Chapter Seventeen
Mute with dread, Leticia stood, her hands over her cheeks, as the curricle racing against Tristan spun out of control. Horse and carriage and rider went down in a tangled mass right in the path of Tristan’s team. Tristan’s lead horse stumbled and went down, dragging the other with it. The entire curricle tipped forward, throwing Tristan out and upward.
Leticia screamed. Disbelief swirled with horror into a dark maelstrom.
Tristan’s body sailed through the air, his arms thrashing as if he were trying to swim. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled a few times. Leticia’s heart dropped. He lay still. Stunned silence fell over the crowd.
Leticia ran. Focused on the motionless form in the road, she raced as if her body became pure motion. She dodged the other curricle, trying to shut out the screaming of the horses, and stayed focused on Tristan. Others in the crowd snapped out of their shock and moved to aid injured men and horses.
A crowd formed around the twin wreckages. Leticia pushed through the people and dropped to her knees next to Tristan. He lay on his back, still and pale. Dirt and blood smeared his white face.
“Tristan?” Kneeling next to him, she reached for him but her hands stopped mid-air.
What to do? What if he were…
Urgent, she called again. “Tristan!” She bent over him and put a hand on either side of his face. “Open your eyes.”
His eyelashes lay close to his cheeks, fanned out dark and long like a child’s. Still no response.
She pressed her hand on his chest over his heart but the thumping of her own racing heart prevented her from finding a heartbeat. Oh, please let there be a heartbeat!
“Is he breathing?” asked someone in the crowd.
She held her cheek next to his nose and closed her eyes, concentrating, searching for any sign of breath. “Please, Tristan. Give me some hope.”
There. A tiny movement of air. She held her breath, hoping she hadn’t imagined it. Once again, a puff of air blew across her cheek. She sucked in a gasp and rested her forehead on his chest. He lived.
One of Tristan’s friends pushed through the crowd. He stopped short at the sight of Leticia’s head on Tristan’s chest.
He gasped a few times before speaking. “He’s dead?”
She lifted her head. “No. He’s breathing.” She stroked Tristan’s dark hair as she had when they were very young. Still as thick and silky, but this time blood matted his hair.
The other man let out his breath. “All right. Let’s get him back to his rooms.”
“No,” Leticia said. “We’ll take him to his brother at Averston House in Mayfair.” She looked back down at Tristan’s face. If he weren’t so pale, he might have been sleeping but for the awkward angle of his limbs.
Urgency rippled through her. “Tristan, wake up!”
One of Tristan’s horses lay lifeless on the road; the other continued to scream. Both his forelegs hung at sickening angles. Leticia wanted to throw something. All of this loss for sport—so senseless. So foolish.
Aunt Alice found her and took command. “You, you, and you,” she pointed to three able-bodied men. “Pick him up—carefully—and take him to my carriage over there.” She looked back at her coachman and nodded. “Take care of that poor horse.”
The coachman nodded. Grim and silent, he pulled out a gun. After rubbing his hands over the horse’s neck to soothe it, he placed the barrel behind the horse’s ear.
Sickened, Leticia looked away. The crack of the gunshot ripped through her as if the ball had struck her. The horse’s screaming stopped. All the world fell silent.
Leticia focused on Tristan. His pallor faded to a ghostly hue.
Men carried Tristan as if he were a bowl of milk they were determined not to spill. The somber crowd parted to let them through, talking in low tones, or not talking at all. Some wept.
As the men lowered Tristan onto the floor of the carriage, Leticia glanced back at the tangle of the other carriage. The crowd parted enough to give her a glimpse of the other man lying with a coat over his face. Two horses sprawled in crumpled heaps on the road.
Leticia swallowed a sob. She climbed in and sat on the carriage floor with Tristan’s head in her lap. The men laid him crosswise, then bent his knees to allow the door to close.
