They exchanged puzzled glances.
Durant raised his hand to knock—and they heard a thump, a scream of agony, and Lady Lettice’s voice shout, “Get that filthy beast out of here before he does any more damage!”
Chapter Eleven
A second scream pierced the air, and before Michael’s gaze, Emma transformed from a timid, proper English girl into a steely-eyed Amazon. Turning the doorknob, she strode into the luxurious suite of rooms.
There, in the sitting room, holding his arm and rolling in agony on a soot-covered sheet placed before the fireplace, was a young boy no more than seven.
Lady Lettice was in her nightclothes and cap, wrapped in a white velvet robe now spotted with black, dancing up and down and shouting at the boy and the chimney sweep, who in his turn stood shouting at the boy.
The four maids crowded into the doorway of the bedchamber, watching with wide, dark eyes and exclaiming in the Moricadian language.
Emma paced into the middle of the chaos, pushed the chimney sweep aside, pulled off her gloves, and tossed them on the side table. “Get me my medical bag,” she told Lady Lettice.
“Get you your medical bag? What medical bag? Nothing here is yours. Nothing!” Lady Lettice shrieked at a decibel so high Michael knew dogs howled for miles.
Emma knelt, her knee in the powdery black soot, caught the boy by the shoulders, and spoke softly in his ear. Somehow she made him focus his gaze on hers, and when she had his attention, she took his forearm in her hands. Carefully, she slid her fingers over his skin, shook her head, and murmured, “Broken.”
Michael couldn’t take his eyes off her. How did she know? When had she learned so much? Turning to Lady Lettice, he intended to demand Emma’s medical bag.
Before he could move, Emma bounded to her feet and turned on the woman like a virago. “Give me my medical bag. Now.”
Lady Lettice’s bosom and chins quivered with indignation. “I will not. You made a fool of me. You made me a laughingstock.”
The words spilled forth from Emma like water from a broken a dam. “Lady Lettice, you need no help to be a laughingstock. You are an older woman courting younger men. You are of low morals and without gentility. Society laughs because you deserve to be laughed at. So, madam, give me my bag and I’ll let you leave Moricadia without telling everyone of your disreputable peccadilloes.”
Lady Lettice reared back, lifted her hand, and prepared to swing.
Michael caught her arm. “No.” A simple word, spoken forcefully.
Lady Lettice looked at him, looked at Emma’s blazing aquamarine eyes, and crumpled. “Your medical bag? I lost it. I gave it away. I threw it in the garbage on the street of this lousy stink hole.”
Emma walked around her, pushed past the maids, and entered the bedroom.
Michael held on to Lady Lettice’s wrist while she turned her pleading gaze on him. “You have to understand. I was good to her, and she was nothing but an ungrateful slut who went behind my back and frolicked with the gentlemen who might have wanted me for their wife. It is her fault I am held in disrespect.”
Emma came out of the bedroom with a carpetbag clutched in her hands.
Lady Lettice had apparently convinced herself she spoke the truth about Emma, for she had tears in her eyes.
Emma didn’t care. All her attention was on the child. “Michael, I’m going to need help,” she said, and he thought she would be shocked to realize she used his Christian name and a command tone.
Certainly Lady Lettice was shocked when he obeyed the unspoken summons, going to kneel beside her in the soot and wrap his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
“What’s your name?” Emma asked the child.
The boy didn’t answer, and the chimney sweep flushed with anger. “Answer the lady, you miserable churl!”
Emma lifted her head and looked at the man. “Get out.” She was using that voice again.
But the chimney sweep was the type of man who equated obeying a woman with weakness, and he snarled, “I paid for that kid and I’m not leaving her alone with some madwoman who wants to coddle her because she fell and got herself hurt.”
Emma looked at the sweep, and the gold in her eyes had vanished. They were now as hard and cold as green crystal. “This is a girl?”
“They’re thinner, smaller, and they’re always worried about the little ones at home, so they work harder. They’re motivated, you might say.” His voice rang with pride at his perceived intelligence, and he laughed. He didn’t even see the danger until Michael’s fist was an inch from his face.
