by Darcy Burke
“Hold this,” Mrs. Kent demanded as she pressed a fine scarf over Miriam’s face. More heat, and now it was hard to breathe. Panic tightened her muscles like the turning of a screw as Miriam’s first breath came with a full, harsh wheeze.
Miriam’s body had gone rigid beside him. Fear hollowed out Richard’s belly. Beside him, Miriam kept her face turned upward to the sun, what he could see of it. The shawl Mrs. Kent had insisted she use to cover her face was plastered over her mouth and nose in a ghoulish echo of a death mask. Richard did not know how to help, and anyway Mrs. Kent didn’t appear to want his assistance. She had lurched out of her seat like a frantic crow flapping over its offspring.
Good lord, I’ve killed her, Richard told himself with a shot of fear. One death at his hands was bad enough. He could not be responsible for another, no matter how accidental. Miriam was too gentle and lovely to deserve death on a balmy summer afternoon. His terror awakened the small part of Richard that wanted to deserve her.
“Drive slower! You’re kicking up too much dust,” Mrs. Kent ordered. Richard murmured to the driver, who grunted and complied. The next minute Mrs. Kent demanded, “Drive faster; we must get her home.”
A pale sweat had broken out over Miriam’s forehead as she lay back against the squabs.
If only he’d failed to secure the stupid carriage, this would never have happened. But he’d been loath to disappoint Miriam, so last night he’d sent a messenger to Lizzie’s husband’s domicile to ask for a carriage and horse suitable for courting. He had left the note unsigned.
This morning he received a similarly terse communication. Rent one.
Richard delayed her errand boy long enough to compose a brief reply, though not his temper. If you wish for me to court your friend, find me a horse and carriage for tomorrow afternoon.
An hour ago, Lizzie had knocked at his apartments. She’d brushed past him with a glacial sidelong glare. “The buggy outside belongs to my sister. I need it back in an hour. She thinks I’m shopping for a gift for Arthur. He’s agreed to drop his annulment petition. For now.”
She’d seemed upset, but Richard was finished with Lizzie’s dramatics and he didn’t bother to inquire as to why. His thoughts were tangled with Miriam’s curls and the milky paleness of her soft skin. There had been no hello, how are you feeling? Every ordinary thing two people might say upon meeting had felt like a waste of breath. His hatred of Lizzie had grown in direct proportion to his affection for Miriam. He couldn’t walk away from Miriam, in part because he knew now that Lizzie intended to have her friend’s fortune by any means necessary. He was only the dupe stupid enough to have fallen into her blackmail scheme. Foxy Lizzie had outwitted him—but he still hoped to return the favor. Not that he meant to protect Miriam, precisely, but if that proved to be a way to strike back at Lizzie, he had no compunction about courting the girl.
“What will you do while I’m out?” he’d demanded.
“Sit here. Read your newspapers.” Lizzie’s footfalls tapped over the floor, silencing abruptly when she came to the large rug that covered the floor. She traced a finger along the surface of the wardrobe where he stored his few belongings. Her glove came away covered with a thin layer of dust. She rubbed her fingers together. “Drink your wine, if you have any.”
“I don’t.”
“My, my. You have fallen hard and fast for frail Miriam Walsh,” Lizzie mocked.
Richard’s hands had clenched into fists, but they remained at his sides. There was no point in challenging her, and for all his many faults, Richard had never hit a woman. “I see you’re residing with your husband again.”
Lizzie sniffed. “For the moment. I’ve no intention of living as an outcast if you fail at wooing Miriam into marriage. Lord knows how she has pined for a man’s affections. It ought to be a simple task to win her heart. Even you ought to be able to accomplish it.”
Richard had slammed the door behind him as he departed. He didn’t like leaving her in his home. His few letters from his brother—more often, from his brother’s secretary—were locked in a drawer, along with his banking information and a bit of coin he used for daily needs. Though he kept the key on his person, he didn’t put it past Lizzie to pry open the drawer and read or steal its contents.
