She had finally taught herself not to think about Alexander; she half believed she would never see him again. If it wasn’t for her music, she was sure she would go mad. At least what she wrote while she was in Hartfordeshire seemed to have benefited from her melancholy. During her enforced solitude, she had written a third and fourth symphony. They were by far her best works, but she had to wonder if they would ever be performed or whether they were doomed to grace only the inside of her leather case.
The increasing discomfort of her pregnancy finally began to slow her down. Whereas during October she had written some five pieces for fortepiano, in addition to completing a violin concerto, during November she wrote only one: a piece for cello and orchestra. By mid-December she had ceased writing altogether.
Isobel was sitting in the back gardens, pretending to read while a cooling breeze gently turned the pages of the book lying abandoned in her lap. Bridget was hovering over her, constantly asking if she was comfortable, if there was anything she could get her, when she only wanted to be left alone. For a moment she thought she heard the faint sound of hooves clattering on the cobbles of the front drive and she listened intently for a few minutes, straining to hear. What if it was Alexander instead of one of the servants? What if he had finally come for her? She resolutely put away the thought. He was never coming back. It was quiet, there was nothing to hear, and certainly nothing to hope for. She settled back in her chair and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.
“Come inside, Lady Hartforde,” Bridget said, “it’s getting cold.” She wished there was something she could say to make her smile. She was becoming concerned at her mistress’s deepening depression. Isobel did not eat nearly enough these days. Bridget hoped, as she helped Isobel stand up, to coax her into eating a little extra at supper that evening.
They walked slowly—Isobel did everything slowly these days—to her room, where Bridget insisted that she rest. She agreed only because it meant she could be alone. It seemed to take forever for the baby to quiet down enough for her to sleep.
“My lady!”
Someone was trying to make her wake up, and she did not want to.
“Lady Hartforde! Wake up. He’s here.”
Isobel opened her eyes.
“He’s here and he wants to see you now.”
Chapter 32
One of the men Alexander hired for his trip to Hartfordeshire was a short, stocky man, by the name of Jack Wickenstand, who kept a pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches. His skin was pockmarked, and when he grinned there were two gaps where teeth had formerly been. He was addicted to snuff and was frequently required to wipe his nose, a task he accomplished by using his sleeve in the place of a kerchief. His hair was longish and ill kempt, but he spoke tolerably well and knew how to handle a gun. To a man, Wickenstand’s companions thought it odd a cove so recently out of the Fleet could have come by the grand snuffbox he made such a show of twirling about.
Chapter 33
I
“Tell Lady Hartforde I wish to see her in my study immediately,” Alexander instructed the steward curtly as soon as he came in the Hall. The several days’ coach ride to Hartfordeshire had not improved his sour temper in the least. Anger seemed to be his only defense against his infatuation with Isobel. He had almost let himself fall in love with that woman, and she had betrayed him! He refused to have a wife who cuckolded him. He had been that road once before and he had no intention of being so foolish a second time. He meant to put a quick end to whatever insanity it was that had made him think there was no need for an immediate legal separation.
After spending some time in his rooms, he went directly to his study and paced until Isobel was announced. He was struck by how pale and drawn she looked. It was late in the afternoon and he realized she must have been sleeping. Her eyes were dark with fatigue and he steeled himself against the sudden tenderness he felt when he saw her. It was difficult to keep from rushing to her side when she grimaced and placed her hands on her stomach.
“I am sometimes kicked to distraction!” she murmured.
There was no telling how long she had been carrying on with the duke. “I have something to tell you,” he said. He seated himself behind his desk and clenched his hands into fists. The thought of her with the duke filled him with such a rage he was completely unable to see the matter in a calm light, though he thought he was being perfectly rational. His very calmness was proof of his clearheadedness.
“I’m listening.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“Am I the father?” It was only one of the fantastic accusations he had come up with to feed his anger since leaving her.
“Of course you are!”
Before she could give vent to the anger he saw his question had caused, he asked in an acid voice, “Are you quite certain?” The scene was unpleasantly familiar. He had gone over it in his head time after time, he knew exactly what she would say, and he knew it would be nothing but lies.
“I’ve never been with the duke, Alexander. You never gave me a chance to tell you what you really saw.” She sat down, holding a hand to her back, as though it suddenly pained her. There was something very much like panic in her eyes and he took it as a sign of her guilt.
“I know what I saw. You forget, madam, I have had this experience once before. I will not be the fool twice. You are no more capable of fidelity than she was.”
“But I’m not Sarah! If you weren’t afraid of loving me, you could see that.”
“I came here only to tell you I am petitioning Parliament for a divorce.”
“Will you just listen to me for a minute?”
“I’ve told your maid to start packing your things. You’re to leave here at first light tomorrow.”
“The duke had—”
“There is nothing more to discuss,” Alexander snapped. He could feel his anger fading and he desperately wanted her to leave before he gave in to his insane desire to take her into his arms. More the fool he, if he did; it would only be so she could hurt him again.
