Sixteen

The following morning, Randolph woke early. He’d dreamed of something he couldn’t quite remember, only that it had been disturbing. As he dressed, he wondered if it had to do with the fact that he longed to see Verity, and yet didn’t look forward to their conversation. Would all end between them as it had begun—with her rejection of a country cleric?

After breakfast, restless, he got out his lute and strummed the strings. He hadn’t practiced in a long while. He settled to try the tune that still ran in his head but never came out quite right.

After a few minutes, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes?” he called, a little irritated.

The door opened. Harris stood in the corridor in her somber black. This was unusual. His mother’s superior lady’s maid never sought him out. “Her Grace is ill,” she said.

“Mama?”

“She’s been ailing for some days. She wouldn’t say so, or let me send for the doctor. But her condition has become serious. And the duke is out.” Harris looked reproachful.

Randolph rose, setting the instrument aside. “I’ll come see her.”

“It would be better to send for the doctor,” Harris repeated.

Worried now, Randolph followed her to his mother’s room. The duchess lay in bed, unprecedented at this time of day. She was deathly pale. Sweat beaded the hair at her temples. She plucked at the coverlet as if it offended her. “You told Randolph, Harris?” she said. “Against my express orders?” She sounded peevish. Mama was never peevish. “I want to get up,” she added. But when she tried to sit, she wasn’t able. She fell back on the sheets as if half fainting.

A bolt of fear shot through Randolph. He’d never seen his mother really ill. Every other thought went out of his head. “I’ll send for Papa,” he told Harris, and rushed off to do so.

“And the doctor,” Harris called after him.

“Yes.”

The duke arrived first, but Dr. Loughton was practically on his heels. The latter, a wise and sensible man of sixty who’d treated the family for years, went up at once to examine the patient. When he came down later, he wore a grave expression. “I’m afraid this is quite serious. It appears to be typhoid fever.”

Randolph watched his father take in the news. He looked like a man who’d sustained a sudden, stunning blow. His own expression must be similar, Randolph thought, because that was exactly how he felt.

“Miss Harris tells me that the duchess has been feeling poorly for several days. Her weakness, headache, and fever are characteristic of the disease.”

“She told me she was tired,” said the duke. “She hates fusses.”

“As I know well,” replied the doctor, offering a brief, understanding smile.

“Tell us what to do.”

“She needs to rest. Not to ‘stop lazing about and get on with things.’”

Randolph could hear his mother saying these words.

“I’ll see to it.”

“Miss Harris says she hasn’t wanted to eat, but she must keep up her strength. Broth and soft foods. Barley water. Lemonade, whatever she will take. I’ll send over something for the headache.” He looked at them. And saw two men struggling with shock, Randolph thought.

“Nurses,” said his father.

Dr. Loughton nodded. “Miss Harris is determined to care for her, and I’ve given her detailed written instructions. But she’ll require help. I can recommend someone.”

“I think we’ll have plenty of volunteers,” the duke responded with an odd sort of proud pain.

A strange desperate fear surged through Randolph. “I’ll sit with her!” He ignored the doctor’s startled glance. “You must let me sit with her, Papa!”

“Of course, Randolph.”

His easy agreement quieted Randolph. As did a brush of memory, explaining why he felt terrified even though it didn’t banish the feeling.

“I should warn you.” Dr. Loughton hesitated.

“Yes?”

His father’s voice was tight with anxiety. A stranger wouldn’t notice, but Randolph heard it plainly.

“Please tell us everything,” the duke added.

“She’ll get worse before she’s any better,” the physician replied. “The fever will go up and down, perhaps with a cough and bodily pains. It’s very likely that she’ll become delirious.”

“But Mama will recover,” Randolph blurted out. “She’s very strong. We’ll care for her, and she’ll recover.”

“I have every hope that she will.” Dr. Loughton paused, then added, “This disease commonly lasts for weeks and is singularly exhausting.”

The duke turned away, as if he didn’t want them to see his face. “Thank you, doctor,” he said.

“I’ll call twice a day,” the man replied. “Morning and afternoon. And whenever else you need me, of course. You need only send word.”

Randolph’s father nodded. Dr. Loughton took his leave.

“I must go to her,” the duke said. Now that their visitor was gone, fear was clear in his tone. “You’ll notify your brothers?”

