by Deborah Hale
“I appreciate your concern.” Hannah struggled to suppress a yawn that would betray her fatigue. “But I have been accustomed since childhood to do without a great deal of sleep.”
Her answer did not appear to satisfy the doctor. “Be that as it may, you must not allow yourself to become run-down and prey to illness. How would they manage at Edgecombe if you were incapacitated?”
His suggestion that she was indispensable to the family acted like a tonic on Hannah, infusing her with new energy—though she doubted it would last long. “I promise I will not neglect my own health, Doctor. But until his lordship is out of danger I feel I owe it to his wife’s memory and to their children to do all I can for him.”
“I understand,” Dr. Hodge conceded, perhaps because he’d witnessed the promise Lady Hawkehurst had exacted from Hannah in her final hours. “When there is an outbreak of sickness, I am often obliged to tax my strength for the good of my patients. But do try to delegate some of your less pressing duties in the meantime.”
“I have,” she admitted, relieved to receive the doctor’s support. “Young Lord Edgecombe is still too upset by his mother’s passing to concentrate on his lessons. I thought it would be better for the poor child to have as much diversion out of doors as possible. The servants have been very kind to assist me. They take him out to dig in the garden and visit some of the tenant farms to see the animals. He enjoys going for rides in the pony cart with the coachman.”
“Excellent.” The doctor began to pack away his instruments. “The more fresh air and activity the child gets the better he will eat and sleep—all of which will help him recover his spirits.”
Hannah tried to spend as much time with her young pupil as she could, so as not to disrupt his life any worse than it had been already.
“Have you been to check on the babies?” she asked. “From what I can tell, they seem to be thriving.”
She made an effort to visit them as often as possible, taking Peter along in the hopes of fostering a bond between the three children that might compensate a little for the loss of their mother. Hannah knew from experience how important that could be.
The physician nodded. “They are indeed. Growing nicely and both good-tempered from what their wet nurses report. I congratulate you, Miss Fletcher, on getting them so well settled during such a difficult time.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hannah appreciated his recognition of her efforts.
She did not expect any such praise from the earl, if and when he recovered. During his brief time at home during the fleeting months of peace, Lord Hawkehurst had seemed to resent her position in his household and her closeness to his wife. Hannah reminded herself she could accept his ill will if only he would live.
“What about his lordship?” She glanced toward the master, his rugged features so still and his skin strangely pale beneath his soldier’s tan. It made a stark contrast to the bristling black stubble over the lower part of his face. “Will he live to see his new son and daughter? I cannot abide the thought of them losing both parents with no memory of either.”
An anxious frown gripped the physician’s craggy features. “I still cannot say for certain. The bleeding has been staunched, and the wound is healing. Both of those are in his favor. But he lost a great quantity of blood when his wound reopened during the strenuous journey from France. He should have waited to travel until it had healed better. Though I suppose, under the circumstances…”
A sharp barb of guilt worked its way beneath Hannah’s defenses. It was her letter that had summoned the earl home, fresh from the battlefield. Since then, news of the near-run allied victory at Waterloo had spread through the country. It made Hannah repent many of the harsh things she’d thought about Lord Hawkehurst during those anxious last days of the countess’s life.
If only she might have an opportunity to make it up to him.
Too often, in the past, her failings had cost others dearly. Always those she cared about most. Each time she had vowed to do better in the future. Would it ever be enough? Perhaps the answer was to keep herself from caring too deeply.
“Why will he not wake?” Hannah fought a rising tide of helplessness that threatened to sink her spirits. She would work harder to bring about the earl’s recovery if only she knew what to do. “Now and then I feel as if he can hear me. But other times he seems scarcely to be alive.”
“It is worrying.” Dr. Hodge sighed. “Though I hope it may only be his body’s way of allowing itself time and rest to heal. I have known Lord Hawkehurst since he was a boy, and he has never been one to keep still for long. Provided this state of unconsciousness does not persist, it may ultimately benefit his recovery.”
Hannah tried to draw encouragement from the doctor’s words as she bid him good-night. She would have found it easier if his tone and gaze had not betrayed quite so much doubt.
All the while Dr. Hodge poked and prodded, Lord Hawkehurst had seemed altogether insensible. Once the physician left, however, the earl grew suddenly restless. His eyes moved beneath their closed lids, darting this way and that. His hands began to twitch over the bedclothes. Low, incomprehensible sounds escaped his lips.
Hannah kept an anxious vigil over him. Perhaps the doctor was right about his lordship’s earlier deep sleep giving his body an opportunity to heal. She feared this agitation might have the opposite effect. What if his movements grew more violent? Might the earl tear open his wound again? According to the doctor, he could not afford to lose more blood.
“Hush, now.” She spoke in a gentle murmur she might have crooned to young Peter when he woke from a nightmare. “You must not upset yourself. There is nothing you need fret about. You are tucked up safe at home now, and no more harm will come to you if I can help it.”
Was this her fault? Had her exhortations to fight for his life somehow roused his soldier’s spirit before his wounded body was ready?
