Redeeming a Rake

by Cari Hislop

  As the horses came to a stop outside his door, the carriage lamps cut two triangles of light out of the darkness. As Geoffrey stepped down he had the odd sensation he was being watched. He ignored it and wrapped on the door with his sword stick and against his better judgement waived the carriage off to the mews with the footman hanging off the back. Howard was probably asleep in a chair on the other side of the door. As the light turned the corner darkness wrapped around his throat like a rope. Hearing footsteps nearby he instinctively turned his back to the door. He was drawing his swordstick when something long, hard and heavy smashed against his chest knocking the wind from his lungs. Another blow and his weapon fell from his throbbing hand. Filling his lungs he called for help. He tried to keep his back to the door, but the unseen club smashed hard into his lower legs knocking him onto his face. A sudden light made him blink in pain as a lamp was uncovered outlining several pairs of legs. “Pick up the devil and pummel his face.” It was a familiar woman’s voice. “Hold him up.”

  Dragged up by his coat collar Geoffrey could see the outline of a woman’s skirt. Fear squeezed Geoffrey’s heart to bursting. If he died he’d never get to tell his angel that he loved her. “Don’t kill me…” He was silenced by a large fist smashing his face. “Sunshine!” He tried to fight free, but he was quickly dragged to the ground and rolled onto his back where he was held down by a boot on his groin. He moaned in impotent rage as the smell of jasmine filled his nostrils; the woman was leaning over him laughing in glee. One of his victims was going to eat his heart.

  “Remember me Lyndhurst? No? I’ll give you a clue; you ruined me…treated me like a whore and for what? A whim? A laugh? Desperation? Couldn’t you find a real whore drunk enough to endure your disgusting touch? I’m pleased to say after all these years I’ve finally found the perfect revenge. I’m going to tell that Spencer woman what you did to me. I’m going to make sure the woman you love never speaks to you again. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you; I want you to suffer.”

  “Someone’s opening the door.”

  “Hold your breath!”

  “Lady Penelope…”

  “Remember this as you beg for Grace from the woman you love.” Geoffrey could hear rustling silk skirts as she stood up and then there was a sharp pain in his head. And then running footsteps faded into blackness.

  Chapter 16

  Tolerance was wide-awake walking in circles around her drawing room hoping for a reply from her note. She’d sent two servants with a message to Geoffrey inviting him to call on her in the morning. Would he think her impertinent? Would he think her forward? Would he bother to send an immediate reply? How would she be able to sleep not knowing if he’d come? What was taking her servants so long? The hands of the clock froze as someone tapped on the door. “Come!” She whirled around as they stepped inside and felt her stomach drop; their faces were ashen, their grey livery smeared with awful rust coloured stains.

  “Oh Madam…”

  “What’s happend?”

  “His Grace…”

  “Tell me!”

  “His Grace was attacked on his door step. We arrived in time to help carry him to his bed. He’s in a bad way Madam. We fetched the doctor for the old butler and waited for news. The doctor says it’s hopeless.”

  Tolerance stood staring at her servants in numb disbelief. Her friend was dying? There was no time to consider consequences. She clenched her icy hands and ran out into the hall screaming out her orders; “Bring my carriage and my cloak. Load my pistols. Fetch my nursing basket and tell Mrs Potter…tell her I may need her help. Hurry!”

  ***

  The ancient narrow house was outlined against the darkness as light burst from windows on both the ground floor and the first floor. Tolerance didn’t knock, she opened the door and stepped inside her aching heart pierced by the sound of servant’s wailing. A housemaid with tear filled eyes stared at her as if cloaked women wandered in at will every night. “Take me to him!” The maid took one incredulous look at Tolerance and burst into sobs. “Is he alive?” The maid sobbed harder. Tolerance stepped past the maid and motioned for her footman to follow. “Geoffrey?” Her panicked voice rang through the house bringing wet curious eyes into the cheerful apple green entry hall. Seeing reddish brown stains on the well worn stairs, she picked up her skirts and followed the blood up to the landing, down the short hall and through an open door past an old man in livery. She stopped and inhaled in horror. The doctor was bending over a crumpled body on the bed. “Is he alive?”

  The doctor turned tired eyes in her direction. “I doubt he’ll last the night.”

  “His injuries?” Her voice died to a whisper as her heart cracked.

  “His hands and ribs may be broken. I can’t tell. He’ll be black and blue by morning, but his head…it looks like someone kicked him. He may live, he may die. Who’s to say?”

  “There must be something you can do! Have you stopped the bleeding? Have you made him comfortable?”

  “Shall I leave you some drops? You sound hysterical.”