Randolph suppressed his own worries in the face of his father’s obvious pain. “Of course, Papa.”

Rushing down to the library, glad to have a task, Randolph wrote brief notes to Robert and Sebastian. There was no need to go on and on; they’d call at once to hear the rest. His letters to Alan and Nathaniel and James—as if the latter could hear anytime soon—were a bit longer. But what was there to say, after all? Except that Mama, the center around which their family revolved, was very ill, and might not be herself for some time. Some limited time, Randolph thought fiercely as he finished the last letter. He’d take care of her. They all would. And then she’d recover, and the world would right itself again.

* * *

Verity was puzzled, then a bit irritated, when Randolph didn’t call as he’d promised. She waited all morning for him to arrive, or send a note of explanation at the least. She was afire with impatience to dispense with the archbishop problem. But Randolph never came. She nearly wrote to him, but then she remembered that he’d mentioned planning to attend the Garnetts’ party. She’d find him, and his explanation, there tonight.

But she didn’t. Verity fumed, until she noticed that none of the Gresham family was present. Which was odd. One or another of them had graced every large event she’d attended in London. She said as much to Olivia.

“You haven’t heard?” Olivia replied with raised eyebrows.

“Heard what?”

“I’m surprised. Aren’t you practically a member of the family now?”

Olivia so enjoyed knowing more than other people, Verity thought. And then stringing out the story until her listener was panting over her. “Please tell me.”

Her friend relented. “The duchess is very ill.”

“Oh no.”

“On her deathbed, some say. Foaming and raving.” Olivia’s voice held a hint of relish.

“What?” This picture shocked Verity to the core. “I saw her only a few days ago. She seemed perfectly well.”

Olivia shrugged. “Well, you know how people exaggerate.”

“But this is… Tell me the truth of it, Olivia!”

“Truth? You expect me to sort through a load of tittle-tattle? You’re in a better position to do that yourself.”

“Of course, I must go and inquire,” Verity murmured. She would have rushed out immediately if it hadn’t been so late.

“You can get all the details,” Olivia said. “Then we’ll know the truth.” Her tone and expression mocked the final word.

Verity had lost all interest in the party.

“Oh look, there’s Miss Reynolds,” Olivia said. “All on her own. I wonder how she wangled this invitation.”

Not really hearing, Verity wondered why Randolph hadn’t informed her about the duchess.

“Let’s go and speak to her,” Olivia continued. “We can ask her where she found her amusing little dress.”

“I have to go.” Verity looked around for her mother, spotted her, and walked away. She didn’t hear Olivia’s offended huff.

The Sinclair ladies called at Langford House at the earliest suitable hour the next morning. At first, it seemed the footman would turn them away. But when Verity explained that she was Lord Randolph’s fiancée, they were admitted and taken up to the drawing room.

Randolph came in a few minutes later. The change in him in such a short time was startling. He looked haggard. “I’m sorry,” he said before he sat down. “I said I’d call. I forgot. I should have written you. Too. I suppose I’m not accustomed to being engaged.”

His voice caught on the last word. He didn’t sound at all like himself. He more collapsed than sat on the sofa beside her.

“When Sebastian and Robert arrived, I pushed the rest of the letters off onto Robert,” he went on disjointedly. “He thought of some others.” Randolph made a vague gesture. “I wasn’t thinking. Things have been in disarray here.”

“How is she?” asked Verity quietly.

He shook his head. “Feverish and vague and very restless. She keeps wanting to get up, but she hasn’t the strength. Which makes her fretful. It’s rather…dreadful to see.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Randolph went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Mama likes to be active, you know. I think of her in motion. Papa will sit and read for hours, but Mama is always rushing to finish some task, or go out riding or… It’s difficult to keep her still. Even when she can hardly move.” His voice caught on the last sentence. He bent his head.

Verity wanted to take him in her arms. Her mother murmured some words of comfort.

“Music soothes her,” he went on. “I used to… I had the pianoforte moved upstairs so I could play for her, but I find I can’t.” He held up his hands; they shook visibly. “I’m useless. I keep having to get up and make certain she’s still breathing.”

Verity took one of his hands and held it. From the state he was in, she feared the duchess really was dying. She caught his restless gaze. “Let me play for her. I should so like to help.”

“You?” Randolph seemed to really see her for the first time this morning. “Verity.”

“I’m here,” she said.

