Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance

by Janet Louise Roberts

  Then she heard a shout. She glanced up, and saw the sedate butler, Forrester, in his fifties, greyed and serene, running towards her, his face a ghastly white.

  The roses dropped from her hands, she began to run towards him. She felt blood draining from her head and heart, she was dizzy. It was bad news — it must be…

  “My lady,” panted Forrester, reaching her. “He has come, he has come. Come — my lord says come —”

  She said one word. “Alive?” she asked numbly.

  At his nod, she came alive once more. She raced around the wall to the front, there to find a great carriage, closed, with dark panels, and a crest on them. And two footmen, with the earl directing them, were carefully lifting out a litter.

  Malcolm on it, white of face, bearded, a blood-stained bandage on his forehead.

  Reggie Darlington caught Valerie’s arm as she would have gone right to him. “My lady, keep clear. They will have him out in moments. He must be taken up to his room. He is exhausted.”

  “What — what happened?” she stammered. Her brain seemed fuzzy, she could not think. She could only stare as Malcolm was carried past her, his eyes closed, as though in death. “He — looks — so — oh, God, he is not —”

  “No, he lives. But the journey has wearied him, he is feverish, and knows not what he says,” said Reggie hurriedly. Now that Valerie looked at him, she found their gay light-hearted friend also haggard, unshaven, his garments pulled every which way, his hands stained with dirt and blood.

  Something dreadful had happened. Silently she followed the little procession into the house.

  Someone was sent to keep the countess away until Malcolm could be cleaned up, so as not to shock her so much. Someone else was sent hastily for the doctor.

  Valerie followed them up to the small room where Malcolm would sleep. His valet, faithful Ralph — greying, tall and thin — had with his usual efficiency prepared the bed for his master. They laid him down, and began cutting away his clothes, thick with dirt, encrusted with salt and blood.

  They would have sent Valerie away. “Not a sight for you, my dear,’ said the earl, and Louis Kenyon would have taken her arm and directed her out.

  She shook her head fiercely. Her courage returned as she saw Malcolm stir, heard him moan faintly.

  “No, I will help. We will need hot water. Oh, do not pull the shirt from him! Wait, let us soak it in water, and remove it gently, or the wound will open again.”

  She was at the bed in moments, easing Malcolm’s shoulders onto the pillows. He was hot to the touch, full of fever.

  A basin was brought hurriedly, then a footman came in with a pitcher of hot water. Valerie dipped a cloth in it, gently soaked the wounded area. Then slowly she pried the cloth away, gently so that it would not cause further bleeding. She forced herself not to remember that this was Malcolm, dear Malcolm. It was simply someone who needed her skilful aid and strength and courage.

  A nightshirt was brought from the immense cupboard. His wounds were bathed, ointment applied. Malcolm seemed easier, his moaning eased. He opened his eyes, gazed blankly at them.

  “Malcolm,” breathed the earl, bending over him anxiously. “Do you know me? Malcolm!”

  “Press on,” he moaned, “rally the men. Rally now. We must get through the lines … tonight … get through the lines … oh, God, the darkness…”

  His eyes closed again, his head turned on the pillows. The earl gently pressed his hand to the hot forehead, then bent and kissed his son’s cheek. “Oh, my son, oh, my son,” he murmured.

  “The countess will come,” said the butler. “Oh, sir, she should not see him this way.” In his anxiety, he was trying to keep the door shut against her.

  “Let her come in for a moment,” said Valerie quietly. “She needs to reassure herself that he is alive.” She reached out her hand for the trembling one of the countess as she came in. The other hand was cold and the woman shook as she gazed down at her son. “You see, he sleeps now, Maman,” Valerie said. “He shall have our good care and soon be well. How good to have him home!”

  The countess bent and kissed Malcolm, and tried to speak to him. He did not even moan, his face was contained and quiet, his eyes shut.

  “He sleeps, Mother,” said the earl, and drew her away, leaving Valerie and the servants with Malcolm.

