Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Stuart took her hands and kissed them. “Darling, forgive me if it sounds as if I do not trust you. I do. Completely. It is only fear that drives me. Fear of losing you to someone else.”

  “But you and Charles have been friends for nearly a decade. Would you imagine him behaving any way that is inappropriate?” the duchess asked Aubrey.

  “No. He is a gentleman, but I also think he cares for you, Beth.”

  “Perhaps. But it is your present that I wear, Cousin. It has not left my hand since you placed it there; nor will it.”

  “Elizabeth, do you really see us together as husband and wife, or is my hope in vain? No, wait, forgive me, that was unfair. I know you love me—truly I do—but I fear your heart now strays towards another, and it worries me. For many reasons, but most of all because I cannot imagine life without you. I love you so very much.”

  The vision grew unfocused, and the sound stopped. Charles touched the stone as though willing it to finish the scene. “What happened then?” he entreated the creature. “What did she say?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the gatekeeper answered stubbornly. “But he seems a very sad fellow to me. Perhaps, he is the one who is lonely. Not you.”

  “I’ve seen enough!” Sinclair shouted.

  “Did you steal her from him?”

  “Of course, I didn’t steal her! What a stupid question!”

  “Now, you lie to yourself,” the creature told him, waving its humanoid hand before the stone. “Let us discover the real reason she married you.”

  “You’re trying to trick me.”

  “How is showing you the truth a trick?” the sly creature asked.

  Reluctantly, Charles gazed once more at the stone, and the image revealed the interior of a one-room cottage. A narrow bed dominated the simple space, and a wood fire burnt cheerfully. A woman slept upon the bed, and a man dozed in a rocking chair next to the fireplace.

  “This is October the eighth,” the human told the birdman.

  “That’s a very precise memory,” it noted, his cruel brows arched in an odd manner.

  “It is the night that...” Sinclair started, but feelings of guilt that he’d locked away in his thoughts rose up to accuse him. “I did not steal her.”

  “So you say,” it answered. “Oh, it appears that you’re no longer sleeping.”

  In the vision, Charles had left the rocker and moved to the bed. He bent to kiss Elizabeth, daring to remove the quilts and slip into the bed beside her. “I ask you, human; is that the behaviour of an innocent man?”

  “That’s enough!” Sinclair shouted, turning away and refusing to watch any longer. “You’re twisting the truth! We had both been poisoned by some concoction, and our actions were dictated by that.”

  “I see, but it looks to me as though your actions are suspect, not hers. Some might say you forced yourself upon her. A policeman might even call it a criminal act.”

  “No! That is not what happened!” the human shouted. “Switch this thing off, I will not participate in your games any longer. I want to go home to my wife!”

  “Your wife?” the creature asked, its head tilted. “Yes, I suppose she is, but had you not interfered, she’d be his wife. Hence, you stole her from your ever faithful cousin.”

  “For the last time, I did not steal her! Elizabeth loves me. We were meant to be together!”

  “My, but you’re very defensive for a man claiming to be in the right,” the gatekeeper observed.

  “I needn’t explain myself to you, Creature. You mentioned a cottage that would lead me home. I insist you lead me to it now!”

  The birdman’s yellow eyes fixed on the marquess’s gold timepiece. “I’d be pleased to help, even delighted, but the rules restrict me, you see. From this moment forward, I require payment.”

  “I’ve no intention of giving you this watch, whether it works or not! If you cannot be more helpful, then begone!”

  “As you wish,” the creature answered with a chilling smile—and with a loud pop, he vanished.

  Sinclair sighed and closed his eyes, praying silently. He had never felt so alone, never so helpless. His head throbbed, his feet dragged, and his heart ached. Slowly, the despondent traveller made his way out of the yew trees and back to the paved road.

  The mist had thickened again, but he could still make out one of the first gates of the monumental, outer wall. “I must find my way to this cottage. I will find my way! Beth, my darling, wherever you are, I shall find the path back to you,” he whispered as he faced the daunting task of navigating the impossible maze. “Father in heaven, I ask you to send me a sign that you are here. Please, help me to find my way home—to find my beloved wife.”

