Honey Pot

by Mira Stables

  He then enquired as to the patient’s appetite and how he was sleeping, shook his head over the information that the ladies gave, and said that he would call again next day, when he trusted that they would be able to give him a better report.

  Left alone, the pair exchanged miserable glances.

  “Never ate a morsel of that beautiful fresh sole,” said Phoebe despairingly. “And Benjy riding all that way special. Not to mention Cook making a white wine sauce to poach it in that was so smooth you’d think it ’ud have tempted anybody. Oh, Miss Russet, I’m sore afraid he’s made up his mind to die.” And she put her head down on Russet’s breast, her body shaking with sobs that she tried in vain to control.

  Russet did her best to pour scorn on so ridiculous a notion. People couldn’t just give up trying and decide that they would die, she said stoutly. But she had grave misgivings herself. She had sat with the invalid all afternoon while Phoebe snatched some much needed sleep. He had not once spoken, although she knew very well that he had not been asleep. Looking down at him, so suggestively still under the light coverlets that were all that his wound would endure, he had put her strongly in mind of the effigy of a crusader that she had once seen on a tomb in some churchyard. Even to the dog, couched at his feet. For Jai, apparently understanding the needs of a sick-room despite her youth, had mourned noisily and persistently until admitted at Mr Cameron’s own feebly-voiced request, whereupon she had mouthed a lax hand and subsided into silent watchfulness at the foot of the bed. She gave no trouble so long as she was allowed to remain on guard, and left the room only for food and exercise at Russet’s insistence, returning eagerly to her self-appointed post as soon as the door was opened.

  She had gazed at him with a heart full of love, and of pity for his weakness, but there had been apprehension, too. An apprehension born of that macabre resemblance. And now that apprehension was painfully possessive. She did not know a great deal about nursing, but it was only common sense to accept that a man who had lost a great deal of blood needed nourishment. Dr Unwin had ordered a light diet—no red meats or heavy wines—but he was obviously concerned about the patient’s loss of appetite. Russet was inclined to respect his judgement. Even when Mr Cameron had been feverish he had refused to bleed him, saying that he had lost blood enough already. That, too, seemed to be common sense. So when Dr Unwin admitted to concern, Russet was all the more anxious.

  She passed a restless night, and her anxieties were in nowise allayed when admission to the sick-room next morning revealed little change in the patient’s condition. If anything the arrogant nose and chin seemed more prominent, the cheeks more sunken, the breathing shallower. He had been washed and shaved by his Indian body-servant—who spoke no English, so could not report on his master’s state—and the clean, uncreased bed-linen added to the corpse-like effect.

  Russet shivered. She wanted to sob and scream, but what good would that do? Instead she seated herself in the low chair beside the bed and set slim fingers on his wrist. She thought his pulse was more rapid but was too inexperienced to be sure.

  Perhaps the soft touch had roused him; perhaps he had been awaiting her coming. At any rate he turned his head a little on the pillow and smiled at her. “Rosetta,” he pronounced softly.

  She was startled. It was very rare for anyone to address her by her given name. She remembered that during the intimacy of that friendship that now seemed a lifetime away, he had once commented on the appropriate nature of her name. She had confided that Mama had had her christened Rosetta. It was Papa, seeing the coppery hue of the toddling babe’s curls, who had called her Russet. What strange quirk of a sick man’s fancy had recalled that small unimportant incident?

  She smiled down at him, and since his eyes remained open began to talk gently of small familiar things as the doctor had advised, telling him that it was another lovely day and that she and Jai had walked in the wild garden before breakfast and the pup had met her first hedgehog. Presently invention failed and she fell silent, studying the strong, capable hand that now lay so limp and quiet on the sheet. Even after only a week the sun tan was already fading. As she gazed, his eyes opened again and the hand moved a little towards her, turning palm upward, so that instinctively she put her own into it. His fingers closed over hers. He said again, “Rosetta. My attorney is coming this afternoon. Will you come, too, please, while he is here?”

  Even that small effort seemed to exhaust him. The fingers clasping hers relaxed their hold, the heavy lids closed. She said easily, “Of course. But I, too, have a request to make. If you are to be talking business this afternoon, will you not at least try to take some nourishment first?”