Isobel struggled to stand up. She was too tired to fight, too certain that it would make no difference if she tried. “Do you know something, Alexander? For months I’ve been praying you’d come back. I was going to tell you what you really saw, but I can see now how silly that would have been. I don’t think it’s worth the trouble. You’ve proven how stubborn you are. You’ve won,” she said as she closed the door after her.
By the time she was back in her room her anger had cooled only a little. “I’ll show him what he’s lost!” she cried out to the room. She pulled the duke’s letter out of the leather case where she kept it and went back to Alexander’s study.
“Read this.” She tossed the letter on the desk. “Fortunately, when the duke caught me leaving his study, he did not know I had taken this.” She wheeled around and walked out of the house, too angry to think about where she was going. She stopped for a moment, then began walking down the shaded drive.
It was not long before her anger was gone, replaced by the familiar numbing depression. Lost in its misery, she did not notice the glorious evening. The sun was setting and there was no breeze to chill the air. It had rained early in the day and the air still had that particular cleanness about it that followed a rain. She was just too tired to care. Let him get his divorce. As soon as her child was born she would go as far away from him as was possible, even back to Boston. She stopped and gasped in pain as the muscles of her abdomen suddenly tightened. She took a deep breath when it was over. She continued walking, so engrossed in her plans that she did not notice she was being followed. A man was carefully keeping pace with her, using the huge trees for cover. When she stopped at the end of the drive to straighten her hat, he stopped, too.
II
After Isobel left, Alexander sat in his study wondering how he had let that woman get so close to him that she could hurt him so. He stared at the letter, picked it up, fingered it. He knew what he had seen. There could have been no mistaki
ng it, could there? He opened the letter and read it twice. It was nothing but a pack of lies, and not a very good forgery at that. He remembered the curt greeting the King had given him, how for weeks previous there had been whispers about his political aspirations. Whispers that he had ignored. It dawned on him that, of course, the duke had intended to show the letter to the King. He knew very well what His Majesty would have done if he’d seen it.
Alexander found Isobel’s maid busy sorting out her clothes and packing them away. “Where is Lady Hartforde?” he asked.
“She’s gone for a walk, milord.”
“Thank you.”
“Milord?”
“Yes?” He stopped at the door.
Bridget took a deep breath before she spoke. “You can’t mean to make her leave, my lord. She’s too near her time to be going anywhere. She’ll have the baby in the carriage!”
“Lady Hartforde is not going anywhere.”
“Yes, milord.” She smiled and gave a sigh of relief.
Alexander wasted several minutes looking for Isobel in the gardens before he finally asked one of the servants if he had seen which way she had gone. He started down the drive and was about to call out for her when the glint of a small gold box lying in the dirt caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up and, as he straightened, he finally saw her, standing forlornly at the bottom of the drive. He dropped the box into his pocket and was breathless by the time he caught up with her.
III
Jack Wickenstand was elated when he saw Lord Hartforde coming after his wife. Quickly, he checked the powder in his pistol. He waited until the marquess had caught up with her and the two were standing still in the middle of the drive. He leveled the gun and, as soon as he had a clear view of Hartforde’s back, pulled the trigger.
“Leave me alone,” Isobel said when Alexander reached her side. She turned and started back to the house. “You’ve said quite enough already.”
“Isobel—” He grabbed her arm. He saw her eyes widen in surprise at something behind him, and he was half turning to look when she pushed him away so violently that he landed hard on the ground at the same time he heard the sound of a pistol being fired. The bullet meant for him hit Isobel instead.
Chapter 34
I
Alexander paced outside Isobel’s room waiting for the doctor to emerge. In exasperation the physic had finally ordered him to wait outside. “I assure you, my lord, I will do an even better job if you would be so kind as to pace out in the hall.” He shook his head when Lord Hartforde finally closed the door behind him. He turned back to his patient. He had dealt with bullet wounds in the past when he was in the army, and he had dealt with countless childbirths, but never had he been faced with both in the same patient. He shrugged off his jacket and, after rolling his shirtsleeves out of the way, turned his attention to the more threatening of the conditions. It was fortunate Lady Hartforde was unconscious, because he doubted the wisdom of giving her opium while she was so close to her delivery, and probing for the ball would be easier if she wasn’t thrashing around.
Alexander took in the doctor’s grave expression as he came out and his heart sank. “She’s not dead!”
The doctor shook his head. “I’d be obliged for a drink, my lord.” His lordship looked as though he could use one, too.
“A fine idea.” Alexander took the doctor’s arm and propelled him down the hall to one of the drawing rooms. The physic sat down with a sigh and sipped the brandy offered him. “Is she going to be all right?” Alexander asked anxiously.
“In all honesty, I cannot hold out much hope for her survival. There is every indication her lying-in will be difficult. It is my guess it had started before she was shot.” He shrugged. “Regardless of her wound, I could not be optimistic. If there is anything fortunate about this, ’tis that the bullet missed her heart. Otherwise, I’m afraid she’d have died even before I arrived.” He sipped from his glass. “My lord”—he sighed—”I have a difficult question to which I must know your answer.”
