“Yes, I shall. Ralph shall come at midnight and watch with you.” She seated herself beside the bed, in the low rocker. “I am so glad you are recovering. The doctor has been so good, watching over you with such care. The wound in your thigh is healing rapidly now.”
“It has been … so long. I should be up … my regiment needs me.” His head turned back and forth fretfully on the pillow. “You cannot imagine it, Valerie. The men dead, the wounded. I never saw anything so horrible as Talavera.” He shuddered, and lay quiet, his eyes closed, the sweat breaking out on his brow.
She rinsed a cloth in cool water and laid it on his brow. “And I pray God nightly that the war will soon be over. Wars are so terrible…” Her voice broke. “All those lives, wasted.”
Malcolm shook his head softly but did not seem to have strength to contradict her. There was a new look about him, of gravity, of maturity, new lines engraved about his nose and mouth, over his forehead.
He slept then, and she sat and watched his face. A new worry nagged at her. Would he be so insane as to return to the battles, after the long struggle to keep him alive? She could not bear it, if he should leave again.
And then she knew, as the even breath of her husband assured her that he slept deeply. She knew that she loved him, that she had worried and wept over him before this because she loved him, and felt tied close to him by deeper bonds even than matrimony. She felt tied by a devotion to him, a love for him, deeper than any she had felt for her father and brother. Gently, lightly, she stroked his big hand, the tanned hand that lay so limply on the blanket.
She loved him, and he had married her on a toss of the dice! She wished so fervently that he had married her for love, not pity. What would become of them? Would he want to discard her for one of a gay frivolous nature such as Lady Deidre? Or would he discover in himself, at last, a longing to settle down with Valerie, to have children, to follow in his father’s steps?
With this new knowledge hidden in her heart, Valerie went through the next days and weeks. July turned to August. Malcolm was allowed to sit up for some hours each day. He was fretful and must be entertained. She read to him, wrote letters for him, talked to him. The earl came often and tried to talk to him about the estate. However, Malcolm was fretful about that also, and professed to know little of such matters.
“But you must get out, Valerie, you are so white and tired,” Malcolm finally said to her. “Go out for an hour, then come back and tell me what you see.”
He insisted, and she went out and found pleasure working in the garden once more. The sun felt so good, the birds sang, and there were honeysuckle vines with hummingbirds dipping deeply into their long tempting sweetness. She cut several of the late yellow tea roses, arranged them in a tall blue vase, slim and pretty, of China porcelain, and brought them to Malcolm.
“Where did you go?” he asked instantly, and wanted to hear every step of her path.
“You shall see our Shakespeare garden one day,” she told him, and went on to describe it. He watched her face, smiled a little, frowned a little, begged her to talk more about whatever she would.
She formed the habit, then, of going out for an hour or two in the morning and the afternoon, and was the stronger for it. The August sun shone brightly, the flowers seemed to burst forth from their buds.
September came and went. Malcolm was able to sit in a large easy chair near the window, wrapped in blankets, and wave to her in the garden below. She was intensely conscious of his watching, and sometimes held up to him an especially lovely flower, or pointed to the bushes or trees, as they turned from green to red and golden hues.
She brought him herbs and flowers to smell, some for his vases, some to hold in his hands. She taught him the differences between them, and the uses of some of the herbs. They read together the Shakespeare volumes, and then went on to others, some novels, some plays, and volumes of essays, which Lady Darlington was pleased to send to them.
Finally it was October, and Malcolm was strong enough to stand briefly, to be dressed in “proper clothes,” as he said gleefully. He shaved off his whiskers, the head wound was healed, and left but a long red scar near the hair line. He used a cane, and was able to come downstairs one memorable October day, to remain for tea and then dinner in the evening.
It was a celebration. The butler poured out champagne for them all and beamed at everyone, with a most un-stately expression on his happy face. The maids fluttered about them, the footmen found excuse to come in every few minutes to hear the laughter and joyful conversation.