  He did not answer directly. “Don’t fret that tender heart of yours over me, child,” he said gently. “Unwin has promised me a cordial that he says will enable me to complete the business that I have in mind. That is all that matters.”

  Words of indignant reproach trembled on her lips, but he looked so unutterably weary that she restrained herself. She said instead, “I myself have made the chicken broth that you are to have for your luncheon, risking Cook’s wrath to do so. It is from a recipe that Mama taught me, and she was used to enjoy it when she could fancy nothing else. It would please me very much if you would be persuaded to try it.”

  His lips curved to a faint smile but he did not speak and she did not like to press him further.

  It was a distinct shock to discover, when Ahmed Khan summoned her to the sick-room that afternoon, that there were at least half a dozen people gathered there, and that several of them were strangers. Dr Unwin made her known to Mr Anderson, the attorney, and to a homely looking middle-aged couple who turned out to be Mr and Mrs Sheridan. The senior members of the domestic staff were there, in addition to Phoebe and Matt. Mr Cameron was propped up with pillows in a half sitting position which Russet thought most injudicious since the doctor had, throughout, insisted that he lie as flat as possible, permitting only one thin pillow. But there was a trace of colour in his cheeks and he looked more his usual self. The result of the doctor’s cordial no doubt, thought Russet bitterly, and at what cost in exhaustion when its effect wore off? The thought crossed her mind that if she had accepted that offer of marriage she would now have been in a position to veto such folly. But small use to think of that at this juncture. She crossed to the window and seated herself inconspicuously, as she hoped, beside Phoebe.

  Apparently her coming completed the company, for Mr Anderson, refreshing his memory by glancing from time to time at a slip of paper in his hand, began to explain why they had been invited to be present. This duty he had taken upon himself in order to spare Mr Cameron’s strength, he said. Russet looked at him more approvingly.

  His client, he continued, having no surviving blood kin so far as he was aware, had made testamentary dispositions which would provide for his household according to age and the length of time that they had been in his service. He himself was charged with the responsibility of helping the younger servants to find suitable employment and of making travelling arrangements for such of the Indian staff as wished to return to their own country. There would be life pensions and legacies in certain cases. The general burden of his remarks was that, however Mr Cameron’s present illness should terminate, none of his servants need feel any anxiety for the future.

  There was a tearing sob from Phoebe. Russet, her own throat raw with tears, squeezed her hand comfortingly.

  The Sheridans, it appeared, were there to witness the signing of the Will and to hear what Mr Cameron had to say to his friends and neighbours.

  That seemed to conclude Mr Anderson’s part in the proceedings, for, with a nice attention to the proper disposition of his coat tails, he seated himself beside the bed.

  There was an awkward little silence. No one knew quite what to do. Should they voice their gratitude now? Was the interview ended? Only Russet, her senses alert for any change, any weakness that might show in the invalid’s manner, noticed the hands that gripped
the folded-back sheet with a tension that whitened the knuckles, and longed to interfere—to send them all away. It should never have been allowed. He was driving himself to his death.

  Yet his voice struck clearly in her ears. More serious than was his wont, he spoke very simply.

  “Those of you who have come here this afternoon at my request are the people who know me best of anyone in this country. I have tried to be a fair master to my servants and to deal honestly with my friends. Today I ask your help. Not for myself, but for one who is very dear to me.” A pause here, as though he gathered his forces to continue. “Had matters fallen out otherwise,” he went on slowly, “it had been my dearest wish to have made her my wife. Since that is not possible, I have bequeathed to her the residue of my fortune.”

  There was a long pause here. Russet struggled with a nightmare sense of unreality. He could not be talking about her!

  The weary voice from the bed took up its theme again. “In such a case, as you well know, malice and jealousy often breed scandal, and so I most particularly wish all in this room to know the true facts, and, should it be necessary, to support and comfort Miss Ingram.”

