A Bond of Honour

by Joan Vincent

As if in answer, Lord Adrian sat up, flinging his arms wildly. It took all of Mallatt's and Lady Juliane's strength to restrain him. The struggle continued for the better part of an hour—Juliane all the while trying to calm him with her voice. After a last violent effort, he lay back, spent.

  All three were wet with perspiration from the effort. Wiping her dripping forehead, Lady Juliane shouted for Meg.

  As Meg rushed in, she was met with a barrage of orders.

  "Get the fire roaring—we must not chance a further chill now! We must change his lordship's garments and the bedding if we are to come out of this night ahead of the fever. Move quickly now,” Lady Juliane snapped.

  A quick glance at the earl bespoke the need of hurried action. Meg threw a few logs atop the fire, then hustled from the chamber to fetch clean sheeting for the bed.

  As the fire crackled and popped into a roar, Juliane tore the bedding from the empty side of the bed. Satisfied with that work, she came around to Mallatt. “You have a fresh nightshirt ready?"

  "Yes, my lady, if you will leave..."

  "Leave,” she snapped. “What do you take me for—I am no simpering young miss. I have cared for grown men before. We must get him out of these wet things, dried, and redressed as quickly as possible. In his state you would be a long time handling even the first by yourself. Meg—you make the bed fresh while we tend to his lordship,” she ordered as the woman re-entered the room.

  Together the two had Lord Adrian disrobed, buffed dry, and redressed as Meg finished making one side of the bed. Mallatt marvelled anew at Lady Juliane.

  Almost carrying Lord Adrian, they moved him to the dry bedding. While Juliane tucked the covers about him, Meg removed the last of the sweat-soaked bed linens and Mallatt worked furiously to complete the making.

  Juliane sat on the bedside rubbing a handful of snow across Lord Adrian's face. Suddenly his hand grabbed her arm, his eyes open wide. A string of vile epitaphs spewed out, shocking even Mallatt. Juliane was taken aback, not so much by the words themselves as by the hatred trembling in the voice. Just as suddenly, he halted and closed his eyes. After tenderly replacing his hands beneath the coverlets, Juliane continued to cool his crimson face with the snow. Meg parted with one last, wondering glance at the pair before removing from the room with the wet linen and bedclothes.

  An hour passed with Lady Juliane and Mallatt taking turns with the constant attempts to cool Lord Adrian; Juliane maintained a steady flow of lulling tones throughout.

  At last it seemed the crisis had passed. Lord Adrian was much calmer and the flush not quite as pronounced.

  Juliane had just replaced Mallatt at the earl's side when he opened his eyes and gazed at her. She smiled reassuringly.

  "You are better, my lord. Sleep now; by morning you will feel much improved."

  "My angel,” he said quietly. “Your voice is from heaven.” The grey eyes were only slightly feverish now and held hers steadily. “Who are you? Where did you come from?"

  "Hush, now, my lord. Rest. There is plenty of time tomorrow for all the answers you wish.” She passed her hand gently over his eyes, closing them.

  "Yes, my angel,” he answered tiredly, “if you will promise to be here when I awake."

  "Of course, my lord. Sleep now."

  His hand crept from beneath the coverlet and covered hers. Juliane was startled by the strength of the grasp and by the thrill it sent through her. With her heart beating erratically—caused by the night's work, she assured herself—she returned the grip softly. Mallatt watched the two silently, a smile creeping over his features. Ah, yes. He would have to connive some way to constrain the two together. If the match can be made, it would curtail my lord's, ah, “ramblings” to a great degree, he thought, and certainly ensure my life a longer span. My age is beginning to tell, the hearth side is much more appealing than the, er, adventures of the past few years. Lady Juliane may be the means to my peace.

  "Mallatt, you may go,” Juliane said. “Lord Adrian is sleeping peacefully-the worst has passed. I am certain he will sleep well the remainder of this night. I will watch and call you if any change occurs."

  "Yes, my lady. Have a care for yourself."

  "Oh, of course,” she answered absentmindedly as he closed the door.

  A while later she eased her hand from Lord Adrian's as if reluctant to do so. “Angel,” she thought. None had ever called her such before or even neared such an endearment—or ever will again, she reprimanded herself sternly. Becoming sentimental over the musing of a sick man—call yourself to order, miss.

