“You rang, miss?” Lloyd asked softly when he entered the room. Beatrix looked up gratefully.
“Yes, I was wondering if you might be able to help me send out these letters.” She rose from her chair beside Lord Bellton’s bed and retrieved the letters she’d left on the desk. “I know not where my father may have been taken, but one of Lord Bellton’s men offered some possibilities. The authorities must know the truth of what occurred, not just for my father’s sake, but for that of justice against that cursed Earl.”
The butler smiled, taking the letters from her. “I know precisely where these must be sent, and if it eases your mind any, Sir Williams came down from his room several hours ago. He has also written his account of what he discovered and bade me have it delivered. The stable hand was right about the location, and these will be carried to the magistrate in Chelmsford at once.”
“Oh, thank you! You’re right, it eases my mind tremendously!” Beatrix said, breathing a deep sigh. “I only hope we’re not too late to speak for my father.”
“And to prevent that horrid man from fleeing, though he may have traveled far in this time,” Lloyd agreed before dropping his voice. “Between you and me, I’ve never liked that Earl. His son is always polite and cheerful, if a bit unserious, but there’s something conniving about the father.” He straightened up and gave Beatrix a reassuring smile. “It is very late, but that’s of no matter. I’ll dispatch one of the men to carry these out right now.”
Beatrix thanked the butler and returned to the bedside. In the darkened room, the lamp’s shadows falling across Lord Bellton’s face gave him a deathly look. Feeling his forehead with her hand, Beatrix grimaced at what she perceived to be a flare of fever. She retrieved the basin of water and dabbed at his forehead with the cool cloth, just to be sure.
As she placed the dampened cloth, a low moan of pain escaped the Marquess’s dry lips. Beatrix removed her hand and waited, unsure of what she’d heard. Was he waking? For a moment, she considered sending for Sir Williams, but was loath to disturb the man if she had not heard correctly.
There was another soft moan, this time most certainly of utter discomfort. She watched Lord Bellton’s face and thought she saw a flicker of his eyelids, a wince of pain.
She hurriedly reached for the bell cord and rang, then returned to his side and waited.
“Can you hear me?” Beatrix asked softly. It was met with another soft cry. “I’ve rung for the physician, he’ll be here soon. He’ll have something for the pain.”
“No,” Lord Bellton whispered, his eyes still shut. “No more…”
Sir Williams arrived shortly after Barclay looked in on them, and Beatrix told him of the patient’s brief utterance. He grimaced but nodded thoughtfully.
“That is actually reassuring news,” Sir Williams said. “He is in his right mind after all, though badly injured, and refusing the morphine. Some people do not find its effects pleasant at all, and they would rather endure the pain. It’s a sure sign that he’s waking, so perhaps some of the herbs we requested would be better for him.”
Rather than disturbing anyone else needlessly, Beatrix nodded and hurried to prepare a tea herself. When she finally returned, Lord Bellton was able to open his eyes only briefly, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a weak attempt at a smile.
“You’re here…” he breathed, then closed his eyes once again. Sir Williams made some pretense of inspecting the contents of his bag, much removed from the bedside. Beatrix took Lord Bellton’s hands and held them tightly.
“Yes, I am. And I shall be for as long as you wish it,” she said.
Afraid that she was only imagining it, she shuddered when she felt his hands close on hers, his fingers gripping hers weakly.
“Always…” he answered, then closed his eyes again to rest.
“We must give him this tea while he is still awake,” Sir Williams said gently, wishing not to intrude.
“Of course, how silly of me,” Beatrix stammered, taking the cup the physician held out to her. She clasped the Marquess’s hand once more to wake him, then held her hand beneath his head. Sir Williams supported him on the other side as they bade him drink.
When they’d managed to feed him a healthy dose, Sir Williams inspected the sewing for any signs of infection once more, then returned to his room, the look of relief on his face encouraging Beatrix greatly. She settled into the chair once more and slept lightly, though her dreams were filled with the image of her father caged like a wild animal.
“What was that he’d been trying to inform me?” Beatrix thought, waking from another fitful bout of disturbing dreams. “And why was the Earl talking about my mother?”
In the silent darkness, Beatrix repieced the entire scene in the stable. It had all begun when the Earl mentioned her mother, demanding that her father look her in the face and speak the truth. He had not wanted to at first, but why?
“What secret has Father been hiding from me, and for how long?” she wondered, a cold chill running through her. Her shiver caused her to check on Lord Bellton again, and she was relieved to find that his skin felt of a normal temperature.
“But why speak of my poor mother?” Beatrix thought again when she was settled. “She’s been gone all these years. Father almost never spoke of her, it pained him too greatly.”