  This time there was amazement as well as sorrow in the tense silence. It was broken by Bob Sheridan who said bluntly, “I’m sure Mary and me’ll do all as we can to help the young lady and main glad to do it. But you shouldn’t be talking as though you was booked, sir. There’s many a man worse wounded than you was that’s still living hearty, and with so pretty a lady promised to you”—he glanced at Russet in apology for the familiarity—“you’ve the best in life ahead. Maybe we’ll all dance at your wedding yet.”

  There were murmurs and nods of assent all round the room, and one or two sympathetic glances for Russet. It was natural that the listeners should have misunderstood the situation, she thought. James had spoken of his desire to marry her. He had not mentioned her rejection. And comforting as it was to see the shy friendliness on the faces turned to her, she writhed with distaste at the falseness of her position. Quite irrationally she was suddenly furiously angry. Let himself die, would he? Like some sickly love-lorn loon in an old romance. Burden her with his money and leave her to live out a life of lonely regret for the might-have-been. They would see about that.

  Resolutely she swallowed her wrath until the last of the servants had left, bade the Sheridans a friendly farewell and listened courteously to the doctor’s parting instructions that the patient must now be permitted to rest. As he and Mr Anderson took their leave she advanced upon the bed, hands on hips, eyes blazing, a veritable virago. Rest indeed! Not until she had given him a piece of her mind!

  “So that is how a Highland gentleman shuffles off his responsibilities,” she raged at him. “You’ll fold your hands and give yourself up to death, will you? And think that makes all smooth. I don’t want your odious money. If you insist on dying despite me, I’ll give it to the Foundling Hospital. But you’re not going to die, because I won’t let you. Two of us can wallow in orgies of guilt. Since you were travelling for my service when you were wounded, why should I not hold myself responsible for your state? Am I to suffer remorse for that all my days? You are going to get better, James Cameron, and you’re going to begin now.”

  The grey eyes regarded her steadily. There was no weariness in the voice now as he said, “Such concern would be becoming in a wife. But you are not my wife. Since you would have none of me, I will have none of your concern.”

  She would not draw back now. “Very well,” she said curtly. “If you still wish it, I will marry you. But I warn you it’s a sorry bargain you’re making.”

  He actually managed a faint grin, with something of his old teasing air. “I am aware. It’s a red-headed vixen that I’m taking to wife. But only in name. That was the bargain and I hold by it. I said I would ask no more of you. If you choose to nurse me—or was it rather scold me—back to health, then you may pride yourself on being the more generous party.”

  She nodded. “Agreed. You may send for your special license—and I will plan my campaign.”

  Miss Ingram departed with dignity and a certain sense of triumph. Mr Cameron turned rather gingerly on his side—his wound really was rather troublesome still—and slipped one hand under his pillow. He pulled out a paper and unfolded it carefully. It was a licence for a marriage between James Ewan Cameron and Rosetta Caroline Ingram. He read it through yet again and tucked it away with a contented smile. He should, he supposed, be feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. To be sure he had not contrived the hold-up nor deliberately courted injury. The devotion with which Russet had tended him during the first days of his helplessness was surely evidence that she had some liking for him, and she did not love anyone else. He had her own word for that. Very well. So he had deceived her. But if a little play acting could win him his wife, then he would woo her as never a girl was wooed before, once she was safely his. The grief that he had caused his well-wisher did cost him a few twinges of guilt. He could only hope that it would be assuaged by his rapid recovery.

  He settled himself for a nap. He was still damnably weak, though that was largely his own fault, starving himself in furtherance of his base plot. Some day he would have to confess his duplicity, but that day was far off. Meanwhile he would gratify his fierce little nurse by displaying meek obedience and a rapidly improving appetite.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Wife,” said Mr Cameron, secretly savouring the word.

  Russet paid no heed.

  “Woman,” said her lord and master. “Come and amuse me. I am bored to distraction with my own society.”

  “When you were a very small boy,” said his wife in affable enquiry, “did anyone ever teach you to say please?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. But I am no longer a small boy. And when you became a wife, five days ago, did you not solemnly promise to obey me?”

  She looked up indignantly at that. They were sitting on the terrace once again. This time it was Mr Cameron who was stretched at ease in the ‘doolie’ while Russet was struggling with the composition of a letter to her father which would apprise him of her new state.