  Walking from the bed to the fireside, she gazed into the fire. A chill stole over her and she shivered. Her gown was still damp. She checked Lord Adrian and then returned to the fire. Stripping down to the buff quickly, she sponged and dried herself. Donning her warm, long-sleeved nightdress, she buttoned it quickly and drew her wrap over it. Dry and warmed, fatigue descended upon her like a thundercloud. Shaking herself awake, she went to the bedside and touched Lord Adrian's brow. It was definitely cooler, and he looked peaceful.

  Barely settled in the straight Windsor, she found herself nodding off. She steeled herself to remain awake, but unavailingly. Catching herself falling from the chair for the unknownth time, Lady Juliane sighed heavily and yawned. Checking Lord Adrian, she found him much the same—breathing easier, sleeping well.

  If I could lie down for just an hour, she told herself, I will be able to resume the watch. Yes, that would be better. He will not stir nor realize it.

  Having made the decision, she crossed to the other side of the bed and slid in cautiously, lying on the very lip of the mattress. In the middle of admonishing herself for the steadily crumbling state of her moral virtues, she fell soundly asleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  Eyes pressing upon him. It was not a foreign one. Many times in the past Lord Adrian had experienced a similar sensation. It was part of the intricacies of his adopted trade to be able to perceive such occurrences. This time, however, it he was having difficulty adjusting his senses and evaluating his circumstances.

  He must be abed or so he concluded evidenced by the softness and warmth. Lord Adrian was almost certain a leg, other than his own, was crossed over his. Just where he could be was a mystery indeed.

  He had been in London, had gone through his meetings with Lord Palmer. Yes, he had completed them and with his reports official, he was to be free for a time. So where?

  Details ran slowly through Tretain's mind. Slowly the haze began to waft away.

  Of course. Mental fingers snapped in his head. He had been on his way to Trees. Snow had been falling heavily and then there had been a coach. He recalled falling, the endless sensation of falling. And yes, he remembered, a soft, clear voice that flowed as rich as honey ... or had he dreamt that?

  The awareness of someone staring came back to him. Tentatively he raised one eyelid, then slowly the other. Dusky as the room was in the early morning light, it was difficult to make out anything. Giving his head a shake to clear his vision, the earl took in his surroundings.

  A crude room he judged it—evidently a farmer's cottage. There was a fire that would soon need tending, some odd pieces of furniture, a small lad sitting on the foot of the bed, and a dark-haired girl beside him. He swung his gaze back to the lad who sat cross-legged and wrapped in a shawl.

  The boy's pale blue eyes were large, his visage sombre, his golden curls askance. He did not flinch as Lord Adrian regarded him for a time, then, glanced from the lad to the woman's head beside his. It was then Lord Adrian noticed it was her arm that was the curious weight on his chest.

  How did I come to this? he wondered, giving his head a shake. Where is Mallatt?

  "Is ... is ma mère ill?” the large-eyed boy whispered hesitantly.

  The anxious whisper drew Lord Adrian's attention back to the lad. The French phrase quickened his pulse.

  "Why..."

  The boy raised a finger to his.

  Tretain lowered his voice. “Why do
you ask?"

  "I cannot understand why she should share a bed with you. There are too few beds here,” he added honestly and then continued soberly. “On the ordinary ma mère does not sleep with anyone, other than Leora or me."

  "She does not?” Tretain repeated, his tone as serious as the lad's.

  A shake of the lad's head solemnly answered him. “Who is Leora?"

  "My enfant of a sister,” he shrugged petulantly. “She has made a nuisance of herself by becoming very ill."

  The boy's accent and French phrases aroused Lord Adrian's curiosity. “Where are we?” the earl asked in a hushed tone hoping not wake ma mère until he had as much information from the lad as possible.

  "I do not know. Some kind people—fermiers—are caring for us.

  "Why did your phaeton run into our coach? Do you always drive so carelessly?” the boy asked innocently.

  With a wince, Adrian shrugged that aside. “What is your name?"

  "André."

  "Just André?” He saw a balk come into the lad's eyes. “That is French—n'est-ce-pas? Où habitez-vous?"

