Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  “No, she cannot be spared.” Mr. Beauchamp had emerged from his cocoon of curtains, flapping his arms and shifting his feet. “Miss Winton has begun to record my visitations. It seems my star friends communicate with me through my dreams. But they are very clever and use symbols. Did I mention, Miss Winton, in my dream last night they spoke to me through the bed-pan?”

  “Nonsense.” Lady Tippit dismissed him, turning to Anne. “A woman does not dabble in the affairs of men, much less creatures from beyond. It is not seemly. You will be much better in Town with me. Heaven knows there are enough foreigners there to keep you occupied if you crave the bizarre. I shall tell Hives myself.”

  “Lady Tippit, I am very honored by your invitation, but I must decline. No doubt you will find a far more elegant companion in London, one who knows fashion, how to dress hair properly, and all the latest gossip.” Assuredly, James—no, she must begin to think of him as Lord Devlin again—would move in a very different circle of society than her ladyship, but Anne would not risk the possibility of him looking through her to smile at another woman. Much better to bury herself in the frigid Scottish Highlands where she might one day be of some use.

  “Stubborn female. I want you, Winton. No one can soothe me as you do. I shall see—”

  “Ohhhh!” Phoebe Nester sat up, clutching her belly. “No! Not now. You must not come now.” She rocked back and forth, crooning to her swollen belly. “Please stay safe inside. Please stay.”

  Anne leapt to her feet and was by the lady’s side in a moment.

  “Mrs. Nester, you must breathe. Look at me, Mrs. Nester. Phoebe! Look at me.” The woman did seem pale, her features pinched with pain. “Tell me what you are feeling.” But the woman only shook her head.

  “Lie back. Let me massage your shoulders. It is likely just a momentary pain and will pass soon.”

  “No.” She pushed Anne’s hands away. “It is the baby, I know. Oh, but it is too soon. They have been coming since last evening.”

  “Since last evening? Why did you not say, you silly woman?” Lady Tippit marched across the room to get a closer look at her friend.

  “You see!” Mr. Beauchamp clapped his hands while hopping about. “I knew the stars were not agreeable. Oh, great Jupiter, she has leaked.” He pointed to a darkened spot below Phoebe’s waist. “Is that supposed to happen?”

  Phoebe moaned.

  “Do be quiet, Beauchamp. Do you imagine you are helping matters?” Lady Tippit sat beside Phoebe. “Now there, my dear, Winton says all will be well. You know she never tells a falsehood.”

  “Mrs. Nester, it is likely your waters have broken” She laid her hand over Phoebe’s heart. Fast, but not racing. “It is time. Your child is ready to come and meet its mother. This is as it should be.”

  Except it wasn’t. Doctor Hives was away. Again. Most of the staff was at a memorial for Major Cummings who was finally to be laid to rest with a proper stone just outside the churchyard. There was no one.

  A pillow served to mop up some of the wet.

  Blood? This did not seem right. She hid the pillow beneath the couch and crossed to the bell pull. Esther was sure to be in the kitchen. Please God.

  “But what of the Doctor? Hives is away.” Beauchamp danced and flapped. “Doomed, she is. The stars are never wrong.”

  “Please, sir.” She took his hands. He settled. “You must help us, Mr. Beauchamp. Do you know where the kitchens are?”

  He nodded.

  “You must go and get Mr. Macready or Esther.” He nodded again. “You must tell them to get the midwife in the village and to bring Mrs. Coates back from the funeral and anyone else that might be of assistance to Mrs. Nester. Make haste, sir.” The man nodded again but did not move. “Mr. Beauchamp, sometimes we must go against fate.”

  “Lord Devlin…” The man frowned.

  Phoebe moaned again.

  “No,” Anne spoke slowly. “Not his lordship. You must go to the kitchen. It is below the conservatory. Now.”

  Still he did not move.

  Taking him by the hand, she towed him to the door and then opened it. “Go now. The servant’s staircase is at the end of the hall in the niche. Do you see?” Another nod, with the addition of a flap. “Good. Then simply go down. If Macready is not about, Esther will know where to find him.”

  “Winton!” Lady Tippit shouted. “Something is wrong.”

