Chapter Nineteen
The day after the Fotheringills’ ball, Bertie called on Lady Clarice, hoping she might have a commission for him. His spirits had seldom been lower. What had possessed him to be so rude to Lady Catherine? After a fruitless stint in the cardroom following their conversation, he had finally emerged into the ballroom to find that Lady Catherine was nowhere to be seen. He had been forced for civility’s sake to dance with Mary Gilbert. She had stuck to him like a burr after that. What a tiresome woman!
He woke up this morning to the gossip in the Post. Everyone seemed to be of the opinion that it was just a matter of time before the Cumberwell engagement was broken and Lady Catherine and the prospective earl were married.
Bertie was used to thinking of himself as a fortunate man. It was the first time he had ever felt that his station as a baronet was not all that it might be. As soon as he recognized the direction of his thoughts, he was appalled at them and decided he needed to see Lady Clarice to straighten him out with some errand for the less fortunate.
“Sir Bertie, dear,” she said, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “You are just the person for the project I have in mind. Come into the Chinese saloon, and I will show you something.”
On a large round table in that room, he found an architect’s drawing.
“Is this the schoolhouse you want to build in the East End?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lady Clarice. “We have the money to purchase our property now, and we are looking for a good location. Something will have to be torn down. As you know, there are no empty tracts of land in that neighborhood. There are a few sites available. Would you look them over? I have seen them but have been unable to come to a decision.”
Bertie said that he would be happy to do so. And so it was that he found himself in the East End, around the corner from Saint Francis’s church, when he heard a woman screaming. Without thought, he raced down the street and proceeded around the corner to see a crowd of people congregated near the Westbury carriage.
Lady Catherine!
Shouldering his way through the crowd, he was just in time to see a cudgel brought down upon his beloved’s head. He leaped upon the villain where he stood over Lady Catherine’s unconscious form. Bertie gave him a solid punch to the jaw and knocked him off his feet. The fellow jumped up and tried to counter Bertie’s punch, but Bertie was well trained in the art of fisticuffs. Soon, the man lay flat out on the dirty street. The others had fled. He heard a mewing sound and looked over to find a girl who was probably Lady Catherine’s maid recovering consciousness.
An even larger crowd had gathered now. A kindly-looking woman moved out of the crowd and knelt by the maid. “Naow, then, miss. Yo’ll be alroight. Let’s get you into that carriage.”
This sensible action allowed Bertie to examine Lady Catherine, who had a large lump forming on the crown of her head, and the coachman, who was out cold. Bertie realized he would have to leave the reviving maid in charge of the victims in the carriage while he drove it back to Mayfair. This was less satisfactory than it would have been if he could have sat with Lady Catherine. But he was left little choice.
“I told her ladyship it was not a good idea to come here in the carriage without an escort,” said the maid. “But all she could think of were the people waiting to hear her read.”
“What happened to her escort?”
“He never came, she said.”
Why would she do such a foolish thing as to go to the East End alone except for her maid? What if the head injury was so serious she slipped into a coma? The thought nearly felled him.
Taking Lady Catherine into his arms and lifting her carefully off the street, he deposited her in the carriage. The maid took her mistress’s head into her lap, searching for the wound. “Oh my. She was hit hard.”
“Yes,” said Bertie. He solicited the help of two strong blokes in loading the fallen coachman into the carriage, opposite to where Lady Catherine sat with her maid. Tossing his helpers each sixpence, he assumed the coachman’s place on the box and headed out of the cramped street, his heart still in turmoil.
What if he himself hadn’t been to hand? What were the villain’s plans for Lady Catherine and her maid?
When he reached Westbury House, he enlisted the help of Stebbins and a footman to carry the coachman into the house. Lady Catherine he carried himself.
He took her into the red sitting room and laid her upon the sofa. Her maid followed.
“Can you fetch a vinaigrette?” he asked. “Possibly that will bring her around.”
As soon as the little woman hastened away, he gathered Lady Catherine to him and kissed her forehead. “Come along, dearest. You must come back to me.”
She began blinking her eyes, and he rejoiced, still holding her close.
“There, now. You have received a tremendous blow, but you are going to be all right.”
Closing her eyes, she murmured, “Sir Bertie . . .”
“Your maid is bringing a vinaigrette. If you don’t want that, you must keep your eyes open.”
Again, he laid her back carefully on the sofa. The maid entered with the vinaigrette. Since Lady Catherine’s eyes had remained closed, he administered it.
Her eyes flew open, and she knocked the foul thing away. “Oh, those horrible men!”
“You are safe at home,” he said.
“Where did you come from?”
“Angels,” he said with a smile. “Plucked me right up and delivered me to your side.”
“Good angels,” she murmured. “I like your dimples.” She closed her eyes again.
“Come now. Shall I send for the sawbones?”
“I just need to sleep a bit,” she said.
“Most likely you have a concussion. Let me look at your pupils.”
Opening her eyes again, she looked at him steadily. Her pupils were of different sizes. He knew from his experience with boxing that this meant concussion. If only she didn’t develop bleeding on the brain!
“Any ice in the cellar?” he asked the maid.
“No,” she said.
“Someone must go for some.”
“I will,” she said.
“Send someone else. You go for Miss Braithwaite at Blossom House. She will know better than any physician what to do for this.”
“I will go immediately, sir. Thank you so much for rescuing us, sir.”
When the maid had left, he fisted his hands in frustration, stroking Lady Catherine’s sleeping face with his knuckles, feeling the silken softness of her skin. A wave of longing washed over him.