  "Noun habitons Rouen—ah, Monsieur—ma mère says we must be anglais now.” André wrinkled his nose as if he did not understand the reason behind this.

  "Rouen? Is anyone with you besides Leora?"

  "There was Cora—la domestique de ma mere. Always wailing—worse than Leora. After the accident she refused to go on and ma mère sent her back with the coachman.

  "That is how we came to be with you,” he stated as if this explained all. “Mallatt was most displeased at first. He did not think ma mère should."

  Lord Adrian lift an eyebrow at the familiarity with which André spoke of Mallatt. “You say Mallatt did not want you to come with us?"

  "Oui. He said you would not care for it and that there was no way for Mama to ride. But Mama said you could not object as you were insensible. I have learned that Mama usually gets her way,” André sighed wistfully.

  "You do say? Interesting. Where is Mallatt now?"

  "He sleeps in Jem and Ned's room—although he was with you when I went to bed last night. I sleep in Alva's room."

  Deciding there was a lot he had to learn from his surroundings, Lord Adrian elected to try and get to the hub of matters. “What was Mallatt doing in here?"

  "He and Mama have nursed you for days. You had a fever from lying in the snow too long, Mama says,” André answered very knowledgeably. “What a great fuss you raised with your screaming and thrashing about. I heard Meg say Mama would be hammered black and blue from head to toe the way you threw yourself about. Not that I tried to overhear her,” he added, lowering his eyes.

  "I am certain you did not,” Lord Adrian assured André with a smile. “Did you happen to overhear anything else?"

  "Oui. Ah, yes. Meg thinks you are un mauvais mari. Dragging we innocents about with no maid or nanny to help Mama."

  "No doubt,” replied Lord Adrian dryly. The announcement that he was travelling en famille proved only a slight surprise at this point. Hearing footsteps in the hall, the earl closed his eyes as he cautioned André, “Tell no one you have spoken to me."

  "André, what be ye doing in here?” rebuked a motherly voice. “Your papa has been deathly ill and I wouldna’ be surprised if yer mama was on our hands before this be done. Between Leora and yer pap she has slept little these four days past.

  "Sit quietly while I add to the fire. They both need all the sleep they can sum up.” The rustle of skirts and thump of logs followed. “Come.” Lord Adrian felt André being lifted and then heavy steps went out of the room.

  So, Adrian thought, the auburn one beside him was a dedicated nurse. More interesting she hailed from Rouen. What had he heard of happenings there? Trying to recall, his thoughts began to swirl. Slowly he dropped back into an uneasy sleep.

  * * * *

  Downstairs, Meg placed breakfast before her family. “Let's be keepin’ the gagglin’ down,” she admonished as Ned clanged his spoon into his empty bowl. “Her ladyship needs her rest.

  "Ye should see her—sleepin’ like a lamb, the dear soul. From the looks o’ her man, he'll soon be in fine fettle again. ‘Tis a piece o’ reason I'd like to be givin’ him then."

  "That Lady Juliane is far differn’ any o’ them ladies o’ Quality we've heard tell of,” said Ned reflecting the deep respect and affection all held for Lady Juliane.

  "None o’ them puttin’ on airs, ‘cause she be bettern’ us neither."

  Alva came down the stairs leading André, now fully dressed.

  "Well Master André, do ye ‘ave appetite or no this morn?” asked Meg sternly.

  "I am very hungry, Mrs. Meg,” he answered with a bright smile.

  "Then to the table with ye. Alva—” The sounds of horses in the yard interrupted Meg. First she glanced a question at Jove and then tried to see who it was.

  "They'll be a comin’ to the door, woman. I'll see to ‘em,” Jove told her. He pulled on his heavy cloak and went outside where he found six men. Four were checking over Lord Tretain's phaeton, which his sons had brought to the yard only two days earlier.

  Peeking around the door, Meg watched. Two of the man she knew—Jacob and Tom from Time's Crossin', an inn not far from the fork where her folk had found Lord Adrian's phaeton. She was pleased when she saw Jem leading them to the cottage.

  "Warm brew—woman, be quick now. Pardon, yer honour, this be the best we have,” Jove said to the man directly behind him.