  She sat by his bed until the doctor came. The valet quietly unpacked the thin valise that had arrived with Malcolm. She turned her head as he did so, and realized that he had laid out a packet of familiar-looking letters, all from her and the family. The sight brought a rush of tears. He had saved these, of all he had brought back with him. Her letters and those of his parents.

  The doctor arrived, a brusque good man from the village. He removed the night shirt and examined the wounds. Valerie forced herself to look also. There was a deep wound in the thigh, almost at the very place where he had been wounded before. The flesh was purplish and ugly. The doctor dug into it, and inserted some powdered medicine which made Malcolm moan and twitch. But it must be done, Valerie told herself.

  There was an ugly wound along his waist, and up almost to his shoulder. The doctor examined it, grunted, and said, “This must be watched. Infected.” He brushed it with medicine, used his knife to cut away some of the flesh that had turned dead white. Valerie remained, though he urged her away.

  The earl returned as the doctor was working over Malcolm. Valerie gave him a faint smile.

  “Reggie?” she queried.

  “Fed and sleeping in his guest room. We owe him much, my dear Valerie,” said the earl. “He shall tell us the entire story when he wakes. I think he literally dragged Malcolm from the troop ship and insisted on bringing him home to us.”

  Her attention returned to the doctor. He was painting the wounds with strong medicine. Malcolm moaned again, opened his hazel eyes, which looked much darker from the pain and fever. He gazed about blankly, stared up at the doctor.

  “Don’t … cut … it off,” he said feebly.

  “Eh?” said the doctor.

  “Don’t … mustn’t lose … my leg … never get home … never get home…”

  Valerie moved closer to the bed, across from the doctor. Her hand gently caressed Malcolm’s whiskered face. “You are home, my dear Malcolm, you are home,” she said, slowly and distinctly.

  His eyes looked at her, she thought he did not see her. But he sighed, and his eyelids closed again. He seemed quieter, so she continued to move her hand slowly over and over his face, gently over his chin and throat. He was so thin and worn, down to the bone, she thought.

  The doctor looked at the wound on his forehead, back up into the hair. Ruthlessly, he cut away some of the brown curly locks, so he could get at the wound over the temple. He cleaned it thoroughly, then brushed medicine on it.

  Finally he was finished. He washed his bloody hands in the fresh basin of water, dried them, as Ralph and Valerie tenderly pulled a nightshirt over Malcolm’s head, and settled him again.

  The doctor looked thoughtfully at Valerie. “My lady, you will nurse him? Or shall I send a man to do so?”

  Valerie looked at Ralph. “We shall take care of him,” she said, decidedly, as the valet nodded eagerly. “Just tell us what to do. Your instructions shall be followed carefully.”

  “Good, good.” He took out some tablets from his case. “Give him one tonight, and one tomorrow morning. I shall come again in the morning. We must watch the shoulder and thigh wounds. They must not be further infected, or he might lose — well, enough of that. I shall come daily until he begins to recover. Do not fret over the fever unless he becomes too hot. If he is hot, bathe his face and shoulders in cool water, not cold. Someone must stay with him night and day. Be sure the bandages are not knocked off as he stirs about in his sleep. Keep him warm and comfortable, easy in his mind. When he talks, speak quietly to him, and tell him he is home. That seems to soothe him.”

  They thanked him profoundly, and he left briskly. The earl said, “
We shall take turns with him. Valerie, you must rest, my dear. This has been a great shock to you.”

  She shook her head. “I am so relieved to have him home…” Her voice broke a little, she steadied it. “The waiting was worse. Now we can do something for him. Let me stay.”

  Valerie remained with him until afternoon. When Reggie was up, and able to tell his story, she did leave Malcolm with the faithful valet, and went down to hear his story.

  The handsome young ex-officer looked weary yet, but he managed to smile and leap up to greet her when she entered the drawing room.

  She went directly to him and took both his hands in hers. “How can we thank you, Reggie? You are the kindest person in the world. I am so eager to hear of what happened, I cannot endure to wait!”

  He smiled down at her, pressed her hands, raised one to his lips, and kissed it. “You shall hear all. I am eager to boast of it! Aunt Darlington would be proud of me at last! I have acted with passion and intelligence!”