  Tolerance dropped her basket and pushed past the doctor and gently picked up Geoffrey’s limp swollen hand. Kissing it lightly she carefully returned it to the bed. It was warm. Feeling his neck she found a faint throbbing. He was alive. “Tell the maid to bring me a pile of clean towels and a bowl of cold water and then go home and fetch Mrs Potter. Tell her what’s happened and have her bring anything she thinks we might need…Go!” The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his problem if a plain woman wanted to lose a good night’s sleep for the corpse of a notorious rake-hell. “You!”, she motioned at the old butler, “bring me more light and hurry up the maid.” She could see the relief in his face that someone had taken charge of the dying man. He hurried away glad to be doing anything other than contemplating an unemployed future. Tolerance flung off her cape and bent over Geoffrey to see his face. There were large purple bruises on his cheeks, his lips were swollen, one of his eyebrows was cut and bleeding, but it was the blood from his head wound soaking his pillow that made her eyes water. “Geoffrey, it’s me Tolerance. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to stay until you’re better. Oh please God, let him live. I couldn’t bear to lose him.” Her last few words were muttered under her breath as the maid stopped at her elbow.

  “The water and…I can’t bear to look at him.”

  “Enough! Fetch me a sharp pair of scissors and a bowl of warm water, soap and sponge then inform the wailing women downstairs that there is blood to scrub the off the floor before it stains the wood.” The room was soon a blaze with candles and a large fire in the grate illuminating Geoffrey’s injuries. After the blood from his head wound was staunched she had the old Butler pull off Geoffrey’s boots as she held his legs and then cleared the room and closed the door. There was nothing to do but cut away his clothes, wash him and tuck him under the covers. Seeing her beloved friend lying helpless in his blood spattered shirtsleeves and cotton smalls brought tears to her eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wanted to see him in his shirtsleeves as her husband, sitting on the edge of the bed holding out his arms with that ‘come hither look’ in his eyes. Forcibly wiping her eyes she gently picked up his head and replaced the bloody pillow with a clean one before slowly cutting away the rest of his clothes revealing large ugly bruises all over his slender muscular body. The room was strangely quiet, even the large fire seemed still. She couldn’t hear him breathe as she bent over him, but she could see his naked chest rise and fall as she ran her hand over his bruised chest. She had just enough time to give him a gentle sponge bath, kiss his swollen lips and cover him up before her housekeeper appeared carrying multiple baskets filled with ointments and herbs.

  “He doesn’t look well Madam. You’d best pray for a miracle.”

  “Don’t talk, help him!” The old woman looked over his wounds tutting under her breath. Threading a tiny sharp needle she stitched up the man’s large cuts and inspected his injuries. After half
an hour Tolerance was left alone to rub arnica ointment over his bruises. Pulling a chair up to the bed she sat there lightly holding his swollen hand until she nodded off and found herself outside the familiar wooden gate under blue skies. “Geoffrey?” She ran into the garden, but she couldn’t see a hint of white linen. “Where are you?”

  “I’m here Sunshine; behind the tree. I saw my reflection in the pond. Don’t scream!” She saw him peek at her from behind a large oak tree and then slowly reveal his battered features.

  She ran into his arms relieved to feel his arms hold her tight. “I know what you look like, I’m at your bedside. I’m going to nurse you until you’re well…”

  “What do you mean you’re at my bedside?” He sounded horrified.

  “Someone attacked you. I’m not going to leave you to be nursed by maids who can’t even clean your house properly. I have to know you’re being cared for. I can’t let you die.”

  “Look at me!” She pulled her wet face from his shirt and looked up at his adoring pale blue eyes. “There are things I need to tell you and I don’t have much time. You’re so lovely; a living ray of sunlight. I was wanted to tell you tonight that I loved you.”

  “Don’t talk in past tense. You’re not dead. You’re not going to die! I can’t live with my heart in a crypt.”

  “Sunshine, please don’t cry.” His arms tightened around her as she sobbed into his shoulder. “There was something important I needed to tell, but I can’t remember. What was it?” She wrapped her arms tighter around his waist as if she could win a tug-o-war with death. “Lady Pelham’s revenge…she…Oh I can’t remember. No, I can’t leave you…” Geoffrey faded from her arms, leaving her alone in the garden.

  ***

  Tolerance woke with wet eyes to find Geoffrey clutching her hand as if he was dangling over the side of a cliff and she was the only thing keeping him from falling to his death. She sat up with dread and looked at his face. There didn’t seem to be any change. Her eyes swept down over his chest. It was rapidly moving up and down. “Geoffrey?” She watched stunned as one of his eyes flickered half open and then shut again. “I’m here!” Could he hear her? What did it mean? She gently kissed his bruised hand and continued her silent prayers.

  The next morning her heart almost stopped as both of his eyes flickered opened as she washed his face. He stared past her at the ceiling and didn’t reply to her whispered questions. His only response was to moan every time she touched him. It was another day and a half before she managed to get his mouth open so she could press a water logged cloth over his tongue. His eyes rolled back into head at the wet intrusion and moaned in pain as she lifted his head and forced more water down his throat.

  The next week felt like a year as Tolerance sat and watched her beloved friend sleep or silently stare at the ceiling. Mrs Potter finally convinced her to leave his bedside and sleep a few hours, but nightmares soon chased her back. Not knowing what would happen made it impossible to relax.