His fingers tightened on her hand. “You could play for her,” he echoed, as if his mind was moving more slowly than usual.

“I could.”

“You wouldn’t have to go into her room.”

Before she could assure him that she wasn’t worried about this, her mother spoke up. “Verity isn’t afraid of sickrooms. We often visit ailing parishioners at home.”

Feeling a surge of love and pride, Verity nodded. “Yes, we do. I can take a turn at nursing.”

“Hannah’s here. And Harris. And Flora. She never learned to play though.”

Verity didn’t recognize two of these names. But it didn’t matter. “Then I shall,” she said.

For a moment, he clung to her like a lifeline. Then he led her and her mother upstairs without further discussion.

Verity found that the pianoforte from the music room had been moved to the bedchamber across the hall from the duchess’s. With both doors open, the sound would carry easily.

She removed her gloves and bonnet and pelisse, leaving them on the bed. Her mother did the same and settled in a chair in the corner. Verity sat down at the instrument, thought over the pieces she knew by heart, and started to play. Randolph stood beside her. She was glad to see his tense expression ease a bit.

There was a spate of garbled words from across the corridor. Randolph stiffened and went out. Verity played. When one composition ended, she moved smoothly into another. She’d played for more than an hour when her mother said, “I must send word. I have an appointment to go shopping with Lucy Doran.”

“You should go, Mama,” replied Verity.

“I don’t like to leave you alone.” Her mother fidgeted. “Though there seems nothing for me to do. I gladly would.”

“I know. But there doesn’t seem to be anything for you to do. And I’m fine here.”

“Well, I suppose it’s all right.” Her mother rose to retrieve her bonnet. “I hate feeling useless. It drives me distracted.” She put on her pelisse and gloves. “You will send word at once if you or the Greshams need me for anything.”

“I will.”

With a nod, her mother departed.

Randolph returned a little while later. “The music seems to be calming her. Thank God.” He grimaced. “Mama thought it was me playing. Even though I was standing right beside her. I told her it was you, but I’m not sure she understood.” He paced as Verity’s fingers moved through a Haydn sonata. “If only there was something I could do!” he exclaimed.

“You could have someone bring up the sheet music from the music room,” Verity replied without missing a note. “I’ll run out of pieces I’ve memorized soon.”

“Of course!” He practically ran from the room.

In ten minutes Randolph was back, his arms full. A footman followed with more pages. Randolph looked around, hesitated, then dumped the music on the bed, gesturing for the servant to do likewise. Piles of paper fanned out on the coverlet. As the footman went out, Randolph gazed at them.

“If you could sort it,” Verity suggested. “And pick out your mother’s favorite pieces.”

“Yes, yes.” He bent over the music, shuffling the pages. “Can you play a piece at first sight?”

“Pretty well.” Actually, Verity was proud of her skill at this. But she knew Randolph’s attention was elsewhere. It was no time for a discussion of musical methods. Or anything else. She wondered how he functioned in his parish if he had such a strong reaction to illness. Of course, things were different when the patient was family, but his state still seemed extreme.

He’d laid out several selections within her reach when there was a cry from across the hall. Randolph dropped what he was doing and rushed out. Verity played on.

Time passed. Verity grew tired, but she was also carried away by the notes and harmonies she produced. She fell into an oddly distant state and scarcely noticed when a maid came in with branches of candles and lit them. Flora looked in a bit later and thanked her. “The music sounds lovely in the sickroom,” she said. “Soft and haunting. It helps bring the duchess back when her mind…wanders.”

“She’s very bad?” Verity asked.

Flora sighed. She looked tired. “Her fever is high. Today, she’s been delirious most of the time. The doctor says that’s to be expected with typhoid. I’ve seen it before.”

“Typhoid.” That was dreadfully serious. “But she’ll get better?”

Flora started to answer, but bit off her words when Randolph came in. “You must rest,” he said to Verity. “You’ve been going for hours. Your hands will cramp. And you must have some dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s right,” said Flora. “We’ll be no use if we exhaust ourselves. I’m going down to eat. Come with me.”

Verity’s eyes were on Randolph’s face. “In a moment.”

With an understanding nod, Flora went out.

Verity stopped playing. The silence felt profound, a little ominous, after the continuous stream of music. Her hands were stiff. She flexed them.

“You see?” said Randolph. But there was no force behind the words.