She thought back with a rueful smile to the handful of times she’d witnessed her father filled with too much drink, usually in an effort to ease the pain of some surgery she’d needed to perform. Even at those times, he’d only occasionally become weepy, muttering in his stupor about how awful he’d been. She’d long assumed it was deeply held guilt for not affording a physician for her mother, and therefore had never broached it in the light of sobriety.
But now, Beatrix’s mind reeled. There must have been a reason the Earl had thought to say it, and a reason her father had reacted so strangely. She feared she would never learn the truth about her mother, certainly not if her father’s life was in danger now.
Chapter 25
When the sun shone through the slit in the curtains the next morning, Callum felt the heat of it searing into his bare shoulder. It was uncomfortably warm, but still a pleasant reminder that he had lived. The events of the day before had haunted his dreams all through the night, aided by that damnable tincture of morphine, no doubt. It was a great relief to open his eyes upon a new day and see the familiar sight of his own chambers.
It was an even greater relief to spy the sleeping figure of Lady Beatrix next to his bedside. Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair beside him, her head leaned over on her hand. Her soft curls fell down the length of her arm, framing her delicate features and pale skin like a mink drape.
“What an amazing creature,” he thought, stealing these moments of silent admiration while she slept. “I have never met another like her, and am certain that there does not exist her equal.”
There was no doubt that his whole world had changed that day on the road, and though he had many amends to make, he would not alter that course if it meant never having met this young woman. He was surprised to find that none of the things that had once mattered dearly to him were of any importance anymore, and he could only hope that he could convince her of that as well.
“My Lord! You’re awake!” Barclay cried, startling both Callum and Beatrix. She sat upright in her chair in an instant, reaching for his hand.
“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.
He winced in reply, unaware of how the sound of talking would inhibit him. His mouth was dry and his response slow in coming as he managed to answer, “My head pains me as though I’ve been run over by a horse cart. Does that count for anything?”
“It does!” she answered brightly. “It is most assuredly temporary, the result of the medicine. Barclay, could you let Sir Williams know he is awake? And ask Mrs. Powell for fresh water to drink, along with some broth and dry bread?”
“Certainly!” the valet said, hurrying from the room exci
tedly.
“What has happened during my time of sloth?” Callum teased, eager to hear Beatrix’s reply. She smiled with an expression of great relief at his joke and explained what the physician had done.
“But do you remember much of what happened before you were harmed?” she asked, a note of hope in her voice.
“If you’re asking whether I remember that the Earl of Weavington was about to shoot your father in cold blood and managed to shoot me instead, then… wait, what was I saying?” Callum smirked at Beatrix’s look of alarm, then said, “Then the answer is yes. I remember it very clearly. Sadly, I’m certain I’ll have a very undignified scar to prove it.”
“I am glad that you remember the truth, not only for my father’s sake and the sake of justice, but as it means you are harmed only in body and not in mind,” she said.
“I cannot swear to that,” Callum replied, “as my mind doesn’t seem very sharp at the moment.”
“Ah, that is likely from the loss of blood. You must remember that you had a terrible injury. It’s a wonder that you’re even awake and able to speak now.”
They were silent for a moment, but Beatrix’s expression spoke to her gratitude. Callum still held her hand and ran his fingers over hers reassuringly. He looked at her, his face nearly unreadable.
“What is it?” she finally asked, growing self-conscious under his gaze.
“Nothing. I’m only wondering how many other invalids around the world have the benefit of such a knowledgeable yet beautiful healer to attend to them.” Callum’s word, though tinged with humor, were spoken with an air of severity.
“I could not say, as most healers of this sort are men,” Beatrix teased. “But if you’d like, I can fetch Sir Williams so that you might compare our beauty side by side.”
Callum laughed, then immediately winced from the pain of his wound. “You’re going to make jest until I writhe in agony, aren’t you? It would be a fitting end for me to die in a fit of laughter!”
“Oh no, you must not! I’ve worked far too hard to lose you now,” she answered somewhat solemnly. “In fact, it was rather a close call, one that I do not wish to repeat… ever.”
“Nor I,” Callum whispered, all humor erased. “And not merely for my own sake, but rather that I have not had nearly enough time spent with you. If it should end now, I cannot imagine what adventures we will have missed out on.”
Beatrix paused, then dropped her gaze to the floor. “Did you say we?”
“Yes, we. I find that nothing about myself matters so much as who I am when you are near. I am forever and unashamedly part of the ‘we’ that comprises you. If you’ll have me, that is.”
Callum waited for a response, but Beatrix offered none. Her silence drew on so long that he eventually feared her answer. When she spoke, her tone was timid, a tremor in her voice.
“Please, do not say things you cannot mean,” she whispered.
“I have not yet uttered a single word that was not sincere,” Callum said, straining to sit up slightly and look at her but finding himself still too weak. “I love you, Lady Beatrix, and I would endeavor to marry you, though I am most undeserving. If you’ll have me, I will make it my life’s work to be the man you deserve.”