  “A wife in name only,” she reminded him. But she put her letter aside and came to sit beside him. “What would you like to do?” she invited. “A hand of piquet? I shall never be able to give you a game of chess—I just haven’t got the right kind of mind. Or do you feel equal to another turn about the garden?”

  They had been married just two days after Russet had so ungraciously given her consent. He had not dared to strain her credulity by producing the licence any sooner. They had planned a very quiet ceremony in the village church with only Matt and Phoebe to serve as witnesses, but the secret leaked out, as it was bound to do, since arrangements had to be made for the bridegroom to be helped to his place and for a chair to be placed at the Chancel steps, as he would be obliged to remain seated during most of the ceremony. Mr Cameron, who would have preferred to present a dignified, if not precisely a gallant figure at his nuptials, decided philosophically that it served him right for his underhanded manoeuvring. It also had the advantage of causing his bride to gaze at him with an anxious tenderness that brought sentimental tears to Phoebe’s eyes and revived the bridegroom’s hopes that in time his wife might come to like him pretty well.

  These had been slightly dashed during the two days that had elapsed since their betrothal. Her manner had been cool and astringent—the behaviour of a firm but kindly nurse towards a wayward child who must be checked and controlled for his own good. She had been very quiet and sober, too. No jokes, or teasing. He was possessed by fears that even at the last moment she might change her mind and was thankful indeed to see her come slowly up the aisle with Phoebe. The little church was surprisingly full. The combination of a wounded bridegroom and a mysterious bride whom few people had seen had caught the imagination of the village. Most of the domestic staff were there—he had not thought to forbid them—and the Sheridans and several of his farmer friends and th
eir families as well as Anderson to see the knot firmly tied. The doctor, too, had insisted that his support was necessary, and so, in fact it was. But once the service began Mr Cameron forgot all about the minor intrusion of the watching faces and the indignities forced upon him by physical weakness. He listened humbly, with a prayer for forgiveness if he had done wrong, and made his vows with quiet sincerity. Only once was there a slight confusion. As the bridegroom repeated the words, ‘to have and to hold’ he gripped the slender hand that had just been placed in his so fiercely that Russet involuntarily winced and gasped, causing the diffident little priest, already slightly disconcerted by the unusual circumstances and the presence of Ahmed Khan, awesome in spotless robes of ceremony and intricate turban, to falter and lose his place. But habit reasserted itself and in a moment he went steadily on, “From this day forward.”

  The ceremony ended, they received the good wishes of their friends in rather subdued fashion, Russet obviously anxious that her husband’s strength should not be overtaxed. Bob Sheridan reminded them jovially that he had foretold what would happen, though he certainly had not looked to see it happen so soon, and Mr Cameron regretted that Bob would not be able to dance at his wedding but promised that there should be a suitable celebration as soon as he was fully recovered. At this point Doctor Unwin, who seemed to have taken upon himself most of the duties of groom’s man, pointed out that the carriage was waiting to carry the bridal pair back to Furze House.

  The serious mood in which the drive was accomplished was dispelled over luncheon when the bridegroom insisted that they should pledge each other in champagne, but this assertion of authority was short-lived. As soon as the meal was over his wife ordained that he must rest after the exertions of the morning. Mr Cameron, a little amused by this display of conjugal behaviour, was willing to humour her—and horrified when he awoke to find that the afternoon was already far advanced. He was, however, permitted to come downstairs again for dinner, and even to indulge in a rubber of piquet. But his suggestion that his wife, who had won handsomely, should give him an opportunity for revenge was firmly vetoed. He was reminded that he was still an invalid and ordered back to bed. To speak truth he was thankful enough to get between sheets, and when Russet came in presently with a milk posset that she insisted upon his drinking, he won a chuckle from her by informing her that getting married was an exhausting business and that he could only be grateful to her for not subjecting him to all the flummery of a fashionable wedding. Despite his fatigue he looked a little better, she thought, and oddly boyish as he wrinkled his nose in disgust over the posset. She would dearly have loved to lean over and drop a kiss on his cheek but she reminded herself briskly of the terms of their bargain. He did not love her. Her caresses could only embarrass him.