by Cheryl Bolen
"My master's sick and has urgent need of a room," the coachman informed the innkeeper.
The swarthy innkeeper glanced behind them where the door was still open, affording a view of Harry's impressive carriage. "Come, put him in my room. There's a fire in there."
Located on the first floor, the innkeepers' room was far less tidy than Louisa supposed his guests' rooms were -- because of the personal items littering the room -- but the bed had been made, and at the hearth a fire blazed.
The innkeeper took over for Louisa and helped the coachman lift Harry onto the bed as soon as Louisa had pulled the covers back. Then he turned to her. "I'll send for the doctor."
Moving swiftly to Harry's side, she thanked him. She stood solemnly over Harry, wiping his brow. Though he was perspiring, he began to tremble as does one with chills. She pulled the blanket up to his chin and smoothed his brow once more.
John stood at the other side of the bed. "I don't understand it. He was right as rain this morning."
She looked up at him, her eyes hooded with shame. "It's all my fault. He took an injury rescuing me the day I fell, and I fear the infection in his arm has spread to his whole body." Her voice broke on the last few words.
John folded his mouth into a grim line. "I'll stay here with you, ma'am, in case the master needs anything."
She wished he weren't so nice to her. She deserved his wrath for her foolishness that had caused Harry to . . . she couldn't even think that her carelessness would lead to his death.
Yet as she stood there beside his bed, stroking his brow and trying to force water between his parched lips, she knew he was terribly sick. He had been one of the bravest, most vibrant men -- no, amend that to the bravest, most vibrant man she had ever known -- and because of her he was reduced to a shivering, helpless mass.
Impatient and frozen with fear, Louisa thought it was hours before the doctor arrived when in reality it had been less than one. The stooped old man wearing spectacles and sporting longish hair strode into the room, the innkeeper on his heels. "Well, what do we have here?" he asked.
Her words choked, Louisa said, "A very sick man."
"I don't understand it none," the coachman added, "he was fit as a fiddle this morn."
The doctor gently pushed John aside. "Let me take a look."
Louisa stood at the other side of the bed. "You might wish to examine the wound on his left arm. I believe it has become infected."
"Let's get this shirt off," the doctor said, leaning down and beginning to unfasten the pearl buttons. He carefully lifted the shirt away from Harry's fevered body, then proceeded to unwrap the bandages on his arms. When he saw the yellow liquid oozing from Harry's left arm, he winced. "Nasty it is, I'll say. However did he come to bruise himself so badly?" He looked up at Louisa.
"He fell down a cliffside."
"And lived?" the doctor joked. "Think I'll bathe the wound in a decoction of winter cresses and rebandage it. See if that will help stop the infection at the source." He turned now to John. "Fetch me a bowl of hot water, will you?"
By the time the doctor had removed his own coat and rolled up his sleeves, John was back.
Louisa stood helplessly watching the doctor clean Harry's wound.
When he finished he looked up at Louisa. "Now I'll bleed your husband."
Ignoring that he had addressed her as Harry's wife, Louisa stiffened and regained her sternest voice. "I will not allow you to bleed my husband."
"You don't want him to get well?" the doctor asked.
"Of course I do, but after reading the works of Dr. Heidbreder in Germany, I have decided that bleeding not only does no good, but it can also be harmful."
"Heidbreder, Schneidebreder. Never heard of the quack. I've been bleeding patients since I was a lad of twenty."
Anger flashed in her eyes. "And I'll wager you've lost many of those patients."
"I cannot keep to the earth what God desires in heaven," he defended.
Now she glared at the man. "I do not wish my husband to be in heaven, doctor." Her voice was harsh. She made eye contact with John. "Pay the doctor, John, for his services."
John removed a pouch from his pocket, and gave the doctor a half crown. He waited until the doctor had packed his bag, donned his coat, and left before he spoke to Louisa. "Are you sure the doctor should not bleed Lord Wycliff?"
Her face was grim when she answered. "I am sure." She fervently wished she were as convinced as she sounded.
For the next several hours, Harry went from hot to cold. She would hold and rub his hand and cover him snugly when he shook with chill, then she would take off his covers and wipe his heated flesh with cool water when he was hot. Hot to cold. Cold to hot. The hours dragged on. And Louisa's fear mounted.
Harry couldn't die! Although they had known each other less than a month, he was the only man -- the only person -- she had ever been truly close to. He understood her as she understood him. She knew his secret -- as he knew hers.
Louisa couldn't think about the immeasurable loss it would be to lose his voice in Parliament. That seemed as insignificant now as her foolish pride over the Philip Lewis' essays. All that mattered in her life right now was that Harry get well.
She tried to remember when she had ever been so frightened. She had been too young when her beloved mother died and too filled with scorn when the sixty-year-old gout-ridden Godwin had died. But were she to lose Harry. . .
She tried to tell herself that she would lose him anyway once he found Godwin's benefactor. But at least his vibrancy would not still. All that really mattered was that he live. She would always carry a place for Harry within her heart.
As midnight came, a parlor maid brought more wood for the fire, and Louisa told John to get some sleep. "I'll need you fresh in the morning to watch out for Lord Wycliff while I catch some sleep."