  The ravenous birds still cawed and chirped in hellish discord overhead, but floating above this hideous cacophony, he perceived an indescribably sweet song. Charles felt a fresh breeze whisper against his ear, and then the rushing of soft wings. Within the blackness of the yawning portal, a tiny light appeared. This bright spot drew nearer, growing evermore distinct as it slowly took shape.

  It was a dove.

  The beautiful, white bird emerged from the darkness and rose up high into the air of the strange world, its radiant feathers a welcome contrast to the midnight sky with its peculiar moon.

  A sense of peace washed over the desperate marquess, and he bowed his head, a tear sliding down his face.

  “Thank you, Lord. Thank you!”

  Believing the bird to be a sign, Sinclair stepped towards the gate, but it was like moving through a raincloud made of anger. He feared he’d misunderstood the dove’s message; that he’d made a fatal error. Just as all peace left his soul, a small hand emerged from out of the cloud bank of rage and fury, and a sweet voice spoke.

  “Are you lost?” it asked.

  It was a girl. She stood no taller than four feet, with raven curls and dark eyes. She looked exactly like the little duchess had when she and Charles first met in ’79.

  “Beth?” he asked, tears filling his eyes as he knelt down to take her small hands. “Can it be you? Have I drifted back in time, or is this another dream from one of those seeing stones? I don’t understand. How can you be here?”

  “Beth?” the child asked. “Do you mean Mother?”

  “Mother?” he repeated, utterly confused. “I’m not sure... What is your name, little one?”

  “Don’t you recognise me, Father? It’s Georgianna. Of course, you and Mother always call me Georgie. I’ve come to help you. I know the way through.”

  “Georgie?” he whispered. “You call me Father. You’re my—my daughter?”

  “Of course, I am!” the beautiful child giggled. She looked so much like Elizabeth at that age, that it caused a rush of memories that both cheered and broke his heart all at once, and the exhausted marquess nearly collapsed.

  The child put her hand on his shoulder to steady him, imparting strength. “Never fear, Father. The Lord is ever with you. Come with me. Let’s find our way together.”

  Chapter Six

  11:14 am – Friday, 23rd November

  “Has he been drinking water regularly?” Michael Emerson asked the butler. “His skin seems a bit dry.”

  Cornelius Baxter stood nearby, worry accentuating age lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “We do our best, sir, but as you can imagine, it’s somewhat difficult to achieve. May I give him a bath today?”

  “Yes, I think so, but be careful of the head wound. I’ll dress it again before I go. Is Lord Aubrey still staying here?”

  “His lordship sleeps in the room next door. Lord Haimsbury’s chamber. As you know, this is my lady’s chamber. I doubt the earl has slept much since Sunday. He is vigilant—as are we all, but I worry about him, Dr. Emerson. Might you speak with him? Perhaps, suggest a soporific to calm his mind at night?”

  “I’ll see what I can d
o, but the earl is stubborn. A family trait, it seems.”

  Baxter smiled. “Yes, sir. That is a fact.”

  “I understand that your normal household is in Kent,” the physician noted.

  “That’s right, sir. Branham Hall, but as I’m serving here in Mr. Laurence’s stead, Mr. Kay has taken over for me for the time being. I shall remain here so long as Lord Haimsbury needs me.”

  Emerson had been taking his patient’s pulse, and he glanced up, smiling. “If only every man took his job as seriously, Mr. Baxter. You’re a rare man, sir.”

  Someone knocked on the closed door. Baxter answered and found Victoria Stuart waiting on the other side.

  “My lady, it is not appropriate for you to enter just now. His lordship is not presentable, if you understand my meaning.”

  “What sort of nonsense is that?” Tory asked the butler. “Is he awake?”

  “No, ma’am. He is not, but we must finish preparing him.”

  “Preparing him for what?” she asked, pushing into the bedchamber.

  However, the forceful aunt stopped immediately when it became clear that the butler had spoken correctly. Charles Sinclair had sustained cuts and contusions all over his body, and his pyjama shirt had been removed for Emerson’s examination. The unconscious peer lay upon the broad bed, bare to the waist, revealing a muscular and very male torso. Also, his legs were exposed from the knees down, so that Emerson could inspect and re-bandage several lacerations Charles had received after landing amongst a field of broken window glass.