  She shoved Beauchamp toward the stairway. “Go!”

  Phoebe was curled into a ball, her face so pale.

  “Lord Devlin—”

  Good God, Beauchamp still lingered by the door.

  “Lady Tippit.” She took the older woman by the shoulders. “You must stay with Mrs. Nester while I fetch help.”

  Her ladyship looked her square in the eyes and nodded.

  “Very good. I will only be a moment.” She touched Phoebe’s belly. “Mrs. Nester, I am going to get help. You must hold on and not push. Can you do that?”

  Phoebe only rolled her eyes in pain. Anne ran to the door.

  “Miss Winton!”

  “Not now, Mr. Beauchamp, please release me. I must get help.”

  “But that is just it. I know who can help.”

  “Please—” He was stronger than he looked. She tried to wrench herself away.

  “Lord Devlin. We must get his lordship. He will help.”

  What?

  “His lordship. The marquess studied under the great Sir Barton Wainwright. Granted, Lord Devlin was chiefly interested in the human musculature, for his painting, but Wainwright thought of Devlin as a protégé.” Beauchamp wrung his hands. “Oh, if only Sir Barton could see my creatures, how he would love to study—”

  “Mr. Beauchamp. Please, is this true? You believe Lord Devlin can deliver Mrs. Nester’s babe?”

  “Why certainly. After all, it is only one small human child.”

  James? Could it be? But the girl had died.

  Phoebe screamed.

  It would have to be his lordship, there was no time.

  With no light she had to feel her way along some of the narrow halls. On the last staircase, her boot heel snagged on her petticoat and she fell. Pain lanced her knee, and she felt blood run down her calf but she could not stop.

  Finally, his door. Too many keys. Her hands shook so. She could not make the key fit. There!

  “Jam—Lord Devlin—I”

  Ivo was shaving him. His hands were chained to his chair. The reality of his day to day life always a shock.

  “Anne.”

  She wanted to kiss him, to touch him, have him touch her as he had when he caused her to shatter and lose herself. If only they could go back in time.

  But there was no time.

  “Lord Devlin, you must come. You must come this instant. Mrs. Nester is having her baby.”

  “What?”

  “Please, there is no one else. Ivo, unlock the marquess. Now. Do you understand? You must”—she pointed to the keys at his waist—“Never mind, I will do it.”

  Blast! Which one? Devlin shook his head. “Anne, I cannot—”

  “You must. Mr. Beauchamp said—he said you could do it.” Where was the bloody key? “You must do this. You must.” Tears blinded her. Meanwhile Ivo had found his key and opened the locks.

  “Anne, please. You do not know… You cannot know…” He had turned white beneath his half-shaved face.

  “There is no one else. You must save this baby. Phoebe Nester cannot lose another child.” Dear God, what was she asking of him? What if in trying to save this child he regressed?

  He swiped his face with a towel, revealing a hardened mask. “Beauchamp is wrong. I cannot do it.” He flung the towel away.

  “But what of your studies with Sir Barton Wainwright? Mr. Beauchamp said you had worked with him.”

  “Wainwright?” The mask cracked as he frowned and shook his head.

  “Sir Barton. He is an anatomist? A surgeon, perhaps?”

  Like clouds moving swiftly to reveal the sun,
his face cleared. “Barton…my God, Bart. I had forgotten…”

  “You see, you can do this. Come, we must hurry.” She pulled him from the chair.

  “No.” He spun away. “No, I haven’t—I don’t know—”

  “There is no one. I need you.” She approached him as if he were a wild animal ready to take flight. “Please, if you care for me at all, you will try. Please, James, please try. For me.” His hands shook as she clasped them in hers. They were ice cold. She held them against her beating heart. “You are strong enough. You are strong now.”

  “I am strong…” he repeated.

  She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I will be with you. We will do this together.”

  “Together?” He seemed so far away. She squeezed his hands against her breast. His eyes focused and he squeezed back. “I will come with you to see…the situation, but I…”

  She had lost him again. “James—”

  His gaze snapped back to her. Time hung like a droplet of water, gathering itself, pooling to drop…or not. He turned to Ivo. “Bring the razor.”