After a command from Aunt Alice, the carriage started. No one spoke. Silently, Isabella sobbed and rested a hand on Leticia’s shoulder. Silently, Aunt Alice sat with her handkerchief pressed over her mouth. Silently, Leticia held Tristan’s head, her heart as still as Tristan. The silence drove a wedge of pain deep into her soul. Each bump, each jostle of the carriage, tore through Leticia, no doubt inflicting further damage to Tristan’s battered body.
They arrived at Averston House after an interminable drive. Aunt Alice left the carriage but Leticia sat cradling Tristan’s head, stroking his hair, searching for any more sign of life, terrified that his heart would stop. Faint, uneven breathing gave the one indication that he lived.
The front door of Averston House opened and two footmen darted toward the mews, no doubt sent to bring the doctor and notify Richard of his brother’s injury. Cooper and the two men who’d helped them move furniture in the school—had that been today?—dashed down the stairs toward the carriage.
Cooper nodded at Leticia. “Miss.”
Leticia opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. Elizabeth’s footman and bodyguard slid a hand underneath Tristan’s back. The other men got into position, lifted him, and carried him so smoothly he appeared to glide up the stairs. Leticia followed them in. Calm and in command, Elizabeth called out orders as she led the way. Servants scurried to obey her. Leticia followed them to a room in the family wing. Inside, they laid him on the bed. Without flinching, Elizabeth unbuttoned his clothing and removed his cravat, still calling commands. Her words faded to meaningless noise in Leticia’s head.
Leticia held back, uncertain what to do. Tristan’s family would care for him. But she couldn’t leave. Not yet.
There must be something she could do. She looked around. A pitcher and bowl sat upon a bureau. Water. She could bathe his face. Her hands shook as she poured the pitcher of water into the bowl. After throwing a linen towel over her arm, she carried the bowl of water to the nightstand and set it down. Using the towel soaked in water, she bathed Tristan’s face. The removal of dirt and caked blood revealed purple bruises and a raised bump surrounding a gaping cut on his forehead. It started bleeding again as she washed it.
While Leticia cleaned his face, Elizabeth felt along his arms and legs, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Leticia moved to the open V of his shirt, trying to overlook dark hair and rounded muscles on his chest.
They finished and sat back, unsure what to do now.
Elizabeth spoke. “I can’t feel any broken bones, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. There may be much worse damage that I cannot feel. We’ll know more when the doctor arrives. How long has he been unconscious?”
Leticia shook her head. “Almost an hour, I think.”
Elizabeth looked down at Tristan. “From what I know, the longer he stays out, the worse it is.” She moistened her lips. “We should—” She stopped, breathed, tried again. “We should prepare ourselves…”
“No.” Leticia gripped Tristan’s hand, willing him to open his eyes.
Hushed, Elizabeth said, “I sent word to Richard.”
Leticia gripped Tristan’s unmoving hand with both of hers. Now, with nothing for her to do, the full impact of what had happened settled into her. Over and over, she relived the accident, slower than before, as the other man’s horses stumbled, crashed into Tristan’s curricle, his horses going down, their screams, the shattering of curricles, the crashing noises that rent the air, Tristan flying, falling, landing. Lying still.
She folded in half, resting her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. A sob shook her body. And another. Elizabeth sat next to her and put an arm around her.
If she lost Tristan, she didn’t know what she’d do. How would she ever live without his teasing smile? He’d been her playmate, her dearest friend, her confidant, and of late, her hero.
“Leticia.” Aunt Alice’s voice sounded hollow. “There’s nothing you can do here, child. Come home. I’m sure Lady Averston will send word as soon as they know anything.”
Leticia lifted her head. “No, Aunt, please let me stay here.”
Elizabeth arose. “I’d appreciate her company, if you don’t mind.”
Aunt Alice’s expression softened. “Very well. I’ll have a change of clothing sent over.”
Leticia looked down at the front of her dirty, muddy pelisse. A large stain smeared across the front. Tristan’s blood.
She looked back at his face, the color of the pillowcase…except the linen developed a stain, spreading outward.
Alarm knifed through her. She stood. “There’s an injury on the back of his head, too.”
