by Heather Boyd
“I certainly saw it coming,” Jocelyn claimed. “I would never have been struck, but you were done for that day.”
“Quiet,” he warned.
His sisters never stopped squabbling. In the short time of having them under his roof, a total of three days now, he’d come to remember all the reasons why he didn’t spend much time in the country with them. Competitive and often petty-minded, they’d not uttered a sensible or civil word in days. He was already regretting bringing them here to stay and wishing he could send them back to his mother.
But he’d made a promise to watch over the silly twits for a few days more still, and he always kept his word. Besides, if he did send them back to Mama too soon, he’d just be giving her additional proof of his so-called disinterest in his family. He was a busy man, but he had perhaps slacked off a bit in spending time with this pair. For good reason, mind—he was saving his own sanity.
Making a good marriage for them quickly, as mother wanted, was no easy task but it was growing in appeal daily. His sisters were a full decade and more younger than him and, to his mind, almost too young to have their wings clipped in wedlock. Yet it was often all they talked about with any great enthusiasm. Perhaps marriage would lend them maturity they currently lacked. But not just to anyone. Alexander had standards. He would not allow them to go off with the first man who asked. They had to be good men, from good families, with steady temperaments and limitless patience to deserve a place in his family.
Surprisingly, Mother’s choices had won him over from the first meeting. Lord Barnaby Miller and Sir Fredrick Mosely were leading the pack at the moment. Still, it wasn’t wise to rush into any decision too soon.
Alexander was supposed to escort the girls to a luncheon later today, and then go on to a dinner before a ball tonight. It was another busy but tedious day ahead for him, watching over this pair.
“What are you reading?” Amelia asked.
“The Times.” He glanced at his sister with hope. Perhaps a sensible conversation was possible still with Amelia, if not Jocelyn. “Do you want it when I’m done?”
“Oh, no. I might get dirty ink on my fingers and clothes.” Amelia appeared horrified by that prospect. “Mama says a lady must always keep her hands and gloves clean and tidy.”
Amelia was the most interested in her appearance of the pair. She had always been responsible for the highest portion of the dressmakers’ bills. Jocelyn favored practical gowns over something new or daring.
“I’m sure she’s right,” he murmured, hope disappearing. The pair had been given the best tutors, governesses, and nursemaids money could buy. Yet neither one had an interest in reading anything but the notes they slipped to each other. He turned the page. “Eat your breakfast.”
“Mama says you’re a great reader.”
“It is a requirement of being a marquess,” he murmured, turning another page, and then he glanced at his sisters. He didn’t really know them well. “I have a great interest in other people, too, and their opinions.”
“Mama said you don’t care to hear ours, though.”
He sighed. “That is not true, but I do like a quiet breakfast. I often read while eating.”
“Mama says that’s not good for your digestion,” Amelia warned.
“No, it’s hurrying right after eating that is bad for you.” Jocelyn regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Reading at the breakfast table is just plain rude.”
Alexander sighed and put his paper aside. Obviously he’d never continue his usual routine while this pair was under his roof. Only four more days until he was free again.
He studied his sisters’ grinning faces across the table and reminded himself that he did love them every now and then. He’d been the first to hold them and was sure he’d never dropped them on their heads. He’d taught Amelia how to play hide and seek. Then later, he’d shown Jocelyn all of Amelia’s best hiding places. He conceded he might have had something to do with their competitive natures. “Right. Now you have my full attention.”
They looked at him expectantly. “What shall we talk about, brother?”
“We could talk about Bristol,” he said, sitting back in his chair and stretching out his long legs. “How did I never learn you were there? And when were you?”
The girls shuffled their chairs closer to Alexander’s along the table until they were very nearly on top of him. “That’s close enough,” he warned. They were much too old to sit on his knees like they’d done as infants.
“Oh, I think it was this time last year,” Amelia suggested.
“No, it was later,” the other swore. “Not in summer, but the weather was cool. Remember we kept running through the fallen leaves and our governess got that terrible pain in her side. And she left us right before winter had set in.”
“It was just us and Mama at home for Christmas. You didn’t come,” Amelia said, and then pouted.
He winced. He’d had a lovely Christmas with friends last year for a change. “Whom did you stay with in Bristol?”
“With no one,” Jocelyn said in great excitement.
“Mama didn’t visit anyone we knew before,” Amelia explained. “We even got to pretend to be someone else, too.”
Alexander blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“She was Mrs. Lennox, and we were her daughters, Amelia and Jocelyn. I’m glad she let us keep our own given names.”
“Why would she not use her married name?”
“She said it was a secret. We were supposed to visit Aunt Hermione in Bath, but Mama changed her mind and we went to Bristol instead.”
Had Alexander known any of this? He didn’t think so, which was unusual. “I guess Mother’s letter explaining all this must never have reached me.”
“I suppose. We had so much fun, Alex! Mama said we had to pretend to be of the lower classes.”
“But not too low. She wouldn’t allow us to curse like a sailor could,” Jocelyn added. “She said you’d be cross about that.”