The tired old man nodded, then trudged off to his room.
Louisa took Harry's warm hand within her own and sat down. She prayed some more until he began to flail about, tossing his soaking sheets from him. Then she stood up again and took the bowl of water in her hands and began to rub his burning flesh with her wet hands, oblivious to the fact her tears were dropping into the bowl.
As the hazy light of dawn began to squeeze into the room, Louisa set down the bowl of water and stretched her arms high above her head. Her feet throbbed with pain, her back ached, and her wounded knee had begun to swell.
Then Harry opened his eyes, and Louisa thought she had never felt so wonderful.
"Harry?" she said softly, moving closer to his bed.
"Where in the bloody hell are we?" he groaned.
Giving no thought to what she was doing, she took his hand and squeezed it. "We are in an innkeeper's bedchamber in Polperro. You, my lord, have been very, very sick."
"Harry, not my lord," he corrected, a smile on his face as he squeezed her hand back.
"Yes, Harry, dearest," she said in a breaking voice, her eyes moist.
He smiled, turned over, and went back to sleep.
He was going to make it!
She climbed in the bed beside him and went fast to sleep.
In the days that followed, Harry showed a little more improvement each day. He grew stronger with each passing day, and the swelling on his arm -- like that of Louisa's knee -- diminished each day. His fever stopped on the third day, but his appetite had not returned, nor was he strong enough to get out of bed.
Louisa continued to sleep with him. After all, she had told everyone he was her husband.
As he regained his strength, he listened to John's tales of how he had been at death's door. During his recovery he gave a lot of thought to Louisa's slavish devotion toward getting him well. He pictured her standing over him, gently wiping him with cool water. And he kept remembering her words when he awoke. She had referred to him as Harry dearest. No accolade on earth could have been more welcome than those two words uttered by a sweet little blonde bending over him with worried eyes
.
Despite her kindness to him in those days when he was recovering, he found himself growing short tempered with her and knew it was not because of anything she had done. It was his own self he hated. He wasn't worthy to touch the hem of her skirt, such an angel was she. He had no right to be the recipient of her kindness. He deserved to die.
Instead of keeping his feelings of self loathing within him, he took them out on her. He treated her with gruffness and displayed a consistent bad humor.
And at night when she would lay her weary body beside him on the big feather bed, he would shudder with his need to take her within his arms.
Then he would awaken the next morning and begin lashing out angrily at her. The porridge was too cold. She'd awakened him up with her comings and goings to and from the kitchen. Why couldn't she let things bloody well alone? Was she obsessed with her ridiculous notions of ruling the world with her possessive ways?
He winced and turned away to avoid seeing the pain in her face. Despite his own remorse, he knew his subconscious had its own way of keeping someone as pure as Louisa Phillips out of his sordid life.
* * *
One afternoon after Louisa was convinced Harry was on the mend, she left him in the coachman's care as she went to the church on the outskirts of Polperro.
She would be the only person at the church for it was a Tuesday. She opened the creaking timber door, entered the dark church, and strolled down the nave. She fell to her knees on the stone floors and gave thanks that Harry had survived.
A noise beyond the altar startled her. She raised her lowered lids to see a young cleric – concern on his face – moving toward her. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked in a gentle voice.
She shook her head. "I've never been better. I'm here to give thanks to the Almighty."
The young man smiled. "You're not from around here."
He had obviously determined a great deal from her voice. "I've come from London."
He nodded. "I'm the vicar here. Rouse is my name."
She stood up and curtsied. "I'm . . . " She started to say Mrs. Phillips. Then quickly said, "Mrs. Smith." Suddenly an idea occurred to her. "Does Lord Treleavens provide your living here in Polperro?"
His green eyes flashed with good humor. "He does. Do you know him?"
"No, but my husband may. Is he an older gentleman? Tall and lean?"
He chuckled. "Not at all. Trelly and I were at Oxford together. He's my age and rather portly, I'd say."
"Oh, dear. Perhaps it was his father my husband is thinking of. Was he tall and rather thin?"
"Actually, Trelly inherited at the age of twelve from his uncle. I never met the chap."
Then the uncle had to have been dead at least fifteen years, Louisa reasoned, for the vicar looked to be far closer to thirty than to twenty. Which meant neither the current Lord Treleavens nor his predecessor could have been Godwin's benefactor -- and the previous Lord Wycliff's menace.
"My husband will be so disappointed that Lord Treleavens is not the man he had thought he might know."
"Did your husband attend Oxford?"
Louisa had no idea where Harry had gone to university. Then again, Harry would not want to be confronting anyone who might recognize him. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Smith went to Cambridge." She flashed the vicar a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Rouse, for your concern and for answering my questions." She curtsied and left.
* * *
Early the next week Harry was strong enough to travel. The weather had turned mild and sunny, and Louisa regained some of her feistiness.
In no uncertain terms she refused to let him sit on her side of the carriage. "To put it bluntly, my lord, I have no desire for you to touch me even in the most innocent way. If I had my choice, I would refuse to share a room with you at the inns, too, but I fear that might lead to the discovery of your true person, which would foil our plans."