Fearing a slip of a woman a head shorter and five stone lighter shamed him, yet there was an inexplicable devilishness to Lizzie. Richard could never speak of it aloud, especially not to Miriam, who insisted upon believing the best about her friend. He couldn’t tell Miriam the truth without revealing his part in this fiasco, either. Instinct told Richard that she would take Lizzie’s side over his. In his experience, women took heartbreak hard—witness the courtesan who’d left him over a rundown piece of property. Blast Lizzie and her schemes. Richard didn’t like thinking about money, or people’s motivations, or worst of all their feelings.
Jarred back to the present, he finally located the last flap holding the buggy’s hood back and hauled it upward.
Between the driver’s attempts to accommodate Mrs. Kent’s contrary, panicked demands, and focusing on the horses, he had been little help with raising the top. But now he had it in place. Richard savored his small, singular accomplishment. Mrs. Kent fumbled with the little kit, pouring water and a powder into a small tin bowl.
“Let me help,” he offered, steadying the bowl so Mrs. Kent could use both hands.
“Lean over it and breathe, as best you can,” she murmured to Miriam.
The harsh, high-pitched sound Miriam made as she struggled for each breath chilled the marrow of Richard’s bones. Guilt and shame, his ever-present companions, sullied his relief at Miriam’s slow improvement. After a few minutes awkwardly draped over the bowl, she sat up, pale. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Miriam refused to meet his eyes.
“Drink this,” Mrs. Kent held out a tiny flask. Miriam made a face but meekly tossed it back. She gagged and handed it back.
“I am so embarrassed,” she whispered hoarsely with a stricken look in her eyes.
“Don’t be. I wish I’d known to put the top up. I thought…I didn’t know, and I didn’t ask,” Richard murmured. The words came from the small place in his heart that regretted his entire life. It mattered to him that his thoughtlessness might have cost Miriam her life. He didn’t know what to do with the strange new fear that he might lose her entirely.
Miriam kept her gaze downcast, avoiding his eyes during the short ride back to the Walsh’s home. The awkward silence felt like an eternity. When they turned the corner to her street, Livingston Walsh was out front of their residence. His dark brown jacket and dusty boots indicated he’d just returned. Her father turned from joyful to thunderous as he observed his daughter’s slumped form. Richard swallowed.
“Don’t tell Father I had an attack,” Miriam pleaded. As though they had any hope of concealing it, Richard thought. Not with her pretty spring-green dress damp with sweat.
“I am not in the habit of keeping secrets from Mr. Walsh,” Mrs. Kent replied crisply. The buggy pulled up.
“Lord Northcote, make yourself useful and fetch the kettle from the stove downstairs. Then, I need you to leave. The sooner I wash the dust from Miss Walsh, the better.”
Helpless, Richard made his way to the kitchen and did as he was asked. Boiling water had been one of his newly acquired skills upon arriving in America. Growing up, there had been servants to handle the tedious aspects of life. He had not appreciated how heavy water was until he was forced to carry it himself. With his stomach churning, he carried the hot water upstairs to what he assumed was Miriam’s bedroom. He found the family clustered in an airy, bright room where Miriam lay upon a white counterpane. Mrs. Kent accepted the kettle and poured a small dash into a silver bowl with a white powder.
“Breathe,” she ordered Miriam.
“Not with him standing here,” Miriam rasped.
“I’ll go.” Richard spun on his heel. He hadn’t understood the depth of Miriam’s illness until now. It te
rrified him to think that this sword of Damocles hung over her head at all times, waiting to strike at any moment. He paused with his back turned to her, respectful of her desire that he not see her in her suffering. “You are an extraordinary woman, Miss Walsh. I have never met anyone as brave as you.”
“I am nothing of the sort, Richard,” Miriam insisted in a pained tone. Her voice already sounded stronger. Richard exhaled a silent prayer of thanks. He closed his eyes and turned to face her.
“It takes you more courage to step out of your front door each day than it takes most people to cross an ocean, Miriam.” Richard had to push the next words out past the hard lump in his throat. “You are worth protecting. I would be honored to be your protector.”