“I would have been.” Alexander rubbed his neck. Having his sisters sitting on either side of him and taking turns competing for his attention was exhausting. He wriggled his shoulders to ease the ache and pushed his chair back another few inches from them. “So where did you stay?”
“At a hotel,” Amelia blinked. “Do you know they let anyone rent rooms if they have enough money?”
“Yes, it’s not unusual.” Alexander wasn’t liking what he was hearing today at all. Mother was supposed to inform him when she was traveling away from the estate, or changed her plans while traveling. “What did you do there?”
“We took long walks and slept late and went to bed early.”
“Mother was the only one who kept Town hours,” Jocelyn noted. “She absolutely wouldn’t allow us to stay up late. We wanted to keep her company.”
“And she talked to so many low people, too. Strangers.”
Alexander bit his tongue. His sisters had lived a sheltered life in the countryside and often spoke without thought at times. But he was sure Mother would not have consorted with anyone truly unworthy. Her origins had been quite humble before her marriage, after all. She was more than aware of the need to maintain a spotless reputation for the sake of her daughters’ futures. More so than him, perhaps, Mother was always concerned with appearances.
But he was still a bit puzzled by his sisters’ recollections of their holiday, and Mother not using her title in Bristol. “Where was our brother?”
“Gone off about his own business.” Jocelyn colored a little. “Mama said we were better off not asking or thinking about what he does with his time.”
Mother could be very wise at times. If their brother was up to his usual tricks, and their sisters found out, they would tell simply everyone about what he’d been up to. Especially the low places and low friends he might choose to consort with. The pair couldn’t keep a secret if their lives depended on it, which was why he preferred them in the country so they did not unwittingly interfere
with his interests in London.
God help their poor future husbands if they tried to keep any secrets.
“Or yours, either,” Amelia said shyly. “We were absolutely not to pester you for an introduction to any female acquaintances of yours.”
“Why’s that?”
“In case they were light-skirts.” Jocelyn frowned. “What’s a light-skirt?”
Amelia giggled into her hand as Alexander choked.
“Any woman Mama doesn’t approve of, silly.” Amelia told her sister with a superior air. “I’m sure our brother doesn’t want to talk about them,” Amelia smirked, her eyes alight with mischief.
Alexander studied Amelia through narrowed eyes. She might not be as smart as he would like, but she clearly knew about light-skirts already somehow.
A footman appeared in the doorway, and Alexander almost cheered with relief at the sight of any other member of his own sex. “What is it, John?”
“Flowers have arrived for Miss Amelia, my lord.”
Amelia bounced in her seat and squealed with happiness.
“Bring them in,” Alexander urged. He’d welcome any distraction at this point.
Amelia danced about until a modest bunch of Hyacinths arrived in the room, and then she gushed over them excessively. There was a note from the sender, and of course it was read out loud immediately. “I had so hoped Barnaby would remember my favorite flower.”
“That’s Lord Barnaby, Amelia,” Alexander warned. Amelia had too quickly adopted her young suitor’s given name in all conversations.
“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” she promised. “I’ll have to call on Mama and tell her about the pretty bouquet he sent me,” she gushed.
“No, you will not.” Alexander was in no mood to ferry his sisters back and forth between here and Mama’s rented Berkley Square townhouse. “There will not be enough time today.”
“Oh,” Amelia moaned. “I’ll write her a note instead then. Is there flowers for my sister too, John?”
“No, my lady,” the footman murmured with an apologetic wince.
Jocelyn appeared crestfallen at the news.
“But that’s not fair,” Amelia cried in protest.
Alexander quickly waved the servant away. “I’m sure your suitors have not forgotten you, Jocelyn.”
Jocelyn’s lower lip quivered and she nodded, lifting her chin bravely.
Managing two sisters and their suitors, and their wildly spinning moods, was bloody challenging. Mama certainly deserved this peaceful week without all this nonsense. “Save up all your news for when you return to Mother’s household in a few days.”
“We have so much to tell her,” Amelia gushed. “I hope she’ll let us stay up late to finish it all.”
“If she’s not tired again,” Jocelyn added, still sounding a bit low.
“She just needs another holiday,” Amelia declared, pouring herself another cup of tea. “I know. Let us convince her to visit Brighton after the season is over.”
“We tried that before already,” Jocelyn warned, refusing another cup from her sister.
“That’s right. She said she’d be too tired to take holidays after this season.” Amelia offered him the teapot. “Alexander?”
Could no one remember he didn’t like tea? “No, thank you.” Forgetful creatures or not, Alexander liked his sisters. He liked that if he were patient enough, they’d tell him anything he wanted to know. “If Mama was so tired, why did she come up to London then?”
The pair shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” Amelia promised. “One day she just decided she’d had enough of the countryside, and now here we both are with you.”
Jocelyn sighed and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I wonder where Mama’s gone?”
Alexander absently corrected her table manners by knocking her arm out from under her chin. “You should know better than that, Jocelyn,” he chided. “And what do you mean, gone?”
Jocelyn sat back, hands folding neatly on her lap now, and heaved another sigh. “I sent my maid to fetch a ribbon Amelia was sure she’d left in the library there, but the girl was sent away. Very rudely, too. That ribbon was very much needed yesterday.”
