chapter 19
Laura was sorry when James’s embrace loosened; it was quite wonderful for those few minutes to be close, to share the sudden, sweeping joy and relief. It was as if the two of them had been through some small, fierce personal war together, and the victory was even sweeter because they held it together.
But she hadn’t expected him to hold her long. There was around James some unseen barrier, a layer that stood between him and others. She wasn’t sure why or what it was, but she knew that it would embarrass him to have relaxed his guard. Whatever James felt—and she often found it hard to know what that was—he hated to reveal it.
So when he relaxed his grip, his arms sliding away, she released him and stood up. “You should sleep now.”
“It seems I’ve done nothing but sleep the past few days.”
“You have a good many nights to make up for. You need to heal and regain your strength.” She moved over to the bottles on the dresser and began to measure out a dose.
“Are you going to give me more of that noxious brown liquid?”
“I am. It will help you recover more quickly.” Laura handed him the glass.
“I suspect people tell you they feel better just so you’ll stop pouring it down their throat.” He downed it quickly, his face screwing up in distaste.
“I’ll ring for Owen to bring your cup of hot milk.”
“That, too? Milk tastes bad enough as it is without making it hot.”
“I’m going to take it as a good sign that you feel well enough to grumble.” Laura smiled. “Milk will help you fight the poison.”
Despite his complaints, he drank it down when Owen brought it, and within minutes he was asleep. Laura sat in her chair and let the tears come. She cried silently, not with sorrow but with release, for the first time allowing herself to admit the fear that had lurked in her for days, acidly eating away at her. The fear that it was too late, that James was doomed, that despite everything, he would lose his stubborn battle.
Then, drained, she lay down beside him as she had every night for the past week and went to sleep.
James spent most of the next few days sleeping. While his temperature fluctuated, he did not fall into another high fever. Laura was able to get his medicine down him as well as some food. Slowly but surely he was getting better. Because he was so often asleep, it was easy to hide his progress from his family. The only person who knew was Owen, whom Laura had sworn to secrecy.
Laura awoke one morning snuggled up against James, his arm thrown across her. She had become accustomed to waking up like this. Indeed, she found it was a pleasant way to awaken. Perhaps that was shameful of her, but there was something so warm and secure about it, so safe. The past weeks she had been grateful for every bit of safety and comfort she could find, no matter how illusory.
Laura started to slide away, but James’s arm tightened around her and he mumbled something, burrowing his face into her outspread hair. Laura stilled, enjoying it for another moment. James cuddled her closer, his breath hot upon the nape of her neck. Something pushed insistently against her backside. Her eyes flew open, and just as realization began to dawn on her, James’s arm suddenly tightened, then was yanked away just as quickly. Laura shot out of bed, her face flaming, and whirled to face him. He was staring at her, his face slack with astonishment or—or something. She hoped it wasn’t horror. “I—I fell asleep. I’ve been, well, the past few days, while I’ve been here taking care of you, it just, well, it was easier.” Laura knew she was babbling, and she forced herself to stop, pulling around her whatever remnants of her dignity remained. “I’ll tell Owen to set up a cot.”
“No, I, um . . . my fault.” His eyes strayed down her form, and it occurred to Laura that she was standing there in only her nightgown. She fled into the dressing room.
Well, that had certainly been humiliating. Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the ribbons on the front of her nightgown. She had become so used to being with James these past days, so accustomed to touching him, helping him, being with him all the time that she felt at ease with him. But they were still strangers, really.
He felt none of that familiarity with her, for he had been asleep or in a fever most of that time. After her sharp statements when he proposed, vowing not to share a bed with him, he had awakened to find her cuddled up against him. She dreaded what he must think of her—and what kind of acerbic comments he would make.
Reaching the top button of her bodice, she found that she had buttoned it wrong and had to start all over again. She drew a deep breath and pressed her hands against her heated cheeks, forcing herself into something resembling calm.
What had happened, happened, and she couldn’t change it. She’d had a good reason for sleeping there. Obviously James was in no condition to take advantage of the situation—and in any case, she was married to the man, which made it perfectly acceptable to share his bed. Anyway, if you came down to it, he was in her bed.
She shouldn’t feel ashamed. The only reason she did sprang from the knowledge that she liked lying in his arms. James wouldn’t know that. He had no idea she looked forward to snuggling up to him when she lay down at night—indeed, she had done an excellent job of hiding that fact from herself until this very moment.
That was obviously something she would have to deal with, but she didn’t have to worry about it this minute. Right now, her course must be to brazen it out. She would be like Graeme’s wife Abigail, who went her own way, holding her head up and not caring what others might be whispering about her . . . or, at least, not showing that she did.
But when she emerged from her dressing room, her pose vanished, for James was up and leaning against the dresser, pale as a ghost.
“What are you doing?” She rushed to him, taking his arm.