“Lie still now.” She clasped the earl’s nearest hand in both of hers, hoping her touch might reach and quiet him if her words could not. “Rest and be easy. You are safe here, I promise.”
All her efforts seemed to have the opposite effect from what she desired. The earl began to thrash his head from side to side. Now and then he winced, as if aware of the pain from his wound. His utterances grew more forceful and more distinct.
“Please, your lordship!” Hannah begged, tightening her grip on his hand.
Then suddenly his eyelids flew open. The earl clasped her hand with greater strength than she had thought he possessed in his present state. He gazed deep into her eyes, his rugged features furrowed in an expression of intense concern.
Hannah could never recall him looking at her with anything warmer than barely concealed disdain. A breathless feeling of relief that the earl was finally awake collided with another emotion she could not readily identify. She had no time to sort it out, for no sooner did Lord Hawkehurst open his eyes than he began to speak.
“Hang on, Molesworth!” he rasped, clearly addressing his words to Hannah.
Had she misheard him?
The earl’s next words did nothing to dispel her confusion. “Come on, man. I didn’t pluck you out of Boney’s grasp only to have you desert me now. The surgeons will patch us both up good as new. Then we’ll make certain that warmonger gets what he deserves. No Mediterranean holiday to rest up for his next conquest.”
Though some of the earl’s words puzzled her, Hannah understood what he meant about Bonaparte. After years of war that had brought much of Europe under his domination, the French emperor finally had been defeated the previous year. The summer of 1814 had been crowded with jubilant celebrations of victory and peace at long last.
But the man whose towering ambition cost so many lives had never been made to answer for his actions. Instead, he had been permitted to retire to a small island off the coast of Tuscany to plot his return to power. Scarcely more than ten months after his defeat, Bonaparte had returned to France in triumph, plunging Europe into war once
again—a war that need never have been fought. Small wonder Lord Hawkehurst was anxious to put an end to the emperor’s career of conquest once and for all.
The earl’s silence stirred Hannah from her thoughts. He seemed to expect some answer from her. What could she say that might reassure him?
“I shan’t go anywhere, sir. I promise.” She wondered if there had ever been such a person as Molesworth, or if he was only a figment of the earl’s troubled dreams. If the fellow did exist, what had become of him? “But you must lie still. So… er… the surgeons can patch you up. Will you do that for me?”
Would her answer help… or only make matters worse? Hannah wished she had not taken pity on the yawning footman and ordered him to bed once he’d seen Dr. Hodge out. She could have used a man’s help to subdue Lord Hawkehurst, if that should prove necessary.
She prayed it would not.
Her wordless supplication was granted for the earl’s anxious tension deserted him as quickly as it had come on.
“You have a bargain,” he replied in a thick, drowsy murmur. His grip slackened, and his eyelids drooped. “We will let the surgeons do their work so we’re fit to go after Boney. He won’t be leading any more armies after we’re done with him.”
No sooner had those words left the earl’s lips than his eyes slid shut and his breath settled into a deep, rhythmic drone. For a time Hannah continued to clasp his hand, for fear he might stir again if she let go. The sensation reminded her of how the poor countess had clung to her through the painful hours of labor and later how her grip had eased with her waning strength.
Blinking back tears she could not afford to let fall, Hannah released the earl’s hand. Then she raised hers to brush the dark hair back from his brow with a gentle touch that was almost a caress. His life still hung in the balance, but now it was not only for the children’s sake that she wanted him to live.
Chapter Two
HOW LONG HAD he been like this?
Gavin felt as if he were immersed in a deep pond. Often he sank to the still, dark bottom, knowing nothing and caring even less. But at intervals he would float closer to the surface, near enough to hear and feel—or was he only dreaming? All the while, that flimsy barrier between sleep and consciousness remained strangely impenetrable. Certain sensations could pass through it to reach him, but for him to break through required greater effort than he could muster.
Among his few connections with the waking world, were those voices—one softly pleading, the other fiercely challenging. They seemed to wage a tug-of-war over him. At times he longed to flee them both in search of peace, though he sensed they would follow and continue to plague him until one or the other prevailed.
Besides, he had heard a third voice—that of his fallen comrade. It reminded him of urgent unfinished business.
That reminder gave Gavin the strength to pry open his eyes and look around him. He found he was not lying in a pool of warm water after all, but tucked up in his own bedchamber back at Edgecombe. It must be very late at night for the room was wrapped in deep shadows with only the fitful flicker of a single candle to relieve the darkness.
How had he come to Edgecombe? Gavin plundered his memory for the answer to that question. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the cavalry charge at Waterloo.
In the stillness of the darkened room, he fancied he could hear echoes from the battlefield—the rolling thunder of horses’ hooves punctuated by the crash of artillery, the crack of rifle fire and the cries of wounded soldiers. The whiff of gunpowder, sweating horses and blood seemed only a breath away.
While those sensations hovered, just out of reach, the tumultuous emotions of that day seized hold of his heart once again. First came the grim satisfaction of being on the move and able to strike a blow at last after frustrating hours of waiting. Then he relived the fierce rush of triumph as their charge turned the tide of battle, bringing hope to the beleaguered infantry. Beneath both of those churned a sickening sense of futility that his men should be fighting and dying once again, scarcely a year after their last hard-won “victory.”