“It’s true, I must rest a bit.” She was hungry, Verity realized. She’d eaten nothing since breakfast. “But I’ll come back afterward.”

“We can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered,” she interrupted. “What we should do, as I can’t play constantly, is decide which times are best for the duchess. To help her the most.”

He brightened a little at this concrete suggestion. “The trouble is, the nights are the hardest. Mama has bad dreams. She wakes not knowing where she is or who we are.”

“Then I will play for her at night.”

“How can you?”

“I’ll stay here at Langford House, like Flora.”

“You would?”

She nodded. She liked and admired the Duchess of Langford. But even more, she wanted to ease the pain in Randolph’s expression.

“Verity.” He sank to his knees as if stricken by a sudden weakness and put his hands over his face. She thought he shuddered. “I’ve been through this before, you see. And it…didn’t end well.”

Verity thought of people she knew who’d succumbed to a sudden raging fever. It happened in Chester, and must occur much more often among the miasmas of London. She pulled his hands free and held them, then met his anguished gaze. “She’s getting the best of care. I’m sure all will be well.”

He stared as if he was searching for assurance in her eyes. Then he slumped farther and rested his head in her lap.

It was daunting to see a man who’d always been so balanced, so smoothly in charge, look lost and afraid. She stroked his auburn hair. Her hand trembled with the intensity of her wish to comfort him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice muffled by her skirts. “Thank you.”

“I’m happy to help.” Though true, the words were insufficient.

After an indeterminate time, Randolph straightened. Kneeling beside her on the floor, he said, “The music helps me, too. Like a soothing hand. But to be able to talk freely, to have someone… That’s even better.”

Verity’s throat grew thick with tears. She leaned forward and kissed him softly.

This wasn’t the exploratory kiss of Carleton House, or the passionate kisses of Quinn’s cottage. It wasn’t the impulsive caress indulged in the lighted garden. This touch, though lighter, was of another order entirely. A wordless pledge, an open acknowledgment, it felt more like their singing, a soul connection. When Verity drew back, she was trembling.

Randolph smiled at her so sweetly that it made her heart ache with delight. He rose and held out a hand. “Come. I must take care of you, too. You require dinner.”

Verity took his hand and rose. They stood face-to-face. He pulled her to him, and they rested together. Desire whispered up Verity’s spine, a simmering promise for the future. She was sorry when he let her go. “Come,” he repeated. “I hereby enlist you in our conspiracy to make Papa eat.”

Hand in hand, they went downstairs. Randolph walked into the dining room first, and when she followed, Verity stopped short. She hadn’t realized that there were five Gresham brothers at Langford House now. They stood protectively around their father, forming a breathtaking picture of masculine beauty.

Flora caught her eye. She nodded and smiled as if she was well aware of what Verity was thinking.

Randolph introduced her to Alan and Nathaniel. The latter had just arrived and was still in riding dress. As they all moved to the table, Robert mentioned that their wives hadn’t accompanied them because one had a new baby at home and the other was about to give birth. Fleetingly, Verity remembered that she’d been angry with Robert the last time they spoke. That emotion seemed long ago and trivial. While soup was placed before them, Sebastian wondered where on the high seas James might be by this time and when their letter might reach him.

Verity had expected a dour mood at the dinner table. She’d imagined they’d all be worried and distracted, and she’d meant to find ways to raise their spirits. She’d often done as much when she and her parents visited bereaved families. Not bereaved, she corrected immediately. And wouldn’t be, she prayed.

Instead she found a group as determined as she was to support one another. They said heartening things, offered special dishes to those nearby, and kept their expressions hopeful. Except when they cast anxious sidelong looks at the duke, Verity noticed. She wasn’t well acquainted with this impressive gentleman, but even she could see the change in him. His body seemed to have shrunk inside his immaculate clothing. His face was blank. Even when he responded to his sons’ remarks, he wasn’t really there behind his blue eyes. He ate mechanically, as if fulfilling an onerous duty. Verity felt like an intruder whenever she looked at him.

A servant was sent for Verity’s things, with a note explaining the new plan to her mother. Verity was braced for objections, but her valise arrived with a sympathetic note from her parent. Mama had even thought to include some sheet music that Verity had brought with her to London.