“I’m getting up. Getting dressed.” He set his jaw, keeping his gaze turned slightly away from her. “I refuse to spend my days lying about.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You are the most impossible man. Get back in bed before you fall over.”
“I am not going to fall over,” he replied with great dignity. “However, perhaps I should . . . sit down.” He sank into the chair beside the bed.
“You’ve been running a high fever on and off for days. Until last night, I was unsure whether you would live or die. You need to recuperate. Rest. If you overtax yourself, you’ll bring back your fever.”
“I refuse to be treated like a child.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t act like one.”
He sat back, copying her pose of crossed arms, and looked at her so sulkily that it was all she could do not to smile. Finally, with a sigh, James dropped his arms and let his head fall back against the high back of the chair. He rubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hands into his hair, fingertips pressing into his scalp.
“I want to bathe,” he said wearily. “I want to shave. I want to wash my blasted hair. I feel like something one scrapes off the bottom of one’s shoe.”
“I know.” Her irritation vanished in sympathy, and she went to kneel by his side. “Does your head hurt?”
His only answer was a snort. Laura slid her hands gently into his hair and began to rub his scalp with her fingertips. It was something she had done many times when he was frowning in pain, and it had seemed to ease him. From the soft noise he made, she thought it did now, as well.
After a moment, he said in a low voice, “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m a dreadful ingrate.”
“Are you?” she said mildly. “I wouldn’t have said that. A terrible patient, perhaps, who will not do as he’s told.”
“Very well. I’m a terrible patient. I will admit to anything as long you keep doing that.”
“Your headache is better?” But she knew the answer; she could see the lines of his face smoothing out.
He nodded. “Laura . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’m no good at this.”
“At what? Being sick?”
“No. Well, I’m not good at that, either, apparently. But what I meant . . . what I’m trying to say is . . . thank you.”
A pale flush started along the sharp edge of his cheekbones, and Laura realized he was embarrassed.
“You’re welcome.”
After a moment, he murmured, “I hate being weak. I hate them knowing I’m helpless.”
“Then I would say you shouldn’t go downstairs and risk falling down in a faint in front of them.”
“True. That thought doesn’t appeal.” He sighed. “You’re right. Of course. But I feel so useless.”
“The most useful thing you can do is get stronger. Get well.”
“I can’t make that happen,” he said irritably.
“No, but you can allow it. You can lie here and sleep, give your body time to heal itself. You can eat.”
“You mean drink that blasted milk you want to pour down my throat.”
“Among other things. It would be better if you stayed in bed . . . if the others didn’t know you were improving yet.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Meaning that if they think I’m dying they won’t decide it’s necessary to come in and smother me in my sleep?”
“Well, yes.”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “Very well. I shall do as you wish . . . on one condition.”
“What?”
“You needn’t look so suspicious.” He stood up. “Well, actually, two. One, I get clean.”
Laura nodded. “I’ll send Owen in to help you.”
“And two, you will rest, as well.”
“Me? I don’t need to rest.”
“You do. You have done nothing but look after me for I don’t know how many days now. You need a change of scenery. Walk around the gardens. Go downstairs and have breakfast.”
“With your family?”
“They may be murderers, but they’ll take your mind off the sickroom.”
“James!”
“No arguments. We have an agreement.”
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You will. The only question is whether you say yes now or we stand here arguing about it until I fall into a swoon at your feet.”
“Oh, very well,” Laura said in exasperation, taking his arm and propelling him toward the bed. He went easily enough, and it seemed to Laura that his walk was already a little steadier, his color better. No doubt winning an argument raised his spirits. “But what if something happens to you while I’m gone?”
“Dem is ample protection. Owen can sit in here if it eases your mind. You’ve left me in his hands a few times.”
He was right, she knew. A change of scenery would do her good. And, little as the prospect of dining with his relatives pleased her, she might be able to learn something useful. So once James was settled and had taken his medicine, she left him in the care of Owen and Demosthenes and made her way downstairs to the dining room. It was late enough that Tessa and the other ladies of the household were there, along with Walter and Tessa’s admirer, Mr. Netherly.
Laura greeted the women, ignoring the glare Patricia sent her. At least Archie Salstone was missing, for which Laura was grateful. She gave them all a polite smile, reminding herself that she must treat them as she would have a week ago, as if she hadn’t discovered that someone wanted to kill James. “Walter. How are you? Mr. Netherly. I hope you are doing well. I didn’t realize you were still here.” She did not add that a man of any sensitivity would have left days ago.
Netherly turned soulful brown eyes on her. “I could not leave Lady de Vere to bear this alone.”
“Of course.”
“How is dear James this morning?” Adelaide asked. “We are all so worried about him.”
“Much the same,” Laura answered vaguely. Anything she told Claude’s wife would no doubt go directly back to him.