Bertie was not going to retire from the lists.
“Going to fight for you, my lady,” he whispered. “I will not let Lord William Cumberwell or Lord Robert Redmayne stand in my way.”
Moving one of the wingback chairs so it sat next to the sofa, he arranged things so he could sit and hold the lady’s hand. He did not know precisely how he was going to win her, but he was through standing on the sidelines.
* * *
Bertie had gone to look for Lord Redmayne. He was told by Stebbins that the man had gone to Newmarket for a couple of days. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry.
Miss Braithwaite’s arrival relieved him tremendously.
“For the first day and night, she cannot be allowed to sleep longer than a couple of hours at a time. Someone must get her up and walk her about. Otherwise she may slip into a coma. I will stay with her, if that pleases Lord Redmayne.”
She woke Lady Catherine gently.
“Miss B. . . . ,” the lady said. “Where is Sir Bertie?”
“Here,” said Bertie. “Your brother has gone to Newmarket. I have called Miss Braithwaite in to help you.”
“I will stay with you,” said Miss Braithwaite.
Bertie interjected, “I can stay with her during the days. Wouldn’t want you to wear yourself to a thread.”
Lady Catherine gave a little smile. “Don’t let the gossips know,” she said. “You had better come in by the servants’ entrance.”
“Capital idea,” said Miss Braithwaite.
Was she worried Cumberwell would hear of it and dislike Bertie’s being here?
“Someone has gone for ice,” said Bertie. “Professional boxers use it when they get head injuries.”
“Another good idea,” said the little lady. “Are you comfortable on this sofa?” she asked the patient.
“Yes,” said Lady Catherine. “I do not want to move.” She angled her head so she could see him. “There is something I wanted to tell you, but I cannot think what it was.”
“Easy,” he said. “Plenty of time for that.”
Parker entered at last with the ice wrapped in toweling. There were two pieces about the size of small melons. Miss Braithwaite instructed her to take them to the kitchen and have them broken up into pieces the size of a teacup.
After this had been done and the ice was applied, Lady Catherine slipped back into slumber.
“Is this normal?” he asked.
“Yes. I belong to a charity that sponsors the Royal Society of Medicine. I go to their lectures and read their publications whenever I can and have kept up my knowledge of the latest practices. You never know when it will come in handy. Recently, there was a lecture on head injuries. Lady Catherine has suffered a traumatic injury. But she must be wakened every two hours, as I said. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know the whole story. For some reason, she wasn’t escorted to the East End today. She and her maid were set upon by thugs. I don’t know what they had planned. More than robbery. They knocked her out.”
Miss Braithwaite’s mouth tightened. “Lord Redmayne,” she said as though his name were a bad taste on her tongue. “He insisted on escorting her today. Then he goes to Newmarket without arranging for a replacement.”
Bertie’s temper rose. “What was he thinking to let her go off with only her maid?”
“Thank Providence Clarice sent you and you were nearby.”
Bertie didn’t remember the last time he had prayed, but now he offered up thanks for what could only have been divine intervention.
* * *
That evening when Bertie was back at the Wellinghams, he told his sister, Beau, and Penelope what had befallen Lady Catherine.
“A concussion!” said Marianne. “That is quite serious, is it not?”
Bertie could scarcely contain his anxiety. “She is still in danger. Miss Braithwaite says she can slip into a coma any time in the next twenty-four hours.” He told them what the woman had told him.
“She is my Aunt Clarice’s companion,” Penelope told Marianne. “She is a jolly useful person to know.”
“She is staying with Lady Catherine tonight. She plans on awakening her every two hours,” said Bertie. “I shouldn’t have left, but she insisted.”
“This is disturbing,” said Beau. “I would that her brother were in town.”
Bertie didn’t want to admit the relief he felt at the fact that the man was gone. “Miss Braithwaite will see her through.”
Marianne put a hand on his arm. “It is a good thing you came to London, Bertie. I think you were meant to be in the East End today.”
He had to agree.
* * *
Bertie had no success in getting to sleep. He kept envisioning Lady Catherine’s still, white face as she lay in the dirt street. What if he had clung to his accustomed habits of mind and not come to London?
He wondered once again if Marianne was right. Had his reticent constitution been formed because of his dislike of his mother’s intemperate behavior? Had he been holding his future hostage to his past?
Never before had he questioned his nature. But surely it made sense. He associated strong emotion with women. Strong emotion in others set off some kind of spring inside him that distanced him emotionally from the person feeling it—not only women but men as well. There were no two men more temperate in their behavior than Beau and Tony. He had steered clear of women as though they were fireworks ready to go off.
Then his friends had married. He had to admit that their wives had proved to be reasonable, and even enjoyable, women.
What was different about Lady Catherine? She had been in the grip of strong emotion when he met her, and his instinct had not been to flee, but rather to protect her. He had even witnessed her crying into her handkerchief when he passed by her property on Hermes.
The next time he saw her, she had been shot at, and instead of flying into hysterics, she had exhibited a cool, strong hand as she controlled her frightened horse. This was followed by her arrival at the Oaks, where she, believing him to have shot at her, confronted him boldly with the accusation.
She was brave, but she was also vulnerable. It was the vulnerability that had caught him at the very beginning. Her beautiful, tragic face had bewitched him—causing him to behave in a manner as foreign to him as flying.
He had tried for months to purge her from his mind and heart, but it had not worked. Bertie was caught like a butterfly in a net.