One of the lessons Richard had scoffed at whilst in Cambridge was that words had power. He felt their ability to manifest change as heavy, locked plates of hardened emotions shifted and cracked in his chest. Tears burned the insides of his eyelids when he blinked. For a horrifying moment Miriam’s wondering face blurred.
He’d spoken the truth. “Northcote.”
If Satan himself had called his name Richard would not have been surprised to turn and find his devil form over his shoulder. Instead, it was Livingston Walsh.
“My daughter needs to rest.” He jerked his head to the door.
“Of course.” Richard bowed to Miriam, belatedly realizing that Mrs. Kent had loosened her dress. The sight of her bodice sagging low enough to show the tops of her breasts seared into his memory instantaneously. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Miriam. Mrs. Kent.” He bowed again and followed Livingston down the stairway into the foyer. Livingston gestured for him to follow him outside. The horses and their driver sat in the street, streaked with dust. He must get back.
“I don’t care how it happened. You couldn’t even keep my daughter safe for a simple ride. You’ll go home and write her a letter. Praise her eyes, her fine teeth, her intelligence. Hell, tell Miriam her taste in gowns is nice; I don’t care. Say a few kind words to let her down easy.” He inhaled like Hades about to blow upon his forge. “If I ever see you darken this doorstep again, I’ll kill you. Just as surely as you’d kill her if you came near again. Understand?”
“Sir.” Richard cast a glance at the impatient driver, less in agreement than to stave off banishment. “I cannot agree to that.”
There was a child who depended upon him seeing this through. More compelling, there was a woman who had received her first kiss from his lips whom Richard would rather tear his own arm off than disappoint.
“Then I’ll shoot you,” Walsh replied with menace. He shifted his weight to reveal a large pistol in the waistband of his trousers.
“Right, then,” Richard said. It wasn’t the first time someone had threatened to shoot him, but it was the first time he’d believed the threat. There was nothing for him to do but retreat and reconsider his next move.
When he arrived home, Richard discovered that Lizzie had helped herself to the chicken pie he’d saved for supper. He found her eating the last slice with her legs draped over the arms of a wood-backed chair, artfully placed to catch the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows at the best possible angle. His newspapers were as he’d left them, stacked beneath his bedside table, undisturbed. Whatever she’d been up to, Richard couldn’t discern it.
“The horse and carriage are outside,” he declared, spent and wishing her gone.
“So, I gathered.” She bit into an apple and chewed loudly. “You’ve received a letter from your brother. He wants you to come home to England.”
“How do you…” Richard stopped. Lizzie’s skirts rustled as she stood up, revealing a creamy paper addressed to him. She had read the entire thing. Why should he be astonished at this invasion of his privacy?
“It arrived while you were out with Miriam. Progress, my love?” Lizzie tossed the letter at his chest as she passed by. Richard scrambled to catch it.
“How dare you—” he seethed, but there was no point in finishing the thought. Lizzie shrugged.
“For a man I had planned to leave my husband for, you are not especially concerned for your family’s future.” She rubbed her belly. Was it a fraction rounder? Richard couldn’t decide. White-hot fury coursed through him.
“You’re the only one who ever planned that, Lizzie. I never even wanted you.” The truth slipped out so easily that it astonished Richard. Lizzie stopped short.
“Miriam only wants you because I had you first. She was always jealous of me at school.”
Richard laughed. “Miriam pities you.”
Lizzie’s eyes narrowed into dangerous points. “Get on with marrying her, Lord Northcote. Get access to Miriam’s stock funds. I shall go with you to England. You may introduce me as your wife. We can start over, afresh. No one will know I’m a bigamist. Not if we don’t tell them.”
Sick helplessness doused his fury in an instant. “No, I won’t lie, Lizzie. My mind hasn’t changed. I don’t love you. I never did. I don’t want you. I promised to take responsibility for the child. If there is one.”
Lizzie slapped him. His cheek stung with the force. “How dare you question me,” she spat. He closed his eyes as she stomped to the door and slammed it behind her, just as he’d done scarcely two hours ago. What a lovely relationship they had. Their poor child. What a situation he or she would be born into.
