Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Hal?” asked Sinclair, for he knew Henry MacAlpin’s tale of rescuing the duchess from the Stone King and his dragon. “Might she have meant Henry?”

  “She said Hal, sir. And the doll showed no sign of injury. In fact, it seemed pristine, as if newly made. Lord Kesson took the doll from her, and he and I examined it whilst his daughter slept, for she was exhausted. We discovered a small bag attached to its dress, which had not been there previously. The bag contained tiny bones, inscribed with runes of some sort. I wrote the figures down in my diary from that day, and still have it, if you’re interested. Lord Kesson ordered me to say nothing, and he took the doll away and burnt it.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Completely unaware of the peculiar revelation, Henry MacAlpin had just left Cordelia Wychwright’s chamber and was heading towards the Plantagenet Suite to pay one final visit to the hall’s other patient, Seth Holloway. The viscount had an odd sensation as he passed through the upper gallery, his progress watched by the painted eyes of so many long-dead peers. Upon reaching the turning for the east wing, he met Ada MacKenzie, who curtsied politely. She carried an armload of monogrammed cotton towels, trimmed in delicate silk fringe.

  “How’s Lady Cordelia, sir?” asked the maid.

  “Doing better. She ate a little supper and then returned to a deep sleep. I doubt she’ll awaken before morning. Did you find anything for her to wear, Ada?”

  “The duchess provided clothing to last for several days, my lord. Blouses, skirts, dressing gowns, and all the ‘delicates’ a lady might need.”

  “Ah, those,” laughed the viscount. “I’m not supposed to know about them, of course, but being a doctor, I’ve seen my share. Is Mrs. Alcorn with our other patient?”

  “She is, sir. Dr. Holloway’s right handsome.”

  “Is he? I wouldn’t be the one to ask on that. Tell me, has he awoken?”

  “Not really, sir. It’s more like he’s mutterin’ in a dream. Excuse me, sir. I promised to stock the linen cupboard in the master bath before my lord and lady come up. A good evenin’ to you, sir.”

  Henry continued on, finally arriving at a large suite of rooms, decorated in shades of pale blue and cream. As he entered the primary bedchamber, he noticed Holloway moving haphazardly as though trying to throw off the quilts. His eyes were open. Alcorn had gone, and the room lay in semi-darkness.

  “Here now, you mustn’t do that!” exclaimed MacAlpin. “Dr. Price and I’ve worked very hard to stitch your wounds. We’d prefer you didn’t tear them open.”

  “Who are you?” the patient asked, huskily. “Where am I?”

  “Two questions at once. That’s an encouraging sign. I’m Henry,” replied the viscount cheerfully. “And I’m your doctor. I hadn’t expected to find you awake, actually.”

  “I was dreaming,” he answered slowly.

  “A distressing dream or pleasant?”

  “Unusual,” replied Holloway. “Where am I?”

  “The east wing of Branham Hall. Are you in pain?”

  He nodded. “My chest’s on fire, if that makes sense. And my head pounds. Am I still dreaming?”

  “I rather doubt it, unless I’m sharing the dream with you.” He took Seth’s pulse and examined his eyes. “I’m surprised to find you talking with such an injury. May I listen to your heart? I promise to take care with your bandages.”

  Henry pulled back the velvet quilts. To make medical attention easier, the patient wore a pair of Haimsbury’s pyjama bottoms with no shirt. A bandage ran round his left shoulder and then came forward to cover most of the chest and stomach, wrapping round his back and waist. He looked like a modified mummy. Stains of brownish red mixed with a brighter crimson stained the area just below the right ribcage.

  “You’re bleeding again, Dr. Holloway. Let’s pray you’ve not torn any stitches. I’ll have a look and then change the bandage.” He placed the stethoscope against his patient’s chest and listened carefully. “It’s still irregular. Any headaches?”

  Seth nodded. “Like a blacksmith is pounding out a wheel rim behind my eyes.”