Then it was too late to duck.
Lady Lettice screamed.
The sweep stumbled back, smashing into the wall, leaving a black mark that looked like a giant mosquito had been swatted there. His flailing arms brought down the Chippendale side table, the Chinese vase, the fresh flowers, and the lace scarf. The reverberation made the painting in its gilded frame swing wildly, then fall off and smack the sweep on the head. He slumped, unconscious, to the floor.
The girl under Emma’s hands chuckled hoarsely; then in rough, accented English, she whispered, “Elixabete. My name is Elixabete.”
“Elixabete, did you fall from the chimney?” Emma made eye contact again.
The child nodded.
“Your arm is broken. I’m going to wash it off; then this gentleman and I will straighten it. I won’t lie to you: It’s going to hurt very badly, but afterward it will feel much better, I promise. All right?”
Elixabete nodded, her eyes shockingly blue in her blackened face, her hopeful gaze fixed onto Emma’s.
Emma pointed at one of the maids. “Bring me water and a towel. Michael, hands here on her shoulders.” Emma laid out a clean cloth, then removed from her bag a corked jar, two sticks, and cloth torn into strips.
Elixabete didn’t stir, but she watched all the movements in the room.
With calm efficiency, Emma washed the arm, murmuring to the child all the while, reassuring her. Then, eyes half-closed, she felt along the bone with careful movements. She gave Michael a warning glance, took a long breath; then in a smooth, assured movement, she adjusted the arm.
Elixabete screamed. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran in rivulets down her sooty face.
Lady Lettice drew in a sharp breath, and fainted in an ungraceful heap on the floor.
Bernhard strode into the room, with one glance took in the unconscious chimney sweep, his unconscious guest, and the coal dust and water that stained the rug and the wallpaper, and broke into excited German that condemned the morals of everyone’s parents in the room, most specifically Michael’s.
As far as Emma was concerned, Bernhard might not have been there. She again felt the broken bone, then, with a satisfied smile, plastered the arm with a grainy white material, splinted it, secured the splint with strips of cloth, and looked around. The long lace scarf that had draped the table caught her eye. She caught one end of it.
Bernhard grabbed the other and screamed like a girl. “No. No, you may not!”
They played tug-of-war over the scarf until she turned a cold look on him and asked, “Would you like to find yourself in the same position as those two?” She nodded at Lady Lettice and the sweep.
Michael rose.
Bernhard took one look at Michael’s clenched fists and let go of the scarf. “I will call the prince’s men now!”
“You should,” she said cordially. “But before you do, you have a guest who’s insensible on the floor. You should tend to her before she wakes and discovers you’ve been indifferent to her needs. I assure you, Lady Lettice would make her displeasure known.”
Bernhard wavered, then hurried to Lady Lettice’s side and knelt, slid his arms under her, and lifted her off the floor with an audible, “Oof!”
Lady Lettice groaned, stirred, and curled her arms around his neck.
At Bernhard’s horrified expression, Michael grinned. Yes, my friend, you are in trouble now. He spoke to one of the maids, still trapped i
n Lady Lettice’s bedroom, then leaned against the wall and watched Emma’s deft handling of the situation. Apparently he had misread Miss Chegwidden. She was not the limp biscuit he had first perceived—or she seemed to think.
Emma wrapped the scarf around Elixabete, immobilizing her arm.
When she was finished, Elixabete said in a tone of surprise, “It does feel better!”
“Good.” Emma smiled at the child, her face warm and kind. Then she looked up at Michael, and determination shone through the dust and sweat on her face. “We need to get her home.”
Michael sobered. “As you say.”
But he knew Emma was not prepared for the sights she would see.
Chapter Twelve
As the pony cart descended into the old town, the roads got narrower and narrower, the houses taller, the shadows darker. The old town stank of garbage, and sewage ran in open gutters. People, unwashed and hostile, stopped to watch Durant, Emma, and Elixabete as they drove by.