  Without so much as a whisper, the duke’s sister quickly turned about and faced the marble fireplace. “I see what you mean,” she muttered. “Carry on, Dr. Emerson. I merely wish to know if my nephew is improving.”

  Emerson laughed softly as he and Baxter removed a swathe of cotton gauze from the marquess’s head wound. “Lady Victoria, it is a sign of breeding, I suppose, that you exhibit such delicacy, but nurses see sights like this every day, be they maiden or married. Any woman who tends the sick must overcome her natural sense of shyness.”

  Victoria remained turned, but her back straightened defiantly. “I have never been accused of shyness in my entire life, Michael! Never. Not even once. I have turned my back because it seemed the polite thing to do. For Charles. I’d appreciate an answer, if you’re capable of more than laughter. Has my nephew shown any improvement? Yes or no? It is not so difficult a question!”

  “I cannot offer a yes or no reply, Tory. I am encouraged, however. The swelling at the back of the head continues to lessen, and the wound begins to close. I should be able to remove the stitches in a week’s time. I consider it a miracle, to be frank. When we brought Charles here on Sunday night, both Dr. Whitmore and I feared he’d require trepanning.”

  “Trepanning? What is that?” she asked, her back still turned, but both the butler and physician noticed that she’d begun to tap her foot impatiently.

  “It is a surgical procedure to relieve pressure within the skull,” Emerson answered, stepping away from the sleeping patient. “Baxter, if you’ll provide the marquess a warm bath, Lady Victoria and I shall move into the parlour to allow Charles some privacy. If he were awake, I rather doubt that he’d appreciate an audience.”

  Grumbling to herself, Tory followed the physician into a fashionably furnished parlour that dominated one corner of the Haimsbury House master apartment.

  Emerson closed the door. “Do sit, Tory. I should like to discuss your nephew’s condition.”

  Victoria took a seat near an elegant Belgium blue and mixed Campan marble fireplace. The fixture was flanked by filled bookshelves and overhung with an oil painting of Rose House, the Sinclair family seat in Cumbria.

  “His condition? But you just told me that he improves, Michael. What is there to discuss?”

  “He does improve. However, I remain puzzled.”

  “Puzzled by what?” she asked, her dark eyes narrow. “Surely, not by his wounds. Any surgeon would consider cuts and bruises an ordinary thing, would they not?”

  “No, those don’t worry me. Even his head injury improves daily. I’m puzzled because he is still unconscious.”

  She stared at him as though he’d just spoken in a foreign language. “What on earth does that mean? Isn’t that considered normal after such a blow? Paul tells me that Charles struck that iron post with great force. In fact, he thought it a miracle Charles survived at all,” she continued, her mouth dry. “I find it all very frustrating, Michael. If you’ve something to say, just say it! These past few days have been a trial for all of us, and frankly, my nerves wear thin to the width of writing paper!”

  “Forgive me, Victoria,” he answered gently. “What I mean to say is that Charles should have awakened by now. I can find no physiological cause for his prolonged sleep. Yes, he sustained numerous cuts and bruises from the glass and the fall, but there is no infection, praise the Lord. His pulse grows stronger, his heart is sound, lungs clear. There is no perceptible swelling in his brain. No fever. All appears quite normal, yet he remains unconscious.”

  “He is hardly normal, Michael! Good heavens, must I send for George Price or Reggie Whitmore to get a straight reply from a medical man? You modernists speak volumes yet say nothing.”

  “That is not my intent,” Emerson answered patiently. He had dealt many times with discouraged family members and learnt to soften his tone as required. “Forgive me, Tory. I sometimes forget how much Charles means to all of you. And the lack of news regarding the duchess surely causes you worry.”

  “Worry?” she echoed, her hands shaking. “That is far too pale a word for what I feel, Michael. Beth has been like my own child! If we learn that she is dead, then I dare not think how it will affect us! Poor Charles must not awaken to find his wife has died, Michael. He cannot! And Paul—have you seen him? He wanders about this house like a pale shadow. Never in my life have I seen that man in such a state. I believe he will go mad with grief, if he loses both his cousins. Please, tell me that this puzzlement you mention holds no darkness to it.”