“What is it?”
The physician saw that Alexander had anticipated the question, and he took a deep breath. “’Tis more than likely I can save only the mother or the child. You must tell me, which is it to be?”
“You must save them both!” Alexander propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face.
“My Lord Hartforde”—the doctor leaned forward to put a hand on his arm—“I must have your instructions in this matter.”
Alexander lifted a tortured face to the doctor. “I could not live if she dies.”
“You have two sons, my lord.” The doctor closed the door behind him as he stepped out into the hall, where Lord Hartforde had been pacing the entire night.
Alexander grabbed the doctor’s arms. “And Isobel?”
At the grim look on the doctor’s face, Alexander gave an agonized shout. “I told you to save my wife!”
“She still lives, my lord.” He stopped Alexander from bursting into the room. “But I would be damned to hell if I did not tell you her hold on life is precarious. I do not think she’ll live ’til morning.”
II
Worry was etched on Alexander’s face as he stood at the side of the bed looking down at his wife. Contrary to the doctor’s dire prediction, Isobel had not died, but she was nearly as white as the linen upon which she lay. She had been unconscious for three days, during which time Alexander had rarely left her side. The physic still would not say she was out of danger. She was so deathly pale even the doctor agreed that to bleed her might well kill her. Alexander reached down to wipe the beads of sweat from her burning forehead. Tenderly he brushed her hair away from her face.
She opened eyes, bright with fever. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she asked in a faint voice.
Alexander sat down on the bed and bent to kiss her forehead. “You won’t die. I won’t let you die,” he whispered.
“I’m so thirsty,” she complained. There was a pitcher of water on the bed table and he reached for the glass next to it and filled it. She drank from it before saying, “Thank God you were not killed.” Her eyes drooped closed for a moment, and when she opened them again, she looked at him and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll leave here tomorrow.” She fell into a fitful sleep, and when she opened her eyes again she struggled to sit up but could not. “Where are my babies?” she cried plaintively.
“Hush, love, our boys are fine.” He put his hand gently on her arm.
“Something is wrong with me. I feel so hot.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again it was as though she were seeing him for the first time. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave in the morning.” She drew in a harsh breath. “I’m just too tired to go now.” She closed her eyes just as the maid came into the room.
Bridget put a hand to her forehead and, taking in Alexander’s worried look, said, “She’s a strong woman, m’lord.”
“She’s so hot!”
“’Tis the fever.” She pulled the covers back over her. “I’m afraid the wound’s infected.” She shook her head and turned to Alexander. “Perhaps you should get some rest, my lord. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
Alexander shook his head. “I won’t leave her!” The fear that she would die filled him with such desperate panic he did not notice the tears filling his eyes until he lifted a hand to his cheek.
III
Isobel often dreamed Alexander was in the room, holding her hand, and once she thought she saw tears in his eyes. She shook her head; he was only waiting for her to die.
“I won’t die just to save you the expense of a divorce!” she said to him once. “I’m just too tired to go now….”
Another time she saw him raise a cloth to her head and she was convinced he meant to smother her. Her screams brought her maid running.
“He’s trying to kill me! Make him go away! He wants to kill me!” she sobbed wildly.
One night, after a day when her
fever had lessened to an extent where she could take some broth, she could not fall asleep. When at last she closed her eyes, she was bothered by disturbing dreams. In one, she was in the gardens at Redruth, Alexander was calling her, and she turned, stretching her arms to him. “I love you,” she told him when he was just about to take her hand. His radiant smile disappeared and he pulled out a pistol and leveled it at her heart. She screamed at him to stop, but he pulled the trigger anyway. He threw the gun to a waiting servant, and, when he walked away from her, he was holding the twins in his arms.
She sat up, disoriented and damp with sweat. She was convinced Alexander meant to kill her, and the only thought on her feverish mind was to escape. The maid who was supposed to be watching over her was asleep in her chair, and Isobel moved as quietly as possible to avoid waking her. She hastily pulled a gown from the wardrobe and dressed herself. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to fasten the buttons. She did not notice the spot of blood that appeared at her chest as her struggle reopened the wound. She found a small valise and stuffed more clothes into it. “I’ll be damned if I spend another night under his roof!” she muttered to herself. She sat down on the bed to rest; she did not understand why she was so bone-tired. She swayed dizzily when she stood up, but she made it halfway to the stairs before she needed another rest.
She was partway down the steps when she saw him. He was so handsome, she thought; just to look at him made her heart break. She laughed at herself; it was ludicrous to think that she could still love this man. She was hopeless when it came to Alexander, Lord Hartforde. She pushed back her shoulders and gripped the banister as she continued to descend. She held her head high as she went. She didn’t have to be a fool and let him see how she felt!
“Isobel!” Alexander cried out when he saw her. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” He moved quickly up the stairs, reaching out to grasp her.
Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) Page 23