“You must all toast my recovery,” said Malcolm, impetuously. “Forrester, you will bring us champagne for the toast. And in the pantry, everyone tonight must toast my recovery! And I thank you all for your help!”
The butler beamed, bowed, and murmured that it was a great delight and joy to them all that my lord had recovered. The earl then raised his glass to Malcolm, who grinned at him.
“To my son, my very … dear … son … and his safe return home. Thank God for you, my dear boy!” said the earl, and Valerie felt tears very close as she raised her glass to drink with them.
The earl turned then to her, his glass filled again. “And to your wife, Valerie. For her courage, her patience, her goodness to us all, the strength that helped encourage us while you were gone, Malcolm. To your wonderful and devoted wife, Valerie!”
They all drank to her, the countess beaming and patting her hand with her frail one. Valerie flushed and avoided Malcolm’s eyes. He looked very thoughtful, suddenly.
It was a very happy evening. They were all, as the earl put it, “slightly drunken! Very very slightly, for sheer joy and happiness. We must have some of the fine brandy tonight with our coffee. What better occasion … except one … And then the earl looked very thoughtful and pleased, in his turn.
Valerie wondered briefly what occasion he referred to, then forgot his words. She would long remember that happy evening. For it was the last one she really enjoyed. The next day Lady Deidre arrived, with her abigail, her trunks and her valises, prepared for a long stay.
Dancing in, beautiful as ever and as bewitching in sheer black chiffon and silk, Lady Deidre clasped the hands of the countess. “Oh, my dearest, how I have missed you.” And then she turned to Malcolm. “Oh … Malcolm … my dear.” And she kissed him on both cheeks, like a sister.
Or not like a sister. Valerie saw the lively blue eyes, the shimmer of effective tears, the brilliance of the smile she had bestowed on Malcolm.
“And you are practically well again,” said Lady Deidre, and clasped her hands together, with her blonde hair making her look like a holy angel. “Oh, praise God for it! I have prayed and prayed for you! How I wanted to come and help! But now I am here, and I shall help amuse you in your recovery! You shall all be lively again!”
It sounded like a threat to Valerie. The countess was definitely happy to see Deidre, the earl had to smile at her brightness and charm. And Malcolm — Malcolm spent the next two hours at her side, talking to her, listening to her, in apparent complete delight. He could not take his gaze from her beautiful creamy face, the blonde curls teasing at the white throat, the effective black lace against her chin, the small white hand that touched his arm every now and then in gentle sympathy.
CHAPTER 8
Deidre came, lingered, dominated every conversation when they were together. Valerie watched in silence, feeling peeved, cross, finally very concerned. Malcolm seemed to enjoy her so much, he laughed more often at her wit, the stories she told of her friends, and what went on in London.
Deidre took it on herself to read him the gazettes, so they were together each morning for two hours, alone in the drawing room. She read prettily, skipping over the war news hastily, then going on to comment on the gossip pages and the doings in Parliament. She had met many of the men concerned, and always had some personal note that made them alive and real.
Valerie spent more and more time in the gardens, or off in a carriage with the ea
rl. She was not happy, but she kept busy, and so the time went.
A brother officer came home and sent on to Malcolm the personal possessions that he had had to leave behind in Portugal on their hasty sailing. Malcolm opened the trunk and took out the contents with great pleasure.
“My sweaters that you knitted, Valerie! How warm and comfortable they were under my coats, I assure you! It was a miserable cold and wet winter. And even the home of the Portuguese don was sometimes chilly of an evening.”
Valerie lifted the sweaters, noted how worn and torn they were. One had an immense rip in it, just over the breast. She swallowed.
“I must make more for you. It will be cold this winter again,” she said quietly. “Shall I have these washed?”
“No, throw them out,” he said, looking at the rip also, his face rather grey and weary. “They have done their service.”
She said nothing, but folded them up to carry them away, thinking she would keep them, hidden in her wardrobe. She wanted to remember that they had kept Malcolm warm and protected for a time.