  A few days later while her friend stared unseeing at the ceiling, Tolerance examined his bedchamber. The floor needed scrubbing. Surfaces needed dusting, but it was tidy and the familiar musty smell of her friend hung in the air. She glanced at her patient; there was no change. Brazenly she opened the large silver casket on his dressing table. Tucked into the corner of pale blue velvet was a rolled up well worn pink ribbon. Blinking away tears, she softly closed the lid and returned to the bedside. Feeling the need to do something, she picked up the wet cloth and reached to wipe his lips. She jumped back in shock as Geoffrey’s sightless gaze shifted to her face. Standing up, her heart hammered her ribs as she smiled into unemotional eyes. “Geoffrey? Can you hear me?” She lightly caressed his bruised, black bristled cheek with the back of her fingers. There was still no response. “I’ll be right back, don’t move!” If he was sensible he might eat something. She rushed out of the room and down to the kitchen too excited to wait for the maid. On returning, he looked asleep, but opened his eyes as she sat on the edge of his bed. He opened his mouth at her request after a few minutes and ate the porridge without a murmur, his eyes never leaving her face.

  For two weeks, Tolerance was the sole object of Geoffrey’s silent gaze. When he wasn’t sleeping he would stare at her with that detached expression as if there wasn’t anyone behind the blinking eyes. He was eating every day and drinking watered down port from a sick cup. It was progress and she could finally relax. Needing to see her son, Tolerance left a maid at his bedside one morning and returned home where some of her servants eyed her with contempt. A virtuous woman didn’t spend weeks at a rake’s bedside, even if he was half dead. Ignoring them, Tolerance had a hot bath and spent a few hours with her agitated child before curling up on her bed to have another nightmare of burying her friend.

  Late that evening feeling almost refreshed she returned to Geoffrey’s bedside to find the maid shifting between hysterical tears and laughter as the butler pleaded with the naked Duke of Lyndhurst, crawling on his hands and knees in agitated circles, to return to his bed. “What is he doing on the floor?”

  “Shortly after you left His Grace started thrashing. He sat up, stared at nothing for a long time and then without warning threw off his covers. He tried to stand, but he fell to his knees making that moaning sound. He lay face down on the floor until he heard your voice on the stairs and he then he started crawling.”

  “Geoffrey? I’m right here…” He ignored her for several more turns before falling exhausted onto his stomach. “Fetch me a large shallow pan, warm water, soap and tell the maids to bring up fresh linen for the bed while we wash his hair and check his head wound.” She took a deep breath and kneeled next to the man moaning into the floorboards. “Geoffrey? I’m going to wash your hair.” The moans faded into silence as she put her hand on his back.

  An hour later he was back in bed, his eyes once again fixated on her face, a clean nightshirt covering his pale torso. “We can’t just sit here and stare at each other; would you like me to read something? I found all the volumes for Clarissa in the corner. That should provide reading for the next few months.” She stood up and Geoffrey jerked upright in bed with a loud moan. She picked up his limp hand and kissed it before helping him lay back down. Sitting down with the first volume she opened up the book and glanced at the invalid. He was still staring at her. She smiled at him and crossed her legs and began reading slowly. He didn’t appear to understand the words, but the sound of her voice seemed to soothe him back to sleep.

  Another two weeks limped by as the invalid continued to stare at her while she sat reading or tending to his needs until one morning the moaning was joined by odd jerking movements. After two days and nights of constant vigil, Tolerance escaped to the parlour where she fell asleep in the yellow chair that smelled of her beloved. Sleeping through the day and night she woke feeling refreshed.

  Rubbing her eyes, she entered Geoffrey’s room to get him ready for breakfast, but the room was empty. ‘Geoffrey?” She didn’t know why she expected a reply. The man hadn’t said more than a moan since the attack. Panicking, she prayed he hadn’t fallen over and damaged his healing wounds. Rushing out of the room she sighed with relief on finding him in the empty large chamber at the back of the house. He was standing in his nightshirt staring out the window, his arms hanging at his sides. “You gave me a fright! Come, let me help you back to bed.”

  He slowly turned and looked her up and down with a ravenous leer and sneered in disgust before sighing as if resigned to his fate. “Get undressed!” Tolerance started at hearing him speak and then the meaning of his cold command scorched her cheeks.“You’re not very comely, but you wear a skirt. You’ll do.”

  “Geoffrey, that is not amusing.”

  “I’m the Duke of Lyndhurst. You will address me as Your Grace or my Lord. Are you going to pleasure me or not? Don’t expect me to pay more than a few pounds unless you have some particular skill.” He raised an eyebrow as the plain woman’s face drained of colour, but the
movement caused him to wince in pain. “I prefer traditional pleasures and I won’t pay extra for the pox. If you don’t have a new shield send the maid to buy one. Well? Do you expect me to wait ‘till Christmas?”

  “Geoffrey I’m your friend, Tolerance Spencer. Someone attacked you. I’ve been nursing you…”

  “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not my friend. You probably arranged to have me bashed over the head so you could pretend to save me. Did you think I’d be a gentleman and marry my nurse? What tripe; the Devil’s Corpse nursed by a tolerant friend?” With tears in her eyes, Tolerance backed away from the laughing man and ran from the room to find help.