  They all managed to laugh. They seated themselves again. A footman brought in a huge tea, on a rolling tray, and Valerie set herself to serve and listen at the same time. The countess had come down to hear, her colour pale, but she seemed more recovered. Servants hovered nearby, but no one had the heart to send them away. They too wished to hear and repeat to others in the household all that had happened.

  Reggie helped himself to huge sandwiches and tea with cream and much sugar. He seemed famished. They let him be satisfied first, waiting with contained patience until he would speak.

  He sighed, with satisfaction, set down the third sandwich, and began. “Well. I was in Piccadilly when I heard the news. A troop ship of our wounded would be in port — and the port was named to me by a friend.”

  “Some officers?” asked the earl eagerly, as Reggie paused for a big gulp of hot tea.

  Reggie nodded. “Ex-officers, with us in the war. Well, I determined to go down, and see if any friends of mine were aboard. I knew how the hospitals were in port, a chap would lie there for hours, maybe days. If I knew anyone, I’d get him some help quick. So I went back to Aunt Darlington, told her I wanted her biggest carriage, a couple of litters, and some blankets. She loaned me her two biggest grooms, hearty chaps — oh, I say, are they being taken care of?”

  Mr Kenyon said, “Treated royally, I assure you. Bed and food and all the wine they can drink. We cannot thank them enough.”

  “Good, good. Well, we went off straight away to the port, found all vast confusion. I looked about, managed to locate a mate on the ship — knew him from a voyage down to the Peninsula — asked him about his troops aboard. He said, ‘I say, a friend of yours is aboard, Major Villiers, and bad wounded.’ Then I knew it was fate that had drawn me to that ship. I said, ‘Got to see him, old chap, got to get him home.’”

  He paused to draw breath and drink more tea. Never had he had a more attentive audience.

  The butler had his head in the door, a maid was finding an excuse to help with the tea cups, two footmen hovered to help. The earl kept hitching his chair forwards to hear better, his hand to his good ear as an aid to hearing. The countess had her gaze fixed so on Reggie’s face, that she paid no attention to her plate.

  “Took a little arguing and persuasion. They were all for carrying Malcolm off to the hospital. I said he would get much better care and devotion at Arundel. Besides, his father would come up, the Earl of Arundel, I says, and would snort fire and brimstone — you’ll forgive me, sir, for what I said — and he would be all over them for not taking proper care of his son and heir. Now the Viscount Grenville, says I. When that seemed to be working, I threw in Aunt Darlington, and the Prime Minister, and His Majesty being personally interested, and they led me down to Malcolm. In a stinking hole — they couldn’t help it, the ship was packed with wounded, so you could scarcely walk between the litters. I found him, quiet and feverish, and not knowing anything.”

  He took another breath and went on.

  “Got my two husky chaps up on the deck, then went down again to the cabins. Got Malcolm up on my shoulders, and staggered up on deck, got my chaps and the litter. Then they didn’t want me to go ashore. I flashed some papers and a medal I got last year, and said ‘King’s orders, let me pass,’ and they did. Lord, Lord, didn’t know I could be so brazen. But I was determined on taking Malcolm out of that hell-hole. Oh, excuse my language!”

  He looked so absurdly distressed that they had to reassure him and beg him to continue.

  “That’s about it. I wouldn’t go back to London, might get stopped, out of the way anyway. Made straight for Arundel, holding Malcolm, changed horses every time I could get someone to change at an inn, went through the night, came straight here.”

  “And we are so immensely grateful, dear Reggie.” Valerie had tears in her eyes finally. She could picture Malcolm lying unconscious in the cabins, among rows of badly wounded men. Waiting for carriages to take them painfully to an equally crowded hospital ward. Waiting more hours for treatment. “I do not think I could have endured it, to hear that he had been taken to a hospital, neglected…” Her voice faltered, she put her hands briefly over her face.

  The earl got up awkwardly, went to pat her shoulder. “There, there, he’s home now, where he must stay. Courage, Valerie, you shall not break down now.”

