Chapter Seventeen
Night had fallen and the room was lit by a single lamp atop the scarred chest. Abbigail was settled into an armchair beside the bed, holding vigil over Michael. The fever had started just an hour before. Sweat beaded the ashen skin of his brow, and he was unnaturally still. She was attuned to him, to the slightest sound or even a variation in the pattern of his breathing.
“How is he?”
She looked up to see Lord Wolverston entering. He spoke in the hushed tones that were typically reserved for sick rooms. She answered just the same. “Good evening, Lord Wolverston. There's been no change. The fever still burns and he has not woken or responded.”
“He will. Michael is too obstinate and too contrary even for death,” he commented.
Abbi smiled in spite of herself. “Or too charming. I'm sure even the reaper would fall prey to his smile.”
“It's possible... I've seen him cheat death many times. He was quite brave and heroic when we served on the Peninsula. Though he would never admit to something virtuous.”
A watery chuckle escaped her then. “He is a virtuous man... Really. He simply values some virtues above others.”
Spencer nodded gravely. “I think that is a far more accurate assessment of his character than anyone has ever given.” He paused for just a moment and then stated, “I must beg your forgiveness. I had been warned that he was in danger and that I should watch over him. I have failed in that duty to you both.”
“On the contrary. Had you not been with him, he would have died in those woods, alone and with no one to help him.” Abbi cocked her head to the side. “You said you were warned. Who warned you?”
Spencer shook is head with a firm denial. “That doesn't matter.”
“I think it does,” Abbigail said. “Was it Lady Larissa perhaps?”
Spencer cursed. “Will none of you leave that alone?”
Abbi took a cool cloth from the basin of water on the table and replaced the one on Michael's brow. He didn't stir. “I only asked if she had warned you, Lord Wolverston. Not what your feelings for her or intentions were..”
He blushed at that, having been caught in his own fantastical imaginings. “Yes. It was Larissa., and knowing her talents as I do, I should have heeded her warning more closely. If I had, Michael would not have been shot.”
Abbi laid her hand on Michael's shoulder, hoping for some indication that his fever was abating. Of course, there was none. To Spencer, she said, “You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others... You did all in your power to protect him and you undertook herculean efforts to save him after he was wounded. There is no forgiveness to be offered, Lord Wolverston, because none is needed. What you have is my gratitude.”
“I knew,” he said, his voice tinged with anger. “This wasn't the first attempt on his life. There was an incident in London. Someone nearly ran him down with a coach while we were visiting one of the antiques dealers that the Whitby's frequent.”
Abbi shook her head, amazed that anyone would take so much upon themselves. “So you saved him once, and by being unable to prevent injury the second time someone tried to harm him, you believe you have failed? Are you responsible for all the ills that have befallen my husband in his life, then?”
“Only the worst of them, Lady Ellersleigh,” he said gravely.
His tone alerted her to something far deeper than simply the events of the day. “Perhaps you should tell me why you believe such a thing.”
Spencer looked down as he spoke, not meeting her gaze. “My childishness and inappropriate behavior resulted in the loss of someone very dear to him... very dear to us all.”
Abbi wished that she had the words, some bit of wisdom to impart to him that would ease his obvious guilt, but it appeared he was determined to bear it. “My husband generally speaks his mind quite succinctly. If he held you accountable for such a thing, he would have made it known and I doubt you would be so welcome in his home.”
Spencer chuckled, but it was a humorless sound. “He does not blame me. He blames himself, and that is another of the many things I should beg forgiveness for.”
Abbi stared down at Michael's still form. He looked to be resting peacefully at least. “Who was she? This woman who was so dear to him.”
“Not a woman... a girl. We were only children ourselves at the time. He speaks much more eloquently than I ever will. I haven't the patience for it, nor the wit, I fear. I am too staid. Too boring. I have always been thus, but he was my friend anyway. As a boy, I was twice the size of most of the others at school, but without any of the natural grace required for such stature to be beneficial. He and Rhys let me into their circle and in doing so, allowed me to meet her.”