They rolled him over. Sure enough, blood matted his hair and spread over the pillow. With Elizabeth holding Tristan by the shoulders to keep him on his side, Leticia cleaned the gash so thoroughly she feared she’d hurt him even in his unconscious state. She wrapped his head with bandages, and sat with her hand pressed over the wound to slow the bleeding. Elizabeth propped pillows around him to keep him on his side.
Footsteps approached. “The doctor is here, milady.”
They turned as a silver-haired man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles entered and ordered them out.
Leticia paced the length of the corridor, her heart thudding for a prognosis as if she awaited a verdict on a life or death trial. At the end of the corridor, she stood by the window and stared out, unseeing. She turned and paced back the other way toward the main staircase.
A servant held out a valise in her line of vision. “This arrived for you, Miss Wentworth.”
“Put it in the lilac room,” Elizabeth said. “Then fill a bath for Miss Wentworth.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Elizabeth!” Richard’s voice boomed from downstairs.
“Up here,” called Elizabeth.
Leticia watched Richard charge up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Sheer panic, uncharacteristic for Richard, clouded his expression. “How bad is it?”
“The doctor arrived a moment ago,” Leticia said.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched. “It’s bad.”
Richard enfolded her into his arms. Normally, Leticia would have turned away, unable to watch the sight of them embracing. Now, she averted her eyes to give them a moment of privacy. Strange, it no longer bothered her to see Richard with another woman. With his wife. With Elizabeth. Whom he loved. Leticia felt nothing except a vague relief that Richard had someone to whom he could turn for comfort. Either she no longer loved him at last, or her alarm over Tristan deadened the pain.
“What happened?” Richard asked, his gaze darting between them.
Leticia moistened her lips. “It was a curricle race.”
Richard let out his breath in a long, exasperated exhale.
Leticia continued, “The other driver appeared either to have lost control, or one of his horses misstepped, and they rammed into Tristan’s curricle. He was thrown.” Her voice cracked.
“You saw it?” He released Elizabeth and grabbed Leticia by the arms. Grief and terror and fury in his dark eyes, eyes so like Tristan’s, spilled onto her. “You were there and you didn’t stop it?”
She shrugged off his hands. “I went to stop them but I was too late—they’d already started.”
He released her, dragged both hands through his hair and collapsed onto a settee in the corridor, hunched over. Elizabeth sat next to him, her hand on his back.
The doctor came out, fingered his hat, and looked up, with apology in his expression. Richard leaped to his feet. Leticia held her breath.
The doctor said, “The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be any broken bones, and there’s no swelling in his abdomen to suggest internal injury.”
They waited for the inevitable bad news his tone suggested.
“The head injury is serious. But don’t lose hope. It’s too soon to tell…” The doctor looked down at his hat.
Leticia fisted her hands so tightly that her fingers ached. A low, rushing noise filled her ears.
Richard drew himself erect, as expressionless as a stone, his arms straight, hands fisted, clearly bracing for the worst. “Don’t mince words, doctor. I want the whole truth.”
“I’ve done all I can for now. Time will tell. The longer he is unconscious, the worse it will be. You must prepare yourselves for the possibility that he may not recover.”
His words hit Leticia like a blow to her stomach and her knees buckled. She felt her way to a chair and fell onto it.
The doctor continued his horrifying prognosis. “If he does awake, he’ll be in severe pain and very disoriented. He may not remember the accident or other events—even people. The effects may last a matter of days…or be permanent. These things are difficult to predict. I’ll come back tomorrow to check on him.” The doctor left.
Richard, pale and grim, turned around. He spoke in flat, unemotional tones. “I should send word to Selina.”
“I’ll do it,” Elizabeth offered. She tugged on Leticia’s hand. “I’ll show you where you can clean up.”
Numb, Leticia followed her friend to a room and let a maid undress her and guide her to a bath. After redressing in the comfortable gown Aunt Alice sent, Leticia returned to Tristan’s room. She pushed the door open, her attention fixed on the figure in the bed. He lay on his other side, propped up by pillows, a bandage wrapped around his head the same whiteness as his pallid skin.