  She shook her head. “No, I shall not. He is home, that is all that matters. We shall nurse him back to health.” She remained only a little longer, then excused herself, and returned to Malcolm.

  Reggie Darlington stayed a few days, proving himself a kind friend by sharing the night watches over Malcolm as the fever raged. Ralph, the valet, was devoted, sitting up night after night, always available in the day. The doctor came each day and renewed the ointments, watched fiercely for signs of greening in the wound. But it did not come. They fed Malcolm beef broth, fresh fruit, everything the doctor suggested, and his strength began slowly to gain.

  Finally the fever left, and so did Reggie, excusing himself gracefully as his Aunt Darlington needed him in London. They bade him farewell, and he promised to return, and they must write to him with news. They could not thank him enough for what he had done.

  Malcolm’s progress seemed unbearably slow to the anxious family and servants. It was a week before he seemed himself, and the fever left him, so that he knew he was home. He kept looking about, in a dazed manner, naming them, and speaking to them as though in a dream.

  “Valerie, is that you? I must write to you soon, I have not had the strength to write…”

  She would bend over him tenderly. “You are home, dearest Malcolm. Do not fret yourself, having you here is better than any of your dear letters. Do you not feel my hand in yours?” And she would press the weak fumbling hand firmly, and hold his fingers with hers.

  Finally he seemed to know he was home and even could sit up for a meal of sops and fruit juices. He fretted over his wounds, and sometimes thought he was back on the Peninsula. “I must start out soon on a mission,” he would say to Ralph, who would go running to Valerie.

  Then she would reassure Malcolm all over again that he was home with his family, that others carried on the war.

  She scarcely had time to read the gazettes and her letters. The earl kept her informed, and Mr Kenyon kindly read all the war news and told her in detail about the battles, in case Malcolm should ask in his peevish invalid way what was going on. By July he could sit up and was always in his right mind, but became even more difficult to manage, for he was too weak to get out of bed.

  Lady Deidre had been informed, of course, by the countess. They were amazed when she wrote, begging to come and “help nurse dear brother Malcolm.”

  It was the countess who said, with unusual firmness and resolution of mind, “No, of course she shall not come. We have no time for entertaining. Nor would it be suitable for her to be in his sickroom. I shall write and tell her to wait until autumn.”

  Valerie was glad of that. She had enough on her mind, nursing M
alcolm, reading and answering letters from friends. Lady Darlington had written several times, in a gracious manner. Her tart wit and sardonic expressions were a delight to Valerie. Reggie would add a humorous scrawl of his own.

  We long to meet you in London. I am assured by Reginald that I shall find you most congenial. He praises your intelligence, your coolness and courage, and also your beauty. Much that men know of it! I have yet to find a man who could find intelligence in a beauty. They are more like to find weakness that they may exploit! London is mad this season, you would be vastly amused by the devilments. I long to meet you, shall you come to London? My best wishes to your dear husband, Malcolm, I wish him well, and that right shortly.

  During the night hours when Valerie stayed up with Malcolm, she kept herself awake by writing. She wrote letters to Mrs Fitzhugh, who continued to correspond. She informed Valerie of the family, how they longed to see her again, the new governess, who was proper and wise, but not their dear Valerie.

  She wrote to Lady Darlington, who wrote back witty letters and also sent the newest books from the publishers and advised her in her reading. Lady Darlington had troubled herself to find the articles and stories that Valerie had written, and wrote to praise, suggest and criticize with much acuity of vision.

  “What do you write all the time?” Malcolm asked feebly one night, as the candle burned low on the small desk near his bed.

  Valerie started and looked around, then came to him. She bent and pressed her hand to his forehead. It was cool, no more fever in him, and she smiled with pleasure and relief.

  “Letters, articles,” she said, in answer. “How do you feel? Shall you have a drink of water?”

  He nodded and struggled to sit up. She reproved him gently, poured out the water, and slid her hand under his head to lift him slightly. He drank slowly, then lay back, watching her contentedly.

  “You are not … getting … sleep,” he said, in the weak tones that seemed but a frail echo of his former hearty voice.