He threw out his old socks, then dived again into the trunk to bring up a package wrapped in crackly paper. “There, there it is! I bought a Spanish shawl for you, Valerie, the prettiest I could find.”
Beaming, he shook it out of the paper and held it up. She caught her breath in pleasure. The shawl was large, of a creamy silk, patterned in deep red roses, green leaves, and a long fringe. She swept it about her shoulders, over her green dress, and it covered her shoulders and arms, ending down below her waist, with the fringe hanging below her hips.
“How beautiful! It is most lovely, thank you, Malcolm!” She fingered the silk, her face glowing that he had thought of her and bought it for her. “I shall wear it of an evening, the Spanish touch is all the fashion! It would look well over my cream taffeta.”
“You look very lovely in it.” He stood, seeming to wait, and she glanced at him questioningly. With a shrug, he turned back to the trunk, took out another parcel. He seemed a little embarrassed. “I brought you also a black mantilla, Valerie, but would you mind if I gave it to Deidre? She enjoys presents so much, and it will help take her mind off her grief for Eustace. She misses him so much.”
Valerie bit back a tart word. She looked at the lovely black lace mantilla, imagined it on Deidre’s blonde head, and said, gallantly, “Of course you must, Malcolm. And it will look beautiful on her, she is stunning in black.”
“She does not wear black because she is beautiful in it!” Malcolm said it sharply, as though Valerie had criticized. “She is genuinely in mourning for Eustace, though you do not seem to believe it!”
“Oh, yes, I believe it,” murmured Valerie. Slowly she took off the Spanish shawl, and folded it with shaking hands. Lady Deidre was succeeding in making them further apart. Was this in innocence, or was it a part of a plan? Surely she did not think to win Malcolm as her husband, he was a married man already. But Valerie took her sober thoughts with her back to the bedroom, where she folded away the shawl and Malcolm’s discarded sweaters.
She was present when Malcolm gave the mantilla to Lady Deidre at tea that afternoon. Deidre opened the paper with pleasure, cried out happily at the sight. “Oh, I must try it on at once!”
She ran over to the mirror that decorated the top of the mantelpiece, and laid the black lace carefully and coquettishly over her blonde curls. It was stunning, and she turned back to Malcolm for his approval.
“Beautiful,” he said with charm, and came to arrange it a little differently. “The Spanish ladies wear it so, with the point down over the forehead, just above the eyes. It makes their eyes shine, just as yours are now, Deidre.”
She reached up impulsively and kissed his cheek. “How kind you are to me, Malcolm!” she murmured.
He patted her cheek. “And you appreciate everything so much,” he said. There seemed to be some meaning behind his words. He returned to his seat. The earl was scowling over his tea, and the countess looked thoughtfully at Deidre still admiring herself in the mirror. Louis Kenyon muttered something under his breath, set down his cup, excused himself, and left the room.
Valerie felt a little sick. She remained, to chat quietly with the countess, while Deidre perched near Malcolm’s chair and talked brightly with him about London, the mantilla setting off the bright gold of her hair.
“I have about half a dozen of these mantillas, from my officer-beaux,” Valerie heard Deidre say. “However, I shall cherish this one the most, because it is from you, dearest Malcolm!”
Valerie was shocked. She broke off her sentence, stared at Deidre, who was patting Malcolm’s hand confidingly.
“Is it the London fashion, to accept presents from men not of one’s family?” Valerie asked sharply. Malcolm glared at her. Deidre looked troubled, then laughed.
“Oh, my dear Valerie, you really must be presented in society, and learn our ways,” she said gaily. “You really do not comprehend London at all! It is not like the country. We are more like Parisians! I shall explain it to you. One does not accept a dress, but one can accept gloves, or a mantilla, something for the hair, or jewellery. An intimate garment, no, but something like this, yes, it is quite proper.”
“I see,” said Valerie coldly. She was furious, and soon left the room. She retired to the study and sat down in the comer with her papers.
Louis Kenyon glanced over at her wryly. “One does not leave the battlefield if one wishes to win the battle, my dear,” he said gently.