Abbi looked at him squarely, willing him to continue. She was jealous, envious of some unknown girl who'd held her husband's affections decades earlier. It was lowering. A part of her wanted to hear, but another part of her shied away from the knowledge. “Perhaps you shouldn't share this with me. It feels almost as if you are breaking a confidence.”
Spencer's gaze was focused on Michael, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. “He doesn’t share these things, not because he wishes them to be a secret, but because they are painful for him to talk about… More so, perhaps, than I’d even realized until I observed the events that unfolded at Briarwood Hall. It isn’t that he wishes to keep it from you, my dear lady, it’s that he’s no wish to revisit it himself.”
Abbi's curiosity warred with her conscience, but her need to learn more about the puzzling and quixotic man she’d married won out. She knew so very little about Michael and what she did know had come primarily from her own observation of him and his behavior which seemed so at odds with the gossip she'd always heard about him. It was also a welcome distraction from their current situation. “Please, continue.”
Spencer gave a curt nod, paused as if to collect his thoughts and then said, “Melisande was Briarleigh's sister.”
Abbi felt the weight of that statement sinking into her. Not a lover or recent paramour, but his childhood love. A dozen questions flitted through her mind. Where was she? Had she abandoned Michael and broken his heart? Did he still yearn for her? The last thought wounded her faltering pride, and perhaps even her heart.
Spencer continued his tale. “She was a year older than us, but even as children, her beauty was striking. To this day, I can't recall ever having seen a more beautiful child... except perhaps for Michael himself. She was as kind and gentle as she was beautiful.”
Thinking of Michael as a boy and how beautiful he would have been made her wonder what their own children would look like. Even as it crossed her mind, she shied it away from it. His life was hanging in the balance, and with it, their future. Focusing on the other part of Spencer's statement, she asked, “You keep referring to her in the past tense... She is passed on?”
Again Spencer gave a nod and paused for a moment before speaking. It was obvious that whatever had happened to that child had tormented them all.
“He loved her—Michael. And she loved him, but not in the way that children do though they were both complete innocents at the time. But the depth of what they felt for one another went beyond the pure affections or infatuations that young people form for one another. There was depth and substance there that none of us really understood. And being boys, Rhys and I teased him unmercifully for it”
He rose from the chair, pacing the room as he spoke, obviously feeling trapped by the small space and by the painful memories that he was revisiting. “And on that fateful day we used it to goad him into going to the village with us rather than staying behind at the Park with Melisande... and she paid the ultimate price for it.”
The weight of Spencer's words had changed. There was a quiet rage in his voice that belied his calm demeanor. This was not simply a story of a child's untimely passing. Abbi had the feeling it was something so much worse. When Spencer remained quiet, she prompted him to continue. “This wasn't a death of natural causes. What happened to her?”
“Her cousin... Lord Alistair happened to her, my lady. In a fit of jealousy and madness, he raped her and attempted to strangle her to death. She was only thirteen.”
Michael's anger the night they'd discovered poor Sarah, the tenderness he'd shown in caring for her suddenly took on new meaning for her. What horrors had he relived because of that?
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Of course, Alistair didn't succeed in killing her. Inexperience or perhaps panic set in... so he fetched his mother to help. Lady Phyllis used a rock to finish the job, bashing in Melisande's skull.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, his jaw working as he attempted to regain control of his emotions. “She and Alistair returned to the house to hide their perfidy, which they succeeded in doing for two decades...They left her there, in the woods, broken, bleeding—clinging to life with a tenacity that I cannot even begin to imagine.”
Abbi didn't speak. There was nothing that she could say to ease his pain and guilt. She just waited for him to finish the horrible tale.