  “Would that I could reassure you, Victoria, but do you prefer honesty or palliative lies?”

  “I prefer good news,” she said, her hands itching to light a cigarette, “but as you cannot offer that, then tell me what puzzles you. Are you saying that Charles will remain asleep?”

  “I pray he does not, but it is a possibility. It’s a state known as coma, based on the Greek word for deep sleep. Patients who enter this state can remain in a twilight world for many weeks.”

  “Weeks? How can a man sleep for weeks?” she asked, her dark eyes rounding. “That is quite impossible!”

  Moving closer, Emerson reached for her trembling hands and gently took them into his own to calm her. “I wish my news were better, but it is possible, and science is unable to explain it. Victoria, I should like permission to consult with a colleague whom I trust. You and the duke are Charles’s next of kin. I considered asking Paul, but as the family’s elders, I believe it correct to speak with you first.”

  She shook her head. “No, Elizabeth is the one who should make this decision. She is his wife.”

  “If Elizabeth were here, then I’d ask her, Tory, but she is not.”

  “No, she isn’t,” the woman sighed, fighting tears. “Very well, then. Beth lived with me for over four years, and I believe I can speak for her. My niece would insist we do everything to return her husband to full health. Bring in your colleague—in fact, consult with as many as it takes. Charles must be well and alert when his wife returns!”

  Baxter emerged from the bedchamber and bowed to the duke’s sister. “His lordship is ready to receive you now, Lady Victoria. Shall I ask Mrs. Alcorn to come up and sit with you? Or perhaps, Mrs. Wilsham?”

  “No, thank you, Baxter. That’s thoughtful of you, but I promised Della that I’d listen to her practise the new music after luncheon, so
I shan’t remain long. My niece intends to play this new Strauss waltz, Rosen auf dem Süden, the moment Charles is able to come downstairs again. It’s in honour of Rose House, I think.” Stuart bit her lip to stop it quivering. “I do hope that day will arrive soon. It’s already been six days.”

  Baxter nodded. “So it has, my lady, but we must let the Lord do his mighty work. Six days to him are enough to create the entire universe.”

  Tory finally smiled, though her face showed lines of exhaustion written upon it. “Baxter, has my brother mentioned whether we’re to have another meeting today? I’ve not seen the duke since last night.”

  “His Grace asked that we set the library to accommodate a dozen members, as usual. Will there be more?”

  “I very much doubt it,” she replied, standing. “Nearly every member is occupied searching for the duchess. Do forgive me, gentlemen. I’m out of sorts. Thank you, Michael. Will you be joining us for the meeting?”

  “Yes, assuming no emergencies arise. What time will it begin, Baxter?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “Very good. That gives me ample time to speak with a colleague about the marquess. I’ll see you both later. Lady Victoria, send for me at the first sign of any changes. I’ll be at Queen Anne for the next hour, and then I plan to speak with several physicians in the city.”

  “Thank you, Michael. Baxter, I’d like to look in on Charles before returning downstairs. You’re certain he’s ready?”

  “All ready, my lady,” Baxter answered.

  The two men left, and Victoria Stuart quietly entered the bedchamber, where she took the wingback chair next to the beautiful bed.

  “Charles,” she began, reaching for his hand, wondering just where to begin. “My dear nephew, I’d like to say a few things. Emerson tells us that we must talk, you see, just in case you’re able to hear us.” She paused, searching her thoughts for what she could say that wouldn’t upset him. “Charles, because you cannot remember most of your early years, you probably don’t remember much of me. Those Christmas memories Martin helped you recover are but a small portion of the countless hours you and I spent together when you were small. My dear, I’ve loved you,” she continued, wiping her eyes as tears welled up. “I’ve loved you since you were an infant. It’s a strange thing to say to a man who’s well over six feet tall, but it’s true. Charles, you were such a beautiful boy! Even as a baby, those large blue eyes and black lashes caused all the ladies in the household to swoon!”