Our plans. Despite everything, it came back to the simple fact that, like it or not, desire it or not, he and Louisa Phillips were as drawn together as those united by clergy. His heart's desire lay within the grasp of her small hands. And her heart's desire did not lie with him, he thought bitterly.
Chapter 17
Leaving the Polperro innkeeper's chambers brought Louisa mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was sorry to leave the intimacy of the room where she had been for so many days with Harry, days of worry and of a closeness she doubted she would ever rekindle with another human being. On the other hand, she knew they needed to be getting along. She had never planned to leave Ellie for this long, and she was becoming worried over her sister.
Then, too, leaving Polperro might restore Harry to better humor. She tried to be patient when he was impatient with her. After all, a man like Harry was unused to being bedridden. No doubt, his pride was bruised over his infirmity.
Getting back on the road again was the best thing. They left the Polperro inn early in the morning, the so'westerly wind fighting against Harry's four matched grays. They drove along the coastal route, which was so vastly different from the desolate Bodmin Moors. Here there were spreading oaks and elms, and primroses bloomed everywhere, even though spring had not yet come.
It was warmer here in the South, too. Louisa flung off her rug an hour into the journey, and she eagerly viewed each village.
Underlying all her thoughts, though, was her worry over Ellie. When she had left London, she had felt certain she would return within a week. Now that week had stretched into almost three. They had covered half of Cornwall, but their search had thus far proved fruitless. She wished she could hop on a post chaise headed to London, but she had given Lord Wycliff her word she would help him identify Godwin's benefactor. And Louisa Sinclair Phillips had never gone back on her word.
Besides, were she to return to London without having proven successful, she would receive not a farthing from Lord Wycliff, and she and Ellie desperately needed the money.
Poor Ellie. Left alone in the metropolis that terrified her so with only the occasional companionship of the immature Edward Coke. The poor little pet must be quite miserable.
Louisa flicked a glance at Lord Wycliff, who sat across from her in the carriage. She was embarrassed to find that he was watching her. "In the next village," she said firmly, "I must post a letter to Ellie, and I beg that you will do likewise with Mr. Coke. Mr. Bentham has long ago finished delivering his talks, and I fear your cousin will have forgotten about my sister."
"That's hardly likely."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because my cousin is a gentleman and will feel obligated to offer your sister protection until we return. Besides, your sister is a lovely creature."
A sting of jealousy swept through Louisa. She did not at all like for Harry to find any other female attractive. Even if that female were her beloved sister. On further reflection, though, Louisa took his words for a compliment. After all, Ellie was but a younger, more petite version of herself."
"Could you please ask your cousin to take Ellie to the theatre or the opera? I believe she would find those most amusing." She smiled as she thought of Ellie's sweet countenance and innocence.
"Consider it done."
* * *
Being fully apprised of the nature of his cousin's business in Cornwall, Edward grew alarmed when the third week arrived and still he had heard no word from Harry. Had Harry located the mysterious lord and then been done in by him? Any manner of murderous scenarios flashed through Edward's brain, which was already given over to adventurous accounts of villainy and the triumphs of honorable heroes.
In the depths of his mental wanderings, Edward rather fancied himself a dashing hero. And now his opportunity had arrived. He would single-handedly rescue his cousin from the grip of death – and the sword of a vile lord.
Though Harry had cautioned him not to impart to Miss Sinclair the particulars of his journey, Edward let the cat out of the bag one fine afternoon as he was taking Miss Sinclair for a walk about the Grosv
enor Square park, innocently telling her that he had grave fears for the safety of his cousin and her sister.
She turned her sweet face -- which he rather liked -- up to his. Most ladies of his acquaintance tended to be taller than he – such a pity that he could not have taken after Uncle Robert's side of the family and been tall like Harry.
He noticed that Ellie's eyes were wide with surprise.
"My sister is with Lord Wycliff? I do not believe you, sir. Louisa specifically told me she was seeing to matters of her late husband's estate, and Louisa would never lie to me."
He had gotten himself into rather a pickle. Harry expressly told him not to mention that Mrs. Phillips had gone away with him. Some ridiculous notion about not wanting to sully the widow's good name! As if a woman who delivered talks berating the state of matrimony and advocating free love had not already hopelessly tarnished her reputation. "See here," he said frantically, "you're not to know that your sister's gone to Cornwall."
"To Cornwall? Why Louisa doesn't know a soul there, and if you are trying to tell me my sister is having an affair with your cousin, I refuse to believe a word you say. She doesn't even like your cousin. He's an aristocrat!"
"I'm not saying that, either. Why must you keep trying to put the most ridiculous words into my mouth?"
She stomped her dainty heel. "I'm not trying to put words into your mouth. I'm merely trying to learn my sister's whereabouts. Has your wicked cousin abducted her with intentions of stealing her virtue?"
There she went again. Did she think every man in London went around stealing good women's virtue? Damn Harry for saddling him with a blasted chit who was still wet behind the ears. "My cousin need not steal any woman's virtue. He can have the most beautiful women in London merely for the asking."