“Mother never said she was going out of Town,” Alexander mused aloud. But maybe Mother was hiding from her children the way he’d found he wanted to do in the last few days. He still had a few hours’ worth of work to do before he escorted his sisters anywhere, and he was stuck here talking nonsense.
John reappeared at the door, bearing a large bunch of hothouse roses before him and a grin. “These have come just now for Lady Jocelyn, my lord.”
Jocelyn didn’t wait for them to be delivered to her. She was on her feet and round the breakfast table in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
“Oh, my, just look at the exquisite color!” she cried. “Exactly the shade of my gown the night we met.”
Amelia joined her, but kept a distance. “They’re pretty, but they are roses.”
Then she sneezed. And sneezed again.
“Oh, dear. I’ll keep them in my room,” Jocelyn promised, rushing off to admire her flowers in private.
“Every single time,” Amelia complained under her breath as she sneezed again and again.
Alex rose quickly and handed her his larger handkerchief. “Perhaps you’d better retire to your room, too, until the spell passes,” Alexander suggested, patting her back. He knew it wouldn’t help the girl, but it was all he could do at a time like this.
She nodded quickly and, after collecting her own bunch, departed the room in a rush, leaving Alexander entirely alone at last with his paper and what remained of breakfast before he really must tackle his work.
Sylvia wiped her brow with the back of her hand, weary to the bone. She’d never been more tired or afraid for another person in her life. She turned and set her back against the bedchamber wall and tried to hold back her tears. Lady Wharton’s surgery—more like butchery—had been performed three days ago, and the lady was showing no sign of improvement. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The physicians, now only a pair, consulted with each other in whispered tones and made sounds that were not reassuring. Sylvia was terrified the marchioness might never recover.
She eyed the door, considering if it was time to break her promise and inform the marquess.
She swore to never again make rash promises when someone was putting their life in danger. Even if there had been a glimmer of hope the first day.
Given how often the remaining physicians wore constant frowns now, and frequently checked Lady Wharton’s wrist and brow every hour to see if her fever was abating and pulse improved, it probably hadn’t.
Lady Wharton lay pale and largely unresponsive, save for her breathing, which at times seemed very loud or almost undetectable.
She was going to die.
Sylvia clenched her teeth together as her eyes prickled with tears yet again. She should have told Lord Wharton what his mother had intended before the surgery had even begun.
She angrily swiped away the tear that slipped down her cheek and went to rinse out the warm cloth she’d been clinging to. She dipped it in cool water, wrung out a little and refolded it loosely, ready to begin again. Keeping vigil over a dying woman was the only thing she could do now to ease her conscience, and that didn’t feel even close to enough.
She crossed the room back to the bed. The physicians had shuffled out into the hall and watched on with sad expressions. Lady Wharton’s eyes fluttered as the cloth was placed on her brow, and then she became still. So horribly still.
After her earlier tortured screams, the silence was unnerving.
No matter what Sylvia said or did, the woman did not respond to her questions.
After the operation, after the horrible ordeal that Lady Wharton had screamed through, she’d barely made a sound. The strongest memory Sylvia had of the operation was when the physician had paused, nearly deciding to stop altogether before they had removed the growth. The marchio
ness’ eyes had flashed open, and she’d ordered them to finish what they’d started.
Lady Wharton was the strongest woman she’d ever known or ever would. Sylvia couldn’t bear the thought that her pain might be for nothing. She leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Lizzy, please don’t go away. I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t get better.”
She pressed a kiss to the back of the lady’s clammy hand and eased down in a chair set close beside the bed. Sylvia hadn’t slept in days, and she wouldn’t until this ended, one way or the other.
She pulled a blanket up to her chest, not for warmth but for comfort, not that it helped very much.
One of the physicians came to stand behind Sylvia. “She’s not doing as well as I would like.”
“Then help her,” Sylvia bit out savagely. She looked up at the man quickly and winced. “I apologize for that outburst, Mr. Prendegast. I don’t hold any grudge against you for her current condition. I know how tirelessly you worked. But…”
The man nodded. “It is very hard to watch a friend suffer and feel helpless to do anything about it.”
“Yes, it is hard to bear when I could have, should have, informed her family.”
“She made us all swear that promise,” he murmured. “Though it went against the grain, my colleagues and I agreed to her demands. Unfortunately, all we can do now is wait and hope.”
“That is hard to do a second time.”
Prendegast walked round the bed and picked up Lady Wharton’s hand gently. “I take it you’ve sat with a loved one about to die before?”
Sylvia steadied her emotions when they threatened to overwhelm her utterly. Not even these men really believed there was more than a glimmer of hope.
She pulled herself together savagely, determined to see this through. “My father fell down a set of stairs a few years ago. He broke a leg, and they say a rib or two. He never fully recovered and died soon after.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The man winced. “It is a hard thing to watch a parent expire.”
“It happens all the time,” Sylvia noted, but not like this. She couldn’t accept anything less than a full recovery. Lady Wharton had promised she’d recover, and Sylvia would hold her to that. “She just needs time.”