When Spencer concluded the tale, his voice low and fraught with emotion. “That is how Michael discovered her. He stayed with her until she passed, because even to an untrained boy, it was glaringly obvious that there could be no help for her... For years, he has been making amends, atoning for what he sees as his failure to save her. Taking in strays off the street, servants straight from the rookeries and brothels, the soiled doves that followed the army while we fought on the Peninsula...And I, who have always adhered to propriety's standards, was too blind to see that he was, in fact, the better man.”
Abbi didn't cry. The tears that stung her eyes weren't just for the poor girl who's life was cut short in such a brutal and horrific manner. They were for the man she'd married, the man who was still haunted by those memories. “Why did you tell me this, Spencer?”
“Because you need to know... You need to understand him and when he's a high-handed ass, you'll need to forgive him. He wants to keep you safe because he cares for you, but also because the guilt of failing another woman he loves would break him.”
Those words cut through her. It was shocking how desperately she wanted to believe it was true, but wanting something did not make it so. “You're wrong. Michael does not love me.”
Spencer's smile was grim. “No. Michael has not said he loves you. I have not said the sky is blue. That doesn't make it less so.”
Was it possible? She desperately wanted to believe it, but how could she?
“You should rest, my lady. I will keep watch and wake you if his condition alters... Your termagant housekeeper has prepared a pallet for you just outside the doors. She seems to think you wouldn't be sensible enough to seek refuge in the comfort of your own bed.”
Abbi felt the exhaustion to her bones. “Change the cloth on his brow whenever it feels warm to the touch... and at least once an hour, spoon feed him a few sips of broth. He needs it to restore his blood.”
“I will see to it... Rest.”
The last had sounded suspiciously like an order, but for once in her life, Abbi had neither the strength nor will to argue.
“Thank you,” she replied. Exiting the room, she laid down on the pallet and slept almost instantly.
In the small room, Spencer looked down at his friend and sighed. “She's very good for you... Now you must wake up and tell her that for yourself.”
~*~*~
Abbi had slept little, and when she had managed to do so, she'd been plagued by nightmares. Giving up on sleep altogether, she rose and once again entered Mrs. Wolcot's small room where Michael lay on the narrow bed. Spencer was seated in the chair she'd previously occupied. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
“I think his fever is worsening,” Spencer said.
“That is not necessarily bad. Sometimes fevers will worsen before they break,” she offered.
“And other times?”
“They simply worsen,” she answered honestly. “I've been giving this a great deal of thought. There is little doubt that Rupert and Lavinia are responsible for this.”
“No. I doubt Rupert Whitby pulled the trigger, but I've no doubt that he requested it be done,” he agreed.
Abbi moved to the other vacant chair and rested her hand upon Michael's brow. She could feel the heat from his skin before she ever touched him. “This is all happening because he has something they want... What if we were to simply give it to them? Or at the very least, strike a bargain?”
Spencer shook his head. “He'd be livid.”
“Assuming he survives to reach that state of anger,” she shot back. “They may well succeed in taking his life. But if they don't... If he survives, Spencer, he will be weakened from this. He won't survive the next attempt. Having that item to bargain with is our only hope.”
Spencer raised a brow and asked incredulously. “He didn't tell you what it was, did he?”
“No. I asked, but...” She blushed furiously and then admitted. “He's very good at distracting me.”
Spencer shook his head. “I think this a mistake. You cannot bargain with these people. They are mad.”
“But driven. They have on goal, and that is to obtain this item. I only need to buy enough time for him to recover... Please, you know what it is. You know where it is. Go and fetch it.”
“He won't forgive this easily. He will see it as a betrayal... more so by me than by you.”
She knew that. His friendship with Lord Wolverston was precarious at best. “I am sorry. I wouldn't ask it of you if I felt there was another way.”
“I will leave after dark. There's no need to show our hand just yet.”
The relief she felt was instant. “Thank you. You are a better friend to him than he realizes.”