Emma clutched the child closer, murmuring reassurances, while she wondered if they would be attacked for their shoes or her medical kit or the cheerful ribbons woven in the pony’s mane.
Yet Durant seemed to know where he was going, driving with assurance through the twisted streets to a gray, empty courtyard surrounded by tall tenements. Jumping out of the cart, he called, “Damacia!”
At once the shutters on the fourth floor swung open, and a young woman with an old face looked out. At the sight of the child, she paled.
“Mama!” Elixabete called faintly.
Durant started to speak, but Emma called, “She’s going to be all right. Her arm is broken, but it set well.”
Damacia covered her eyes briefly, then disappeared into the room. In only a few minutes, she appeared in the doorway on the ground level and ran to the side of the cart.
Elixabete leaned forward, wordlessly begging to be held.
Carefully, with Durant’s support and Emma’s assistance, Damacia picked Elixabete up. “You foolish lass, I’ve told you to stay home or you’d come to trouble.” She scolded her and at the same time cradled her against her chest.
“The baby’s crying all the time. She’s hungry.” Big tears filled Elixabete’s eyes. “We need my wages, and now . . . now what?”
Emma had never heard such despair, and from such a small child.
“Shh.” Damacia lifted her chin. “We’ll make do.”
Durant met Emma’s eyes and shook his head briefly, urgently. He didn’t want her to offer . . . anything.
Pride. These Moricadians were too proud to accept help, yet how desperately they needed it!
Other people appeared in windows and around the fringes of the courtyard, and two women ventured to the well in the center to draw water, all the while staring and observing.
“Thank you for bringing Elixabete home,” Damacia said. “Thank you both. Ever since Rickie de Guignard was killed, we’ve barely stirred out of our rooms for fear of the prince’s men catching us and asking their questions. Once they’ve held you, you might as well die of the shame.”
One of the women at the well thumped her bucket on the cobblestones. “Quiet, Damacia. For the sake of your children.”
Damacia shook her head fiercely. “This is the Englishman .”
Both women inhaled sharply. They seemed to know Durant by that title.
One bobbed a curtsy.
The other one, the one who offered a warning, edged away.
Emma watched, trying to understand, and thinking, This is a society broken and divided by fear.
Durant lowered his voice. “Has retaliation been bad?”
“Not too bad. They don’t really think it was any of us. They think we’re not smart enough to make a plan to be the Reaper. They know we haven’t the money for a fast horse, and they know most of us have never ridden. They imagine we’re too cowed to try to kill a pig like Rickie de Guignard.” Damacia’s voice vibrated with outrage. “Maybe we are, but we’re glad he’s gone.”
“Damacia. Quiet.” The other woman at the well spoke urgently.
Durant and Damacia paid her no heed.
“I heard that the Reaper is frightening away the gamblers who bring their money and squander it at Prince Sandre’s tables,” Durant said.
“Good.” Damacia laughed harshly. “I heard that Prince Sandre is angry because his men can’t catch and eliminate the Reaper, and he’s afraid he’ll become the butt of all the jokes in Moricadia. Our prince does not like to be viewed as a fool.”
“Then he shouldn’t try to catch the Reaper. The Reaper is the ghost of King Reynaldo, and ghosts can’t be captured.” Durant looked quite serious, as if he believed in ghosts.
Emma didn’t believe in ghosts . . . or she hadn’t until she came to Moricadia. Now a barely remembered skeletal face made her so faint with fear she dropped plates and wondered if she had been hallucinating.
“I heard that rumor, too. Maybe he is. I don’t care. Rickie de Guignard killed my husband.” Damacia spoke to Emma now, as if Emma would understand.
“I am sorry,” Emma said.
“He left Tiago’s body hanging at the crossroads for the birds to pluck out his eyes. I’m glad Rickie suffered the same fate, and I hope the birds had a chance at him before they cut down the body.”
The violence of Damacia’s sentiments shocked Emma, yet at the same time . . . if she had someone to love, and he had been so unjustly taken from her . . . She wasn’t without emotions. Surely she would be angry. Maybe even unforgiving.
