minutes later Tess was awake and the doctor was checking her pulse.

  "You've given everyone a scare, young lady," he said. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

  Tess smiled faintly and turned her head to the wall. Frowning, the doctor motioned for Devereaux to follow him out of the room.

  "Is there somewhere we can speak privately?" he asked.

  James led the way to the drawing room where Leonie waited with Georgiana and Judith. Georgiana stood immediately and ran toward him clutching at his coat.

  "Will she be all right?" she asked anxiously.

  Devereaux smiled down at her and covered her hands with his. "The doctor is here to tell us what we must do to make her feel better."

  The doctor cleared his throat. "She's had a nasty shock. From what I understand she's no more than a girl, without her family and quite alone."

  "She's not alone," protested Judith. "She has us."

  "Hush, dear," her mother warned. "The doctor is merely telling us what he perceives." She turned her wonderful smile on the gentleman. "Isn't that so, Doctor?"

  He blushed furiously. "Just so, Your Grace. It was not my intent to offend."

  "Of course not," Leonie reassured him. "Now, please tell us what we must do for our guest."

  "She needs absolute quiet, Your Grace, and rest. London, at the height of the season, isn't the place for her at all. With the proper care, she should be herself in no time."

  "I see." Leonie walked to the door and held it open. "May I offer you something to drink before you leave?"

  He blinked in surprise. "If you don't mind, Your Grace. I am rather parched."

  The butler suddenly appeared out of nowhere. "Litton will take care of that." Leonie's smile was frosty as she closed the door behind him.

  "That wasn't kind of you," Devereaux's amused voice chided her.

  "He was odious," broke in Georgiana. "Imagine, telling us that Tess feels alone in England." Her nostrils quivered with indignation.

  "He was positively insulting," Judith agreed.

  Devereaux walked to the mantel. Propping his boot on the fender he stared into the fire. "Perhaps she does feel that way," he suggested, his voice troubled and low.

  "James!" cried Georgiana, "You can't be serious. We love Tess dearly. She knows that." She turned toward her mother. "Doesn't she, Mama?"

  Leonie was si
lent, her eyes on the ravaged face of her son. The lines around his mouth were deep with suffering.

  "She is little more than a girl," he said slowly. "Alone, she crossed an ocean hoping to find her husband at the end of her journey. Instead her country declared war, virtually banishing her from her family for an indefinite period. Now, her husband is dead and her future unsure." A shadow crossed his face and he continued with difficulty. "Tess may need more than kindness in the weeks and months to come. Her husband died in an English prison. Despite our efforts she may never forgive us."

  The silence was oppressive. No one moved for what seemed an eternity. Finally Leonie spoke.

  "Tell us what to do, James?"

  He flashed his brilliant smile. Crossing the room he took her hands in his and kissed her cheek. "Bless you, Mother. That streak of obstinacy in your character may be just the medicine Tess needs."

  "Nonsense." Leonie sniffed. "I merely know my duty."

  "Very well." He was all business, once again, thoroughly in command of the situation. "You and the girls will return to Langley." He turned toward his sister, his face softening.

  "I know it will be disappointing for you, Georgie, but if Tess is feeling better, you'll be back before the season is over."

  "I don't mind," answered Georgiana loyally.

  Devereaux smiled. "Good girl."

  "Will you return with us?" The question was innocent enough, but Devereaux didn't miss the challenge in his mother's words.

  "No," he answered. "I'll stay here in London."

  Relief reflected itself in the duchess's blue eyes. "We'll miss you, but I do believe that would be best for all of us."

  Chapter 13

  The lines around Devereaux's eyes deepened in amusement as he read the letter from Nathanial Harrington.

  "It rather sounds like he means to call you out," Castlereagh observed from his seat by the window.

  The two men were at White's, an exclusive gentlemen's club, furnished with heavy dark furniture, muted crimson carpeting and an air of elegance that spoke of thin blue blood and generations of tradition.