  Henry used the bedside lamp to shine light into the other man’s pupils. “Look to your left and right, but without turning your head, please.” As he glanced left, Seth cried out in pain. “So sorry. Your responses indicate a possible fracture to the left orbital rim. Whoever struck you there just missed taking out the eye. You’re a lucky man.”

  “I hardly feel lucky. How long have I been here?”

  “A couple of days. I’m told you and the duchess are friends. She’s quite worried about you.”

  “Beth is here? Now?” Seth asked, his neck and facial muscles tensing as he tried to sit up.

  “Please, Dr. Holloway, you must lie down! You’ve plenty time to speak with Elizabeth. Your injuries will take many weeks to heal. There’s plenty time for a visit. You mentioned an unusual dream. Might I ask the content?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Henry smiled as he returned the stethoscope to his bag. “Not to all, but I find dreams informative to the mind’s health. That’s my area. Nervous conditions and the brain.”

  “You’re an alienist?”

  “Yes, but also a competent surgeon. Your dream?”

  Seth wiped his eyes, the small movement painful. “I was teaching at Trinity. It was springtime, and one of the younger men had asked me to solve a puzzle.”

  Henry drew a chair nearby, alert for any dream elements that might reveal more about Holloway’s mental state—particularly those that spoke of guilt. It was still possible that Holloway had murdered Peter Patterson.

  “Is that so unusual? Students often present their dons with puzzles.”

  “Yes, but not like this. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. A totally unique language.”

  “A language?” mused Henry. “Ah, yes, that’s right! You’re the ancient languages expert. Dreams are often our way to work through real life puzzles. Did you recognise the student in this dream?”

  “No. He was a stranger.”

  “This puzzle he gave you. Did you solve it?”

  “I don’t think so,” answered Seth. “The student said he’d discovered the writing on an old standing stone near the Grantchester Meadows. He used a pencil and paper to make a rubbing, which he showed to me.”

  “Do you remember any of the symbols?” asked the physician.

  “Some. They were like a combination of Egyptian and Akkadian. Only with stylised animal figures tossed in for good measure. If someone hit me in the head, no doubt, my brain is confused.”

  The door opened, and a tall woman entered. Seth tried to sit up, for he recognised her at once. “Dolly? Is that you?”

  Patterson-Smythe took a chair close to the bed. “Yes, it’s your old friend, Dolly,” she said, kissing his hand. “Mrs. Alcorn thought you might need company whilst she helps elsewhere in the house. I didn’t intend to interrupt. I wasn’t aware Henry would be tending to you. Should I leave?”

  “Not unless Seth wishes it,” answered Salperton.

  “Are you in pain, dear?” she asked, holding the patient’s hand.

  “Only a little,” he lied. “I’m told Beth is here. Is she nearby?”

  “She’s downstairs, listening to music. You remember how Christmases are at the hall, darling. Dickie’s round here as well, somewhere. I’m forever losing track of my husband; though, I think he and James are talking politics in one of the smoking rooms. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?”

  “No, thank you,” he whispered huskily. “You and Richard are visiting for Christmas?”

  “Yes. Darling, do you remember anything? How you arrived here? Or what happened before?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. What happened to me? How did I get here?”

  “May I tell him, Henry?”

  “Yes, but let’s not overdo,
all right? If you have a strong stomach, I can change these bandages whilst you talk.”

  This made Dolly laugh. “Oh, Henry, you’re so sweet! But you needn’t fear. My stomach’s hard as iron. I can help, if you need an extra pair of hands.”

  The viscount cut through the outermost layers to reach a thick pad of folded cotton wadding. Beneath, he could see two stiches had pulled apart. “Could you hand me that medical bag, Dolly?”

  She did so, and Henry used a lantern to examine the wound again. A faint glimmer caught his eye. Using tweezers, he removed two slivers of rib from the area. He held them up to the others. “I believe this may be what dislodged Dr. Price’s stitches. You’ve cracked a rib, Dr. Holloway, and these chipped away. They might have travelled and caused blood vessel damage if gone unnoticed. I’ll need to re-examine the entire area to make sure there aren’t any more. I’m afraid, this will hurt.”