  "Never mind that. What other information can you give about these people?” demanded Squire Preston.

  "Nothin', sir. All we know I've told ye. They be Lord Tretain, his wife, and young un's. There was an accident—his carriage tipped over. They got lost tryin’ to find the Time's Crossin’ and strayed here. That were five days since and froze near to death they be then."

  "I must speak with Lord Tretain."

  "Beggin’ yer pardon, yer honours,” interrupted Meg, “but his lordship just passed the peak o’ a fever last night. He and his lady be sleepin’ and well needin’ it. Could ye talk to his man?"

  The squire had pulled off his left glove. He slapped it irritably in his right palm. “I suppose so,” he agreed with distaste.

  "Ned,” Meg jerked her head, a clear order for him to summon the valet.

  Ned allowed Mallatt no time to fully awaken before he dragged him before the squire. Mallatt was, after all, fully clothed, and his mum would be rare put out if Lady Juliane had to be got up.

  Mallatt valiantly tried to martial his intellect to the fore as he took in Squire Preston's stiff pose. His only thought was to ask why he might be heading for gaol.

  "You are Lord Tretain's man?"

  "Yes,” he thought to err on the side of flattery, “my lord. Mallatt."

  "You may address me as sir,” the squire tossed as an aside. “How is it you came to be here?” Preston asked. He motioned to the surroundings with distaste.

  Trying to garner a clue as to his intent, Mallatt looked at the others in the room. They seemed as puzzled as he.

  "There was a mishap, sir. We found our way here quite by accident."

  "Where was Lord Tretain bound?"

  "We were going to Trees, the earl's country estate, to visit his mother. She is not well."

  "Is it not rather odd to choose that particular carriage for travel with his family?” Squire Preston inquired diligently. “How did Lord Tretain's phaeton come to mishap?"

  Mallatt became increasingly uncomfortable. If only he knew the lay of the questioning. “My lord is somewhat ... impulsive. He wished to travel speedily. It is not for me to question,” he finished coldly.

  "Yes, yes.” The squire dismissed this with a wave of his hand. He had no wish to offend Lord Tretain, whom he knew by reputation only. The country estate was well known, for it laid less than a day's travel from here. He had not thought Lord Tretain to be married, nor to have children, but then one never knew about these young bucks.

  "Did you
see anything out of the ordinary as you travelled?"

  "Why, no, sir. Why do you ask?"

  "A devilish foul deed has been done, my man. A postilion and a lady's maid were found murdered not far from the fork. The postilion had come over three days travel and so was not known in these parts. Neither was the woman. The woman's baggage and the interior of the coach were torn apart as if the killers were searching for something of great import to them. Also I have had two reports of strangers being seen in the area, and,” he emphasized, “the reports indicate they are French.” He let this tidbit of knowledge settle in.

  "As magistrate it is my duty to investigate, but I have sent to London for a runner to assist me.

  "How much longer do you stay here? Well, man, answer me,” snapped the squire, apparently unaware of the effect of his news on Mallatt.

  Lost in thought, Mallatt rouse himself. “Stay here? Most likely not more than another day or two. As soon as my lord is ready and well enough to travel we shall go. His mother will be quite concerned."

  The squire had, by this time, drained the mug of warm brew Meg had handed him before his exchange with Mallatt. He looked at Jove and his sons. “Have you seen strangers near here?"

  The latter shook their heads negatively. “No, yer honour” Jove told him.

  "Keep your eyes open for any. I have no idea what this business is about. Perhaps this is all there will be to it.” He turned and stalked out.

  For a moment there was stark silence. Then everyone began to babble.

  "Murder! And not far from here!"

  "Did ye pass that coach?” they asked Mallatt.

  "What be the world comin’ to? A body's not safe anywhere in this wild world of ours,” Meg groused.

  Mallatt remained singularly silent throughout this. Certain that it was Lady Juliane's maid who had been murdered, he wondered what it meant. Perhaps a band of wandering cutthroats out for blunt. The squire was wrong about the murderers being French. Everyone was ready to see a frog behind anything these days.

  How was Lady Juliane concerned in this, if, indeed, she was? She had feared going back from whence she came and the boy's name was French. What had he gotten the earl into?