“I’m so glad you decided to come down to breakfast,” Tessa told her, reaching out to pat her arm. “It must be dreadful, sitting at his bedside all day long.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Tessa dabbed delicately at them.
“I am a little tired,” Laura admitted. “I thought I might walk in the gardens.”
“Lovely. You’ll feel much better. The flowers are glorious now. The bluebells along the roadway are all in bloom.” Tessa gasped, then beamed. “I know exactly what you should do! You should go for a ride through the countryside.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think . . .” Laura began to demur.
“Yes, yes, it’s beautiful. I’ll tell the coachman to take the back road toward Lydcombe. It’s the long way round by the old castle—a bit farther, of course—but perfect for a ride. It’s so picturesque.”
“Bluebells line the road like blankets of stunning blue,” Mr. Netherly intoned, apparently contemplating a new poem.
“And the old bridge over the river just past the castle!” Adelaide joined in enthusiastically. “Such a romantic vista.”
“I could sit with Sir James while you are out,” Netherly went on. “I’ll read to him. Nothing lifts the soul like poetry.”
That, Laura thought, would be certain to send James to his grave, but she said only, “That’s very kind of you, but James is sleeping, and I don’t wish to disturb him.”
“It’s a capital idea,” Walter put in. “Going for a ride, I mean.” He flicked a disdainful glance at Mr. Netherly. “You can take the victoria and fold the top back. Nice fresh air . . . scenery. I’ll escort you if you like.”
“Oh, Walter,” Patricia said scornfully. “She won’t want company. That’s the whole idea—to have a few minutes by herself.”
“Well, yes, of course, I mean, no, needn’t go with you.”
“Thank you, it’s very kind of you to offer,” Laura told him. “But it would be nice to have a bit of solitude.” The idea of a drive by herself in the fresh air really was appealing. She hesitated at leaving James alone that long, but he was doing better now, and he would have Dem and Owen with him. The more she thought about it, the more she longed for a chance to get away.
“There! It’s done.” Tessa saw the acquiescence on Laura’s face. “I’ll tell them to have the carriage ready for you this afternoon.”
So it was that Laura found herself getting into Tessa’s elegant low-slung victoria a few hours later. As Littletree, the coachman, climbed up onto his seat, Laura glanced over and saw Claude walking out of the stable. She had a moment’s panic that James’s brother had decided to accompany her, but fortunately, when he turned and saw her, he merely tipped his hat and continued walking toward the house.
Laura let out a sigh of relief and settled back to enjoy the ride. The calash top was folded back, and though Laura had the parasol Tessa insisted she carry, she let it rest on the seat beside her, enjoying the caress of the sun on her shoulders. Though the team was spirited, Littletree kept them to a sedate pace, allowing Laura to fully enjoy the view.
Just as Tessa had described, thick swaths of vivid purplish-blue bluebells lined both sides of the country lane. The road wound around, coming back in a U to drop in a long dramatic slope to the old castle at the bottom of the hill. Beyond the castle lay the river and the quaint narrow wooden bridge Adelaide had mentioned. In the distance the lane curved out of sight around the hill. On her right Laura could see the roofs of Grace Hill above the trees, the gardens in between.
The descent was steep, and the coachman stopped the carriage at the top of the hill to jump down and attach the chained brake slipper to a rear wheel. They had just started down the hill when suddenly the right horse jumped and whinnied, shying to the side, startling its companion so that it, too, reared. They began to run.
The coachman pulled back on the reins, calling to the horses to stop, but just then a loud crack sounded beneath the carriage, and the brake slipper went tumbling down the road. The noise panicked the horses even further, and they leapt forward. Littletree braced his legs against the footrest and hauled back with all his might, but nothing could stop the headlong flight of the horses down the hill.
Laura grabbed the armrest beside her and held on tightly, her stomach seemingly left behind her at the top of the hill, along with her bonnet. As the carriage jounced and swayed toward the bottom, Laura’s mind raced.
If the road had been straight before them, Laura thought the team would slow down once they reached the bottom. However, the slope ended just before the bridge and on the other side of the river the lane bent sharply around the base of the hill. The driver would have no hope of slowing the runaways before they took the curve, and the light victoria would overturn, sending its occupants flying.
“The river!” Laura shouted. “We have to jump!”
The driver swung halfway toward her, still hauling back uselessly on the reins. Laura crouched on the seat and grabbed the side of the carriage, muscles tensing, and prayed she wouldn’t misjudge the jump and land bone-breakingly on the side of the road or be unable to clear the bridge. Prayed, too, that the water would be deep enough, the current not too swift. The endless frightening possibilities charged through her mind too quickly to even grasp them all.
The road leveled out, and the horses pounded onto the bridge. With another shout to the driver, Laura took a deep breath and launched herself from the carriage.