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Tristan. It’s time to wake up now.”
She laid a hand on his cheek, careful not to touch any bruises or cuts. Numb, she sat motionless with her hand on his cheek. He lay as if lifeless except for the slight rise and fall of his chest. Outside, the sun sank and darkness enshrouded the room, emptying it of color. A pall fell over the city.
Elizabeth came in and sat next to her. Putting an arm around her, she rested her head on Leticia’s shoulder. “I sent a tray to your room.”
“Thank you.” Leticia’s voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else, someone without hope.
“Shall I bring it to you here?”
Leticia shook her head, too weary to reply.
“Don’t say good bye yet,” Elizabeth said. “Richard refuses to send for the bishop to give him Last Rites. Tristan may yet pull through.”
Helpless anger roared inside. Shaking with fury, Leticia leaped to her feet. “Of course he’s going to pull through. He’s going to be fine. He’s not going to die. He’s not.”
Elizabeth held up her hands and spoke to her as if she were talking to a skittish mare. “I know, Tish, I know. I hope and pray he’ll be whole and well.”
“Don’t call me that. Tristan calls me Tish. Richard called me Tish. You don’t call me Tish.” Unable to look at the naked hurt on Elizabeth’s face, Leticia whirled around and fled the room. At the end of the corridor, she ran into Richard so hard that she staggered backward. Wearing nothing more than his shirtsleeves and breeches, he steadied her.
She shrank from him. He was someone else’s husband. She oughtn’t see him in such a state of undress. A small part of her registered that the sight of him stirred nothing in her heart but a sense of familiarity.
“Tish?” He reached for her again, that almost constant look of apology in his expression, the same one that had been there ever since he found himself engaged to be married to Elizabeth returned in his eyes.
His pity raised her ire. She stepped back. “Stop. Don’t touch me.”
His hand fell away. “Forgive me.”
“I don’t love you,” she blurted out. “You can stop looking at me with pity and apology. I’m quite well.”
In a quiet voice, he said, “I know.”
“Lord Bradbury has been courting me. And Captain Kensington—both fine men.”
“Yes, I heard, and yes, they are.”
That melancholy compassion remained in his expression, his tone. She fisted her hands. “Lord Bradbury is much like you, but that is not why I have a preference for him.”
Serious and intense, but now less apologetic, he nodded. “I am gratified to hear that.”
She said nothing further.
He waited.
What had she hoped he’d say? She turned away as shame sank into her that she’d felt a need to make that point. Knowing he watched her, she marched back to Tristan’s room with her back ramrod straight and her chin high. Yet, she’d spoken honestly. Every word rang of absolute truth.
Inside Tristan’s room, she found Elizabeth rocking back and forth, sobbing.
Cold horror blasted through her. “No!”
Leticia raced to the bed to lean over Tristan. He lay unmoving, his chest still rising and falling. Her relief hit her so hard that she had to sit down.
“He still lives.” She let out a half sob of relief. Why was Elizabeth weeping?
Elizabeth lifted her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you still hated me for taking Richard from you. I thought you were over him. I am so sorry.”
Leticia closed her eyes as remorse flooded her. She’d been thoughtless and cruel and had lashed out at a dear friend. “No, Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I don’t hate you. Not at all. I never did. And I am over Richard.”
Again, the truth of her words hit her. She no longer loved Richard, not as she once did. Seeing him and Elizabeth console each other no longer caused her pain. Running into him in the corridor failed to set her heart racing, only vague sense of impropriety over his dishabille. No longing or aching. No sorrow. No regret. He was familiar and dear, but like a brother rather than a man she once planned to marry. The knowledge cleansed her, healed her.
She took her friend’s hand. “Forgive me, Elizabeth. I’m worried about Tristan and angry that I didn’t get there soon enough to stop the race. I’m furious at him for being so reckless and foolish. A man was killed today, and four horses—it was awful. I can’t get it out of my mind. And now Tristan is…” She gestured to him. “Forgive me for lashing out at you. I need him to be all right.” Her throat closed over and tears ran down her cheeks.