  It took ten, agonising minutes of probing, but Henry finally declared the wound clear of debris. He’d recovered six additional bits of bone in the long wound, and laid them out on a cloth beside the bed. “You all right?”

  Holloway nodded. “All in a day’s work for professors. How did I get here?”

  “Paul found you,” Salperton answered whilst closing the wound.

  “Aubrey?”

  “Yes,” Dolly answered. “In some sort of cavern near that God-forsaken abbey. You’ve been unconscious ever since. Beth’s been in several times since to keep you company. She’s very worried.”

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered. “And she’s downstairs?”

  “Yes, dear. It’s nearly Christmas, you see. The twenty-third.”

  The viscount swallowed hard. “Do you think she’d come up now? I need to speak to her.”

  “I don’t know. Henry, is it all right?”

  “Yes, but only for a short visit.”

  “Of course,” Dolly answered, kissing Seth’s forehead and leaving the room.

  “You’re remembering something,” Henry said.

  “Perhaps,” Seth answered.

  He tried to recall the symbols within the odd dream. A dread shook its way through his bones, whispering of evils to come. Holloway had faced many such terrors in Assyria and Egypt, but this one felt different. Older. Stronger.

  Much more malevolent.

  He shut his eyes, praying silently to the Lord—something that would soon become a habit for the newborn believer.

  “Do you go to church?” he asked Salperton.

  “When I can,” the alienist answered. “I sometimes have to tend patients on Sunday morning, but we have services at my sanitorium. Montmore, it’s called. Are you a religious man?”

  “I didn’t used to be, but all that’s changed. I need to talk to Beth. Something’s coming, Henry. Something darker than night itself, and it’s got its eyes on her.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Midnight – Cordelia’s private drawing room

  James Stuart was ordinarily jovial and pleasant, but the Scot could be a dangerous man when crossed. His enemies seldom saw him angry, for the duke had learnt to hide his emotions well in his sixty-nine years. Usually, he placed matters into the Almighty’s hands, but when his loved ones were threatened—or worse, a helpless woman fell victim to the cruelty of a man—then his ire knew no bounds. Payback, according to Drummond, came slowly, inexorably, and it hit the perpetrator where it would hurt the most. In William Wychwright’s case: his pride, his position, and his bank account.

  “Delia wasn’t able to recount the crime in clear detail,” he told his nephews, “but in my book, she suffered assault and attempted rape. I want those men to pay, Charles. Is there any way we can prosecute without Delia’s testimony? She’s fragile enough without having a court judge ask difficult questions. The experience would shatter her into a thousand pieces, I think.”

  “Who dared to did this?” asked Aubrey. “What’s his name, and where do I find him? I’ll see he pays for daring to harm that girl, if it’s my last act on earth!”

  “We will not respond with violence,” Charles told the others. “Let the law do its work. And if the law fails, then there are subtler ways to skin this serpent. Open violence will only put you in the dock, Paul.”

  “I don’t care. And I’ve yet to hear a name,” muttered Aubrey, picturing the broken young woman lying beyond the connecting door. “You say it was William’s friend? Which? The man hasn’t many friends. Was it Treversham or Brandt?”

  “It was the baronet, from what I’ve discerned, but I believe Brandt may have served a supporting role, for Delia’s mentioned him as well,” Henry interjected. “She keeps repeating the word ‘money’ over and over. ‘I don’t want the money’. I’ve no idea what she means by that, James. Do you?”

  “Her father left Cordelia a sizable inheritance,” Drummond explained. “William wants access to it.”

  “Oh, I see,” replied Salperton. “Actually, the reason is unimportant as far as Cordelia’s concerned, though it’s likely she’ll fixate on it and try to use that as a means to escape her torment. I’ve worked with rape cases before, gentlemen, and they fracture a woman’s mind and heart as nothing else. It will be a very long time before she heals—if at all. What are your plans? Do you intend to keep her here?”

  “That’s what we have to discuss,” the Scotsman answered.