“That is my own fault,” he replied ruefully. “The moon is close to full. I can ride though the night and be at Wilhaven by late tomorrow night. I'll have to forge his signature for the steard to give me access.”
“His seal is in the top drawer of the desk in the library. It will be worth it, if they will just leave us alone once they have it.”
He shook his head. “You won't give it to them. I will crush it beneath my boot before it falls into their hands...But it is a wise move to let them know we have it, to let them know that we're aware of their desire for it. That shifts the balance of power to us, at least temporarily.”
Abbi nodded. “We need an advantage...however we can get it.”
Spencer gave a curt nod before leaving the room.
Abbi leaned over the bed and whispered to Michael. “You won't like this, and I pray that you recover enough to yell at me for it...and that I survive to yell back.”
~*~*~
“What have you done?”
Rupert looked up from the book he'd been studying. He'd accumulated texts about the ancient rituals by the dozens. It had taken months of research but he finally had the formula he needed. The only remaining obstacle was locating the appropriate ingredients. He had the blade for the blood letting, the masks of Bacchus. All that was left was the chalice and the sacrifice—and the bloody map.
Meeting Lavinia's angry gaze, he sighed wearily. “What is it, darling?”
“Someone from the village told one of our servants that Lord Ellersleigh had been shot today! Did you? Did you have it done?”
He settled back in his chair. “What if I did? You forget yourself, Lavinia. I am your husband and it is my will to which you bend!”
“We need him to obtain the chalice!” she protested.
“No, we do not. When he is dead and gone, we will obtain that item from his widow. There are many ways in which to compel Abigail's cooperation!” The statement was robbed of its power by the coughing spasm that wracked him in its wake.
Lavinia rushed forward, grabbing a bottle of his brandy and adding a few drops of the opium mixture to it. Not too much, but enough that it would ease the pain and the cough. He sighed. She was good to him, and she did love him beyond reason. But her obsession with Ellersleigh was a threat he couldn't afford. No man had ever made him doubt Lavinia's devotion to him, regardless of how many times she'd bedded them. With Ellersleigh, he wasn't so sure.
“Why do you want him so desperately, my love? What is it about that man that draws you so?”
She stroked his brow as he sipped from the glass she'd handed him. “He prefers her to me, and I cannot allow that to stand. I am the beautiful one. I am the one who incites such powerful desire in men... not her!”
Rupert felt vindicated in that moment. It wasn't about Ellersleigh at all. It was her hatred and jealousy of Abigail that fueled her desire. “He is a fool, Lavinia. Any man would be blessed to have you, to share your passion.”
“But you want Abigail, also. You crave her... and I've seen the way Blevins looks at her. He wants her also,” she said bitterly. “I'm growing older, Rupert. My beauty is fading and soon no one will desire me above all others!”
“When we have the chalice, and the map—and your stepsister has served her purpose as a worthy sacrifice, I will be restored... health, vigor and all the things this wretched disease have stripped from me will be returned,” he vowed. “And I will show you precisely how desirable you are.”
She pouted, her lower lip turning out charmingly. “Rupert, do you have to kill him?”
“Trust me, my love. It is the best way,” he said.
She sighed. “Very well. But no more sneaking to do it in the woods, like that. If we kill him, I want her to see it... I want her to suffer every minute of it and watch her weep for him.”
He smiled, though the drugs were taking effect. Everything seemed indistinct and distant. “Why do you hate her so?”
“Because they loved her more... our parents. The servants. Abigail could do not wrong, but I was always frowned upon for being too fast, too wild, for not being kind—Kind! As if that ever got a body anywhere!”
“I don't want you to be kind, my love. I want you to be greedy and cruel, to revel in your wickedness with me.”
She kissed his forehead, gently petting him. “I do love you, Rupert. More than anything.”
He fell into the drugged sleep then, dreaming of a time when his body hadn't been ravaged by disease, when he hadn't depended on other men to satisfy his wife. His last conscious thought was that it was time to wage war.