She didn’t know. It had been so long since she allowed herself to feel anything but dull acceptance, she didn’t know what she would feel.
Durant lowered his voice. “I also heard that Reynaldo’s ghost is the harbinger of the true king’s return.”
The two women edged closer, straining to hear.
Damacia stared at him. “Is it?” Her words were no more than a breath.
“Of course, it would be worth more than your life to repeat such a report.” His eyes glinted as he spoke.
Damacia nodded without taking her gaze from him. “Yes. That would be very dangerous. I won’t repeat it.”
But the two ladies at the well stood transfixed, and Emma thought that if Durant was trying to start a rumor, he’d done a good job.
In a more normal voice, he said, “Elixabete seems to be an intelligent young lady. After a few days of recuperation, send her to Lady Fanchere’s. She has a position open for a scullery maid, and I know Miss Chegwidden would be glad to recommend her.”
“Indeed I would.” Emma smiled warmly at Damacia and her child. “Do you need assistance taking Elixabete to your rooms?”
“No, I thank you. My friends will help.” Damacia backed away from the cart. “Elixabete, say thank you to Miss Chegwidden.”
“Thank you.” Elixabete tried to smile, but her face was pinched with pain.
“Oh, wait.” Emma opened her medical bag and rummaged among the jars tumbled by Lady Lettice’s careless hand. She found the one she wanted and offered it. “Boil a spoonful of ground white willow bark in water, let it steep for thirty minutes, then have her drink it. She’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Durant climbed into the cart and slapped the reins on the pony’s back.
Emma turned back and called, “Keep that arm immobilized!”
She waited until they had driven out of the cesspool of lower Tonagra before bursting out, “Why is it like that there?” He started to answer, but she didn’t wait. “This country is so rich. So much money comes in from the rich visitors. And the native Moricadians live like that? Why?”
“Because the de Guignards and Prince Sandre have the power to hold the wealth, and they do.”
“That’s what Brimley said. But it’s a small country. The de Guignards could share the tiniest bit of what they have, and what a difference that would make. Leaving people to live like that”—she gestured back toward the tenements—“it’s criminal!”
“Yes.”
>
“Can nothing be done?”
“I was in prison for two years because Sandre thought I knew something about a conspiracy. So no. Nothing can be done.” He stared straight ahead, his expression stern, aristocratic. “Miss Chegwidden, keep your nose out of Moricadian business.”
Outrage almost lifted her from the cart. Two years in prison, yes. That was horrible in a way she knew she couldn’t comprehend. But to speak so coldly of this outrageous neglect, to say there was nothing to be done, when he was so pleasantly situated!
“Miss Chegwidden. You will not get involved with the Moricadian people.” His tone made it clear he was giving an order. “It’s hopeless. There are too many. You are no crusader, so don’t start now.”
She looked around. The Moricadian countryside embraced them, beautiful, rugged . . . cold, cruel, and hard. If Lady Fanchere turned her out, she would be on that road into the forest again, back toward a fate composed of fear and starvation.
Her indignation collapsed. He was right. Courage was a luxury she couldn’t afford, and didn’t have anyway. In a small voice, she asked, “Does Lady Fanchere really have an opening for a scullery maid?”
“She’s very kind, so yes, soon it will come to her attention that she needs another child to scrub the andirons.”
He wasn’t so bad, really. He was generous in a careless way, and he’d helped her set Elixabete’s arm without hesitation. She needed to stop judging him so harshly. After all, he was no more of a coward than she was herself . . . although he did have family and wealth to support him, should he choose. And for the life of her, she didn’t know why he didn’t choose that oh-so-easy life. Michael Durant was a bit of an enigma.
For the first time since they’d walked into the chaos of Lady Lettice’s room, Emma looked at Durant, really looked at him, and saw a man streaked with coal dust. “You’re a mess!” she said.
“My dear girl. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. Literally.” With two fingers, he wiped across her cheek, then showed her the soot that colored his skin.
In Bed With the Duke Page 8