  “I will not have her go back there, James!” Paul shouted, standing to pace. “If it’s money they want, then I’ll pay it. I don’t care how much. Let them name their price and give her up!”

  Charles glanced at his cousin. “Paul, what do you mean? Are you implying you’d buy her from Wychwright?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  Sinclair turned thoughtful. “Must it be so crude an exchange? Here’s the way the law sees it. Until Cordelia is eighteen, she must receive her guardian’s permission to marry. Legally, William may claim guardianship. If she’s inherited money of her own, then he’ll want to control it, which means controlling her and any husband she might marry. This makes Paul an obstacle to that control.”

  The earl sat down once more, leaning forward. “Go on.”

  Henry interrupted. “Charles, you cannot be suggesting what I think! Surely, not.”

  “Paul, do you care enough for Cordelia to marry her?” asked the younger duke. “Not only as a friend, but as a man. Someone who wants to build a life with her?”

  The earl’s countenance performed a series of subtle movements, as though his mind were clearing successive hurdles and internal objections. “If a desire to protect and cherish her is love, then the answer is yes. I’m willing to make her my wife.”

  Salperton interrupted again. “See here, Paul, if you do this, you must understand you’re marrying a broken woman who might never be mended! She’ll likely suffer from a deep and abiding fear of intimacy, if you must know. Can you live with that?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “She turns eighteen tomorrow, which means she can marry without her family’s permission.”

  Drummond reached for his nephew’s hand. “Son, you needn’t do this. Let me marry her. If Henry’s right, and Delia has no wish for intimacy, it makes no difference to me. I don’t need an heir, for I’ve got Charles and you—and soon, Beth’s son. I could keep her safe without causing her mind any further dismay.”

  Paul shook his head. “No, James, I want to do this. If honest love and God’s time can offer healing and hope, then I want to give her that. I’m content to wait as long as she needs—forever, if it comes to that. In truth, I’ve no need for an heir either. Charles can assume the title if anything happens to me. And I know he’ll always take care of Adele. So then, how do we go about this? I’ll not tip my hand to Wychwright, which means we cannot publish banns at their church.”

  The duke sighed. “Very well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’ve n
ever been more certain of anything.”

  “Then, there is a way, but it means a trip to Canterbury. The archbishop approved Beth’s marriage to Charles without banns, despite their both being Presbyterian. I think he did it to impress us, if truth be told; but once he hears the queen will attend the ceremony, Benson will run here if he must!”

  “Then, it’s settled,” Paul declared. “If we’re to do this, it must be soon, before Wychwright catches wind of our plans. She’s eighteen tomorrow. If she’ll have me, then that’s when we’ll marry.”

  Henry sighed. “I cannot say I approve, but I’m outvoted, it seems. Let me assess her condition tomorrow, and if she’s up to it—and only if she is—then, I’ll do all I can to help. The only other consideration for you, Paul, is how to tell your sister, or rather your daughter, of course, which is another issue entirely.”

  “And I have to tell Beth,” the earl whispered, suddenly weighed down with regret. “I’ll do so tomorrow. Tonight, I plan to stay with Delia and pray.”

  Long after the others left, Aubrey remained, staring into the drawing room’s pleasant fire. He’d made many memories with Elizabeth over the years—most of them wonderful, a few filled with danger and dread. How could he marry another woman here—at Branham, her childhood home? Would Beth understand, or would he lose her forever?

  With his mind thus occupied, he’d not heard the knock.

  A sliver of light cast in from the corridor as the door softly opened and closed again. “Am I disturbing you?”

  He sat upright, surprised to see her; yet a visit from Elizabeth at that moment felt like a gift from God—and an answer to prayer.

  “You’re never a disturbance, Princess,” he answered in a whisper. “But we should keep our voices low. Delia’s sleeping.”

  Beth joined him near the warm fire. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Charles has fallen asleep, and I kept thinking of you. You’ve been distracted lately, Paul. Are you all right?” she asked.

  She’d not enquired about Wychwright first, but about him. Somehow, her constant loyalty only caused the earl more anguish.