Elizabeth put an arm around her. “Of course I forgive you. You are my very dearest friend.”
They sat together, letting their shared sorrow cleanse them of hurt. Richard came in. He leaned over Tristan and watched him for a moment. Elizabeth slipped a hand into his and he squeezed it, then took a chair near the bed where he sat staring. Night fell. A maid came in and lit the lamps.
As Leticia watched Tristan’s face, his eyelashes moved. She straightened. His eyes squeezed more tightly closed, then he blinked. She held her breath. He opened his eyes, blinked several times, and squinted up at the ceiling.
She leaned over him. “Tristan?”
His eyes slid to hers and he looked at her without moving his head. “Tish?” He blinked again. “Did you hit me over the head again? With a brick?”
His speech slurred, but at least he spoke. What a beautiful sound! She wanted to shout huzzah!. She settled for enjoying the warmth and gratitude that flowed over her like bathwater.
Elizabeth clasped her hands together. Richard leaped to his feet and dashed to the bed. “About time you woke up. Get better fast because I’m going to thrash you.”
“What did I do now?” Still squinting, Tristan pulled his hand out of the covers and put it to his head. “My head…”
Leticia tried not to notice his bare arm and shoulder, how beautifully formed, how the sight sent strange warmth to her face.
Richard scowled at his brother. “You raced a curricle, you idiot.”
Leticia poured a glass of water and cradled Tristan’s head so he could drink. A few drops ran out of the corner of his mouth and she wiped it dry.
Tristan moaned. “Why are you so angry? The race was weeks ago and I won. Palmer was furious.”
“You’ve curricle raced more than once?” Richard demanded. He let out his breath in disgust.
“Stop shouting.” Tristan put his hands over his eyes and moaned again.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’d take up such a dangerous pastime,” Richard grumbled. He drew a breath and softened his voice. “Do you remember the race today?”
“Today?” Tristan squinted. “Who won?”
Leticia touched his shoulder. “You and the other driver, someone named Appleton, were in an accident.”
“Appleton?” Tristan scowled. “He doesn’t have a curricle.”
“He had a new one. You don’t remember what happened today at all?”
He rubbed his head, sucking in his breath when his fingers touched the lump on his forehead. “I remember moving things in the school. Later, I paid you a call. You were with Bradbury, and your aunt sang his praises. I don’t remember leaving her house.” He closed his eyes. “My head hurts.”
Leticia measured a small amount of laudanum into a glass. “This will help with the pain.”
He tried to sit up but had no strength. She held his head and pressed the glass to his lips.
After drinking, he winced as the back of his head touched the pillow. “Accident? Was anyone hurt?”
Richard gripped his shoulder. “Appleton.” He swallowed. “He didn’t make it.”
Tristan’s eyes widened and narrowed and filled with horror. “I killed Appleton?”
Leticia brushed his hair back from his face. “No, Tristan. He lost control and tipped his curricle. It crashed into yours and you all went down. It wasn’t your fault.”
Tristan’s throat worked. “I shouldn’t have raced him. He was inexperienced.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away.
He undoubtedly needed to be alone to work out his grief. Though she longed to hold him, comfort him, he would rather grieve alone.
Leticia pressed her lips to his brow. “I’m glad you’re awake. You frightened me.”
He looked up at her, his eyes shiny with unshed tears and his face lined with anguish. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down in so many ways.”
“Nonsense. Rest and get well.” She almost added, ‘and no more racing,’ but thought better of it. He’d lost a friend today, and nearly his own life.
Tristan’s eyes fluttered closed and his chest rose and fell in sleep.
Leticia stood. “Perhaps I should go home now.”
Richard stood. “I’ll call the carriage to take you.”
Leticia moved to the doorway, then turned back to watch him a moment longer. Tristan lived. She hadn’t lost him. She could not have borne it if he’d died.