A spasm of alarm caught him by the throat when he realized some of the hussars had ridden too far and risked being cut off from retreat. Among those were his commander, General Beresford, and his dearest friend, Anthony Molesworth.
A faint sound and a flicker of movement from nearby wrenched Gavin away from the battlefield and thrust him back into the shadowed tranquility of his bedchamber. His gaze flew toward a slender figure slouched in an armchair beside his bed.
It took him a moment to recognize Hannah Fletcher. Even then, part of him had trouble believing it could be her. Amid his hazy memories of recent days, he had one vivid recollection of Miss Fletcher’s face. Her fierce blue glare had accused him of all manner of shortcomings that he could not deny.
Was that why she had chosen to sit a vigil by his bedside—so she could be on hand the moment he woke to take him to task for all his failings? She need not have put herself to the trouble. His own conscience was capable of reproaching him with greater severity than even his son’s formidable governess.
Not that she looked very formidable at the moment, Gavin had to admit. Seeing her features softened and relaxed in sleep, he judged them a good deal more attractive than he ever had before. Strands of honey-colored hair had fallen loose from the severe braided knot in which she usually wore it, gently framing her face. She looked far younger than her years and rather vulnerable. Her pallor and the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes heightened that impression and roused Gavin’s protective instincts in spite of him.
He wondered how long Miss Fletcher had been sitting by his bedside. Ever since he’d reached Edgecombe? And how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks?
Could one of the voices that had pierced his darkness and ordered him to live have belonged to his son’s brisk, disapproving governess? That would not have surprised him. But what about the other voice—the gentle, coaxing one? Could that have belonged to his wife? A returning memory struck Gavin a stinging blow and warned him it could not have been Clarissa he’d heard.
He tried to stifle a groan, but it escaped his lips before he could clamp them shut.
Faint though it was, the sound brought Miss Fletcher bolt upright in her chair, her eyes wide with alarm and her features tensed in a look of urgent concern.
Could that worried expression be on his account? Gavin wondered. Surely not. In all his life, no one had ever looked so anxious about his well-being.
“Sorry I woke you.” It cost him considerable effort to produce that softly rasped apology.
To his astonishment, he was rewarded by a complete transformation of Miss Fletcher’s face. The corners of her mouth flew upward in a smile of almost blinding radiance, while her eyes glittered like the dew on bluebell petals at the break of dawn.
“You’re awake!” She surged up from the chair to clasp his hand with a degree of fervor Gavin would never have expected from her. “You’re alive!”
Her first exclamation of relief muted to a sigh of prayerful thanksgiving. “What a mercy.”
Gavin scarcely knew what to make of the lady’s reaction. If Miss Fletcher cared in the least whether he lived or died, he had assumed she would favor the latter. He never imagined a simple thing like his return to consciousness would provoke such a joyful outburst from her. Yet the tone of her voice, husky with unaccustomed emotion, betrayed the fact that she was the woman who had hovered nearby, tending him and pleading with him to live.
The clasp of her hands around his was a strangely familiar sensation and a surprisingly welcome one. The gesture made no demands on him, nor did it judge him. It only seemed to celebrate his continued existence.
But no sooner had he begun to savor the feeling than Miss Fletcher abruptly let go. “I beg your pardon, sir! I did not mean to take such a liberty. I was only half-awake and not in full possession of my wits.”
What was she making such a fuss about? Gavin wondered. He
was not offended by her unexpected gesture. On the contrary, it seemed to infuse him with fresh life.
“I was so pleased to see you awake at last,” Miss Fletcher rattled on, more flustered than he had ever seen her. “I forgot my place. I assure you nothing of the sort will happen again.”
Her place? The woman had never seemed concerned about that before. From what he could recall, she had been almost as much mistress of Edgecombe as his wife. The thought of Clarissa raised questions that demanded answers while he was still sufficiently awake to ask. “How long… have I been… like this?”
“Three days, sir.” Miss Fletcher stepped away from the bed as she spoke, her gaze avoiding his. Her face, so pale just a moment ago, suddenly looked flushed. “Or was it four? Ever since you collapsed at her ladyship’s… funeral.”
The instant that final word left her lips, she grimaced, as if wishing she could take it back.
So he had arrived in time for Clarissa’s funeral. A brief flicker of satisfaction was quenched by a surge of guilt that he had not been in time to prevent his wife’s death.
Gavin turned his mind from that troubling thought to one that promised welcome diversion. “The battle… was it a victory?”
He must find out before the darkness overcame him again. Perhaps Bonaparte had been killed on the field and he could rest a little easier.
Miss Fletcher nodded. “Waterloo was a great victory for the Alliance. Word arrived yesterday, and the church bells rang for so long I am surprised they did not wake you. The French army is in retreat with the Duke of Wellington and Prince Blücher chasing them to Paris. I hope it will put an end to this wretched war once and for all!”