Verity unpacked in the bedchamber where she played. It was both economical and sensible to use the same room. She could nap and rise and play in the night as others slept, and then lie down again. Randolph searched out more of the duchess’s favorite pieces, and as the house settled into nocturnal silence, Verity sat down to play them. The first notes rang strangely in the hushed house, even though she was playing quietly. But only a few bars in, she fell into a familiar peace. Music had been her joy and solace, her celebration and consolation, for most of her life. She was glad to offer it up as a healing gift, grateful that she had the ability. Let it do some good, she thought as her fingers moved over the keys. Let it truly help.

In the days that followed, Verity’s life took on a dreamlike routine. The outer world receded. She had no idea, and no interest in, what was happening beyond the walls of Langford House. There could be nothing more important than pulling the duchess through this crisis. The London season, and even her mother’s visits, seemed part of another existence. Here was only music, and Randolph, who often sat near her as if she was a hearth fire and he desperately needed warmth.

She was playing Mozart in the depth of the night when she heard raised voices from the duchess’s room. She paused, listened. Repeated, the cry sounded like a call for help. Verity rose and went to see.

Across the hall, Flora was struggling with the duchess, who was pushing and clawing, seeming determined to get out of bed. “Help me,” said Flora.

Verity hurried forward. “Where is the nurse?”

“She went down to the kitchen for more broth. Catch her other side.”

Verity moved around the bed and did so. The duchess’s flailing arm was unexpectedly strong. It took both Verity’s hands to still it.

“Let me go!” cried the older woman, writhing and grimacing. “It is unjust to keep me imprisoned here! I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Her fever is high all the time now,” Flora murmured, gripping the duchess’s other arm. “She doesn’t know us.”

The duchess looked shockingly changed. Her face was sunken, so that the fine bones stood out, and nearly as white as her nightdress. Her blue eyes were wild and vacant. Her beautiful hair escaped a thick braid in untidy tendrils.

“Your Grace,” said Flora. “Adele. It’s all right. You’re home in your own bed. You’re ill. You must rest.”

“Harpies!” came the reply. “Swooping and screeching and ripping at me with your black talons. It hurts!” She drew up her knees and hunched as if to curl into a ball. The movement set off a cough that racked the older woman’s too-slender frame.

Verity met Flora’s eyes across the bed. Tears welled in them.

“It’s all right,” Flora said again. “I know it hurts. You’re ill. Lie back now.”

Between coughs, the duchess began to moan.

“See if you can give her some barley water,” Flora murmured.

Verity let go of the duchess’s arm and picked up a glass from the side table. But their patient turned her head away when Verity tried to put it to her lips. She began to cry, and Verity couldn’t help weeping along with her.

“It’s all right,” said Flora, choking back her own tears. She repeated that over and over, and after what seemed like an eternity, the duchess subsided. She fell back on the pillows as if exhausted, but then began picking at the bedclothes. “This is my opal brooch,” she said, holding up an imaginary object. “Arthur gave it to me when we were young, but he’s abandoned me now in this vile prison. He vowed for better or worse, you know, but he’s gone away.”

“He was just here,” Flora replied. “He wants to stay with you always, but he has to sleep a bit. He’ll be back soon.”

The duchess’s hand dropped. Her eyes closed. She looked desolate, and it tore at Verity’s heart.

“She’ll be quiet for a while now,” Flora whispered. “These…episodes wear her out.”

“To see her this way.” Verity blinked back her tears. Flora nodded.

The duke appeared in the doorway. He was still dressed in the clothes from dinner, and it was obvious he hadn’t slept. He looked wretched. “I felt she needed me,” he said. He came in, sat beside the bed, and took his wife’s hand. She showed no reaction. The fear in his face was so stark that Verity took a step backward.

“It’s very kind of you to play for her,” the duke said without looking around. “For us all.”

“I’m happy to, sir.”

“You have all you need?”

“Yes.”

Verity didn’t think he heard her. He held the duchess’s hand as if it was his whole world, and he could think of nothing else. Verity backed away. Flora moved with her into the corridor. “She’s always calmer when he’s there,” she said. “Even when she appears insensible.”

“He loves her so,” Verity murmured.

Flora nodded. “I wanted that kind of love. I was so happy when I found it. I didn’t quite realize the danger of that kind of pain.”

The nurse returned carrying a pot of broth on a tray. With a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach, Verity went back to the pianoforte.