Alone, Richard picked up the letter and began to read. The fragile bloom of hope that Lizzie had crushed with her boot heel moments before sprang to life, renewed. Optimism swelled his heart until he thought it would burst.
Richard, it began without preamble.
After much reflection I have found much to regret in my own actions leading up to our father’s death. I find I forgive your past actions and regret sending you away. I wish to make a fresh start with you. As a brother. In a gesture of conciliation, I have petitioned the Crown to bestow a minor title and expand the lands upon which your misbegotten country cottage is located. It was Father’s dying wish. Come home and claim your birthright.
Yours,
Lord Edward Northcote, Earl of Briarcliff
Chapter 12
Miriam had never seen her father in such fury. She hoped never to see him so again.
“Blasted shit-for-brains nobleman taking my daughter for a carriage ride on a hot day on a dusty road!” Livingston roared. “With the top down!”
“Language,” Mrs. Kent reminded him in a singsong voice.
“Stuff your politeness, Fran. Where were you when my daughter was choking to death? What do I pay you for if not to guard her health?”
“We were overtaken by a group of fast horses, Father. No one could have predicted they would kick up so much dust. And if you hadn’t been telling me how foolish I am to think a man might enjoy my company for the duration of an afternoon perhaps I would have spoken up instead of feeling so anxious to impress him!” Had she been able to get out of bed Miriam might have stomped her foot in a self-indulgent show of frustration. As it was, all she could do was cough violently until the wheeze returned to her breath. This sent Mrs. Kent into a flurry of activity.
“Hold her, Livingston,” Mrs. Kent demanded. Livingston gently cupped Miriam’s chin and pressed her mouth open as Mrs. Kent forced a copper funnel between her teeth.
“No!” Miriam tried to cry out, but her mouth was too full of metal. The deep black liquid that passed for medicine choked her on its way down.
“Now the belladonna. Again. It only works if the water is hot.” Mrs. Kent poured hot water from the kettle over a bowl and bent Miriam’s head over the vessel. Miriam coughed and inhaled deeply. A towel descended around her head, trapping the fumes that eased the vise in her throat. Before long she could breathe again though her throat ached from so much coughing.
Crisis averted, Livingston and Mrs. Kent relaxed fractionally. Miriam removed the towel and lay back against the pillows.
“I forbid you to see him again,” Livingston declared. His bo
ots tapped up and down the floorboards in a restless pattern of barely restrained revenge. “Northcote cannot be trusted to protect you. He’s proven that much.”
“Father, you cannot forbid me anything. I am of age, remember?” Right now, Miriam felt far older than her twenty-three years. Each attack left her feeling as if time was running out. If she didn’t seize this opportunity, she might never have another to experience life, love, and adventure. Yet every time she dared set foot out of place her physical limitations dictated her immediate coddling. “Richard didn’t do it on purpose. He hasn’t learned the specifics of how to keep me from enduring an attack. I don’t know if we have learned the specifics with any precision, and we’ve been managing my condition since I was a child. Give him a little time.”
“I warned the careless bastard that if he hurt you in any way, he would no longer be welcome in my house.”
“Livingston. Stop,” Mrs. Kent interjected. “It wasn’t Northcote’s fault.”
Livingston Walsh’s eyes turned as dark as coal. Mrs. Kent held his gaze as steady as a rock beneath the pounding waves of the sea. Every muscle in his neck stood out as his fury burned and banked.
“Father please,” Miriam begged hoarsely.
“Not his fault, my ass,” her father grumbled. “I suppose this day was inevitable. The women of the house colluding against me.” Like a rooster settling ruffled feathers, her father strode to the window and stared out into the street.
Mrs. Kent tried and failed to stifle a smile. The corners of her lips curved up to reveal a dimple at either side of her thin cheeks. Miriam smiled wanly in thanks. It had been her, Livingston, and Mrs. Kent ever since she’d been twelve. Before that there had been a succession of nurses. Not one had been able to tolerate Livingston’s outbursts for longer than a few months. Her father was not an easy man, but he had a good heart. She saw the same traits in Richard.