She tossed her head defiantly. “I am not in a battle, sir!”
“I’m afraid that you are, Valerie,” he told her. “And the enemy is clever and has many weapons you would scorn to use.”
She compressed her lips and tried to work on an article. Now that Malcolm was recovered, and Deidre amused him by the hour, she found time hanging heavy on her hands. She went out in the carriage, travelling about the estate when she could, or worked in the greenhouse or the gardens. However, when she must, she retreated to the study and worked on the books there, or composed letters and articles. She found herself too troubled in mind to concentrate on it, but it gave her a pretext to be away from the sight of Deidre hanging on Malcolm’s arm, or touching his hand with gay confidence, or whispering little witty things to him.
Malcolm came in presently, limping heavily and leaning on the cane which had been his grandfather’s. The earl had unearthed it and given it to him, a fine ebony cane with an ivory handle, made in India.
He glared at Valerie, working quietly in the corner at her desk. “Must you hide yourself away? This is not polite to our guests,” he barked.
“Have we guests?” she asked, with mock innocence. “I thought it was only family this evening.”
“You know very well that Lady Deidre is our guest!”
“You manage to entertain her very well. I do not know London society, so I bore her,” snapped Valerie.
Louis Kenyon got up, and discreetly left the room.
“Come now, that is no excuse. You should remain, and learn of manners from her! If you would but talk to her, you would learn much! She has been in the finest society.”
“She does not wish to talk to me, but to you,” said Valerie, irritably. “She cares not for what women have to say.”
“That is a very unjust remark! I am surprised at you, Valerie. I thought you prided yourself on having a cool and intelligent mind!” he jeered.
The earl came in, heard their upraised voices, and frowned at them. He closed the door after him. “Good, good, you are alone. I wished to speak to you both,” he said sternly.
Valerie felt immediately like a rude child. She got up and went over to him. “I am sorry, sir, we are quarrelling again. I have a quick temper, I fear.”
She hated for the earl to be upset, she knew how troubled he had been over Eustace, then the long worry over Malcolm. She patted his shoulder soothingly, and he took her hand in his.
“Malcolm,” he said, beckoning to his younger son. “C
ome here. I would talk seriously to you also. I know you and Valerie strike fire off each other like flint and iron. However, you are married, and she has been a good and devoted wife to you. No one could have been more thoughtful of your mother and me, no one more conscientious a nurse to you.”
“Yes, I realize that, Father — however,” Malcolm began belligerently, “her manners to our guests…”
“That is another thing altogether. I will speak to you on more serious matters.” The earl flushed, his bearded cheeks showing red above the greying hair. “Your valet has confided in me, at my request, that you do not sleep together.”
Malcolm stared at his father, his pale invalid’s face began to flush. Valerie burst in, her voice high-pitched.
“He has been very ill, Papa!” she said. “You cannot expect…”
“He is well enough to hop around all day,” said the earl sternly. “Now, if I had been him, I would have been in my wife’s bed as soon as possible, as soon as I had recovered my senses, wounds or no wounds. Nothing could have kept me from her side! But you, Malcolm, you seem somewhat lax in your marital duties!”
“Valerie has shown no signs of wishing me near. While I was gone, she went off at once to the far ends of the country,” said Malcolm sullenly.
“What is in the past, is in the past,” said his father. “You are married, you are my only son and heir. Do you ever think of the future, of Arundel, of your family? You must have children, I want my grandchildren at my knees before I depart this earth! No such shilly-shallying around will do!”
Valerie felt one fiery blush. She could not look at Malcolm.
“Valerie does not wish to live up to our marriage vows,” said Malcolm bitterly. “She has told me bluntly she wishes a divorce. I do not please her, I am no intellectual! I do not even amuse her, as Reggie Darlington does!”
“Enough of such bickering!” said the earl sternly, forcefully. “It is your part to woo your wife, Malcolm, and I am ashamed of you that I must remind you of it! If I were young, and had such a charming lovely devoted wife, I should not be slow about wooing her!”
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 10