“And what of all the Earls in the world who stand between us, arguing against our happiness with rules about propriety?” she asked without meeting his eye. “How are you and I to live happily among those who would despise me for my lowly birth and questionable parentage? Who would then despise you in turn for your poor choice?”
“That should be their concern, not mine,” Callum said as firmly as he could manage. “I mean that. Those are not just pretty promises that I make from having narrowly avoided death only a day ago. I have seen what could have been the end of my life, and the things that once mattered to me are no longer important.”
Beatrix looked up at him and he smiled tenderly, adding in a weak but determined voice, “You are all that matters now.”
Beatrix was rescued from answering by a sudden flurry of activity. Mrs. Powell brought the requested tray and placed it near to the bed, insisting on feeding Lord Bellton right away. Soon enough, Sir Williams entered to see to his patient and proclaimed his recovery slow but still remarkable.
Beatrix took the liberty of excusing herself so that the physician might examine the Marquess privately, but in truth, she only made it as far as the hallway before collapsing against the wall in a near faint.
It had been a trying two days, to be sure. First it was the emergency with the driver, then the elation that turned to confusion upon seeing her father again. That short-lived reunion had ended with the most horrible sight she’d ever known. She clutched at her stomach from the memory of watching helplessly as he was hauled away, all because of the chaotic argument that led to the Marquess’s grievous injury. Now, with very little sleep and almost no nourishment to carry her through, Beatrix’s head swam with Lord Bellton’s declaration. Surely it was only the words of an injured man who felt grateful to be alive. He could not have thought this through!
“Worse, I don’t want him to think of it clearly!” Beatrix thought, nearly succumbing to her emotions. “I want a man who would throw all of this to the wind to have me!”
But still, the practical voice that guided her every thought was right: there was no good end for a nobleman and the daughter of a thief.
In children’s tales, the poor girl was always one who had been wronged in some way. It always turned out for the best in the end, but that could not be true for Beatrix. She knew who her father was—worse, she knew what he was—and though she loved him desperately, his was not the sort of character who came ‘round to happy endings.
Instead, the thief’s daughter might escape into the night in these stories, having no one else to care for. But never did the authors dress the girl in a fancy gown and put jewels in her hair as she was delivered to her loving prince. That was only for the princesses who’d been forced to work in the scullery.
And despite the title her father had bestowed on her all the years as his own little princess, she was truly no lady. The way the Earl had spoken to her even before her father came to her rescue had assured her of one thing: there could be no happy ending between her and the Marquess.
“I must be away from here,” she thought miserably, “before the pain becomes too great for either of us to bear! But where shall I go, and how?”
In truth, the driver who laid injured was her only hope. She could strike out on foot as she’d already planned, but where would that leave her father? What was the name of the town Mr. Lloyd had confirmed? Chelmsford?
Beatrix was as trapped as ever, held prisoner this time by indecision. How she’d dreamed of breaking out through a window or kicking her way free through the downstairs door! Now, she found she had nowhere to go and no way to help anyone she cared about.
“Ah, Miss Risewell,” the physician said as he left the room. Beatrix turned sharply, her eyes wide at the mention of her father’s surname. “I’m glad that you are still here. I shall not be able to stay much longer, I’m afraid, as I have other patients I must attend to. Should I leave written instructions?”
Beatrix dropped her shoulders in defeat and nodded solemnly. “Of course. I will stay and see that they are followed to the letter.”
“Good!” Sir Williams replied, but his relief turned to confusion. “Though you do not look pleased at my request. Are you put out that you are needed here? I can try to send a nurse, if that is so.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m more than obliged to stay after all the Marquess has done for me,” she answered slowly. “It is only fear for my father’s plight that makes me question it.”
“Ah, that is wholly understandable,” the older man said with a reassuring smile, patting Beatrix on the shoulder kindly. “But never fear, I’m sure our letters will reach the court immediately. They will help your father greatly, I’m sure of it.”
“Bring in the prisoner,�
�� the court officer bellowed from his post. He waited while the murmurs of an unusually crowded room mellowed slightly. Not that he could blame the onlookers for their curiosity, as it was not every day the court heard the sworn testimony against not only a wanted thief but a murderer as well.
The well-known Prince Aaron was led into the room in chains, his hands and feet bound in such a way he looked to be no prince. He looked hardly more than a timid animal, a wounded one at that. His long black hair hung loosely about his face, giving him an air of poor health and a lack of cleanliness.
The crowd hissed loudly as he was brought in, and the official had to rap his cane upon the floor several times to bring them to silence. Once Prince Aaron was locked securely inside his wooden cage, the circuit judge arrived through a door at the side of the room, adjusting the white curls of his peruke over his own hair as he entered.
The Stolen Diadem of a Castaway Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 20