  She released her held breath.

  “And find a sewing kit, Anne. We may need it. Have her waters broken?”

  “No. I don’t believe so.” Should she mention the blood? “But she is bleeding.”

  He stopped mid stride. “Dear God. Is there no one else?”

  His gaze was so vulnerable. Was she doing the right thing? Would he break under this terrible pressure? Please God, let them succeed. “No, there is no one.”

  ****

  Dev pried the floorboard open and closed his fingers around the vials Austin had left for him. The red wax seal would crack off so easily, the stopper ease out. He could tip the liquid into his mouth and slip into oblivion. So easy…

  He shoved the vials into his waistband. “Very well, let us go before I regain my sanity.”

  As they made their way through the halls, he remembered what he would need—if he did this thing. “Lots of linen towels and boiling water. And salt. And whiskey. Find me whiskey and plenty of it.”

  Anne took his hands. “I must leave you for a moment to gather the things you need. Will you be well? Ivo is right here with you, and I will return in a few minutes.”

  Could he trust her? Would she set him up to fail? Someone screamed. That would be Nester. He found himself nodding as he sucked in air. Anne peeled off, disappearing into the dark hallway.

  The screams got closer and closer until only a door separated him from his greatest fear.

  He pushed it open.

  What an ironic joke. Phoebe Nester sat in a pool of blood. The dark wet matched the couch’s burgundy upholstery perfectly. The very same couch she had disappeared into weeks ago at tea. She was disappearing yet again, poor woman.

  “No! Get him away!” Nester pushed back into the cushions. “Do not let him touch me. He will steal my baby and give it to his master.”

  Well, some things never change.

  “Don’t be delusional, Mrs. Nester,” said Beauchamp. “The Devil doesn’t snatch infants. He eats them.”

  The woman wailed.

  Lady Tippit smacked her, hard. “Settle, Phoebe,” her voice surprisingly calm. “Are you going to give any credence to Horace Beauchamp? A man who listens to bedpans? Lord Devlin has done this before. He knows what he is about. You must trust him, my dear.”

  Trust, indeed. The last time I ended up killing the poor girl.

  The thought spread over his mind easy as butter on hot bread. He had not been able to remember for almost a year, and now it was right there before him…

  Lily. Her name had been Lily.

  Memories flooded in. He shook his head trying to focus them. Old images mixing with the here and now.

  The door opened.

  Nora? The face warped. Was he back at Greene Street?

  This woman was surprisingly calm. “I have brought the brandy and plenty of linens. The tea water should still be hot.”

  Tea water? “I can’t do it, Nora. I need Wainwright.”

  “Wainwright is not here. You can do this.”

  “No. It’s too risky. I’m not capable.”

  But Nora wasn’t listening to him. She was a blur of movement. He shook his head to focus, but it only made matters worse.

  “Don’t you see, I will kill her. I will kill Lily!”

  A terrible moan came from somewhere nearby. He covered his ears and backed away.

  Nora was beside him, pulling his hands away.

  Hot? Why were her hands so hot? Her dark hair hung like straggling vines—no, that was wrong, Nora had red, curly hair… He shook his head. He had to make her understand.

  “But it’s too early,” he reasoned. “I checked her only yesterday. She has at least seven or eight more weeks.”

  “It is time.” Fiery hands squeezed his. “There are the towels, hot water, and whiskey. What more do you need?”

  Whiskey. Yes, he needed something to drink. His hand shaking, he grasped the bottle and took a long pull. Earth and sun and rich fruit filled his mouth. The taste of his past.

  Nora tried to take the bottle from him. Must he do this? Could they not just leave Lily and retire to their room to make love? Or better yet sleep? Yes, he would dearly love to sleep.

  Devils pulled and feinted, trying to distract him. He pushed them away. But they made him look.

  Lilly lay writhing on a couch. An immature body, swollen with child. A girlish face with such old eyes—eyes full of pain and resignation. That face branded into his brain. Her twelve-year-old tits now the size of small tea cups. Bigger since he had last seen them. When he’d found her crouched in a doorway on Cuddle Lane. He’d given her his jacket then to cover herself. He must cover her again.

  “No. You must save her and the child.”

  The devils howled in his throbbing brain.

  “Nora, I can’t. I can’t do it.”

  “James.”

  He shook his head. Devils rattled. He shook harder, but they would not leave him.

  “James. Look at me.”

  Hot touched his arms, his hands, and then his cheeks.

  “I am Anne.

  A face came into view.

  “I am not Nora. I am Anne.”

  Anne? Not Nora. Liquid, soulful eyes, Anne. His Owl. His beautiful Owl. Thank God. It had been a dream, a terrible waking dream. “Anne…” He tried to pull her to him, but a moan tore open the space between them. He could not look down.

  She touched his hand. He held a bottle of whiskey. He could taste it on his tongue. She pried the neck from his fingers. “Nora is in the past. Lily is in the past. You can do this now. I am Anne, and this is Mrs. Phoebe Nester who needs you.”

  Another moan, the sound so piteous.

  Not Nora.

  He looked down. The memory still hung there. Lily pregnant. Nora pleading with him. The nightmare merged with reality. Anne. Now Anne. She needed him.

  “James, you must help Phoebe Nester deliver her child.”

  He looked into Anne’s beautiful eyes and then down at the body.

  It was the same. The situation was exactly the same as it had been with Lily. Dear God, he couldn’t do it again.

  To jeopardize his freedom. If Phoebe Nester died, he would never get out of this hellhole. Never.

  He pulled the vial of laudanum from the waist of his breeches. The red-brown liquid winked in the candle flame, teasing him. Sweet oblivion only a moment away.

  His year was almost up. He was stronger. His memories were returning bit by bit. It would be madness to attempt this surgery.

  But all his reasoning faded in the face of Anne Winton. Still so many questions between them, but she needed him. He must save this woman for Anne. And he must save Phoebe Nester and her babe for himself. He looked down again.

  Not Lily.

  This body was nothing like Lily.

  He was not at Greene Street.

  He was at Ballencrieff.

  And Anne stood next to him
, waiting for him to act.

  Lily was dead. Her baby dead. He had a second chance.

  “Ivo, Mr. Beauchamp, move her onto the table by the windows and open the curtains. Miss Winton, gather all the candles and get me that hot water.

  “Mrs. Nester,” he said as her pain-glazed eyes focused on his, “we both are loathe to do this, but it must be done. Do you understand?”

  The woman whimpered but did not shake her head.

  “I am going to touch you now. You must be still. Can you be still, Mrs. Nester?”

  She nodded and then turned her head into Lady Tippit’s bosom.

  He pulled her skirts and petticoat up to her chest. She wore no stays. Her chemise ripped easily. Not Lily. Older, with a silver net of scars over the belly—her other pregnancies, and heavy, pear-shaped breasts.

  Moving his hands over Nester’s stomach, he pushed and prodded. About thirty-two to thirty-three weeks. Bloody Hell. As much as he wanted this child’s bottom to be its head, he was sure the babe had not turned. Or dropped. “You say her waters have not broken?”

  Anne looked to Lady Tippit.

  “No. At least I don’t believe so,” her ladyship said her hand covering Nester’s ear.

  “She did not complain of any pain until just now?”

  “Phoebe always complains of this and that, Devlin.” Lady Tippit stroked Nester’s hair. “But apparently, she has been having pain since last evening.”

  He laid his ear against her belly. The room hushed. Yes, a faint beat. “Your baby is well, Mrs. Nester.”

  A collective sigh released within the room as if a near to bursting dam had opened a sluice.

  Lily’s face threatened to creep in and cover the older woman’s.

  He passed the vial of laudanum to Lady Tippit. “Here, get this down her and cover her face. If she is foolish enough to wake up, it will not be a pretty sight.”

  “Phoebe, drink up.” Lady Tippit would have made a very fine general. Nester whimpered but took the drug.

  He swallowed along with her. “Where is that whiskey?”

  Anne thrust the bottle into his hand. He took a swig. Endless months since he’d felt that familiar fire in the back of his throat. Before he was tempted to take more, he poured the liquor over Nester’s belly and then handed the whiskey to Ivo.