by Heather Boyd
He choked back a protest. He was not an exact copy of his father. He might have studied at his knee, but Alexander directed his own life and learned from the mistakes of others, and his own. Alexander was a busy man and always would be; he’d get around to marriage one of these days. And, too, Alexander had not yet discovered a woman he felt could carry Mother’s title of marchioness with as much grace.
He’d only marry a woman who could accept him the way he was and didn’t demand he change. So he hadn’t married yet. He hadn’t betrayed any wife of his by taking a mistress at the same time and ignoring her. That was what Father had done to Mother. She was still bitter about that after so many years a widow.
Alexander would ignore the comparison she alluded to; he was sure she would never be done with the subject until the day he was wed. But for now, Mother was not in any condition to choose her words with any sort of care or tact. “I was not aware that you felt that way about Father still.”
“He only wanted me around when it suited him. Just like you do,” she complained bitterly. “You helped pack me off to the countryside and forgot we needed you.”
He sat up straighter. “I left you to manage the estate because I trusted you.”
“You don’t trust me,” she complained.
“I wasn’t the one keeping secrets, Mama.”
“Everyone keeps secrets, you most of all.” She shook her head and winced. “Fetch me a cold cloth for my head. I have the most dreadful pounding there.”
Alexander was on his feet in a flash to wet a cloth.
When he returned, he draped it gently over her brow the way he’d seen Sylvia do it many days ago. “I’ll make sure your real friends come and see you when you’re feeling better.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. You’re not my keeper.” Mama tried to sit up but collapsed, gasping. “I chose to do this to myself, and she chose to put herself through the ordeal to support me. She didn’t have to stay. I wish she was my daughter, because then you’d pack us both off to the countryside and stop interfering!”
This last was nearly shouted, but then his mother moaned in such a way that boded ill. Panicked, he bounced to his feet and checked for her pulse at her wrist as the physicians had often done. The pulses beneath his fingertips were fast and uneven but her breaths eventually slowed again to a more normal speed. Judging by her twisted expression, she’d done too much, too soon. Moved too much.
He held her hand as she pressed her lips hard together, and he didn’t dare ask another question for a good twenty minutes or more. He settled into the chair as he waited, worried, but also relieved beyond measure for the short conversation they’d shared. She might be tired and in pain, but his mother was too stubborn to give up on her life. They would speak again later, when she felt up to it.
But now she was alert once more to her surroundings, he had better start thinking of the future. The nursemaid the physicians had hired was a flighty old matron in ancient rags and a cap, who disappeared the minute Alexander showed his face at the sickroom door. She’d have to be replaced before he could even consider taking Mother home.
When she eventually started to move around without help, the first thing he’d do was remove Mama back to Wharton House. There, he could keep a better watch on her recovery. Together, they would approve his sisters’ marriages—when the fellows worked up the courage to ask for his sisters’ hands, of course. But this time, when Mother grew difficult about his bachelor state and late hours, he would not allow her to get under his skin again. He’d listen and let her feel confident that her opinion wasn’t just important, but without price.
They would work things out, for the good of the family. She would stay with him in London, and he might just spend more time in the country with her, too.
Given his renewed interest in taking care of his family, particularly his mother, he expected that fulfilling their needs would take up the bulk of his time for the foreseeable future.
Chapter 17
Wharton finally disappeared from the house at dusk. Sylvia had watched and waited for him to leave his mother’s room, as she’d done for the past three days and nights. The man was not indifferent to his mother, and clearly very worried about Lizzy. If only Lizzy had realized that before the operation, he could have been here with her instead of Sylvia.
Sylvia removed the thick glass spectacles she’d taken to wearing as part of her disguise and rubbed her tired eyes. In her guise of a nursemaid hired by the physician, Mr. Prendegast, the marquess had barely looked in her direction for all the days she’d been living as a servant in the house.
The family were beside themselves with excitement over the marchioness waking up today, and had started making plans for the future. A future far away from this house. But Sylvia knew Lady Wharton wasn’t out of the woods just yet. There was always the chance of the wound reopening and infection setting in if she was disturbed too much. A trip anywhere was absolutely out of the question.
But optimism reined for the moment. The daughters, fresh from the excitement of their drives in the park with their suitors, had squealed like little children over their mother’s recovery, spoke extensively of their time apart, and of their suitors, too. One of them had sang and been hastily silenced by the marquess. In the end, in their unthinking excitement, they had jostled the bed the marchioness was lying in far too much and been reprimanded for that, too, and sent away.
At least Wharton was now taking charge, ordering everyone about and smart enough to give his sisters the chore of writing to all their friends with the good news their mama was recovering well from her recent indisposition. Though he’d warned them that their mother’s recovery would take many months longer, Sylvia wasn’t quite sure if they truly understood how different Lizzy’s life would be for the coming months.
She put her spectacles back on, covered her hair with a lacy white maid’s cap and quickly made her way downstairs. Sylvia had hoped to have an opportunity to be alone with the marchioness hours ago. But Wharton had confounded her and stayed, sitting beside his mother’s bed the whole time. His attention had never wavered, not even when Sylvia, driven to desperation to see more of the patient, had slipped into the room with a pitcher of water that wasn’t yet needed. Lady Wharton had been sleeping at the time, her breathing soft and regular in the quiet stillness of the sickroom.
Sylvia had tiptoed past the marquess without him speaking to her even once. Given the paleness of Lizzy’s cheeks then, she guessed the fever must have broken sometime earlier that day.
Now, with the marquess finally gone, there was nothing to stop Sylvia fulfilling her promise to Lizzy.
She slipped into the room, shut and latched the door, and moved quietly to stop beside the bed. The marchioness appeared to be sleeping again, so she perched on the edge of the chair, biding her time.
The marchioness gasped, suddenly wide awake, and moaned.
Sylvia edged a little closer. “Lizzy.”
The marchioness turned to look at Sylvia, and then frowned. “Who are you?”
Sylvia quickly removed her lacy cap and the pair of spectacles she’d perched on her nose to better hide her features from the marquess and grinned. “It’s me. Sylvia. I’ve come to see you again. I am so very happy to find you awake and talking at last!”
“Oh, you nearly gave me a turn.” The marchioness’ gaze flickered over Sylvia and then down at the cap and glasses. “Why do you look like a maid? I hardly recognized you.”
“That’s the point,” she whispered. “Your son was a bit incensed about things.”
“As I knew he would be.” Her gaze narrowed. “I asked for you, but he wouldn’t say where you’d gone. What did he do?”
“It hardly matters.”
“It matters to me,” she protested.
“He refused to let me see you.”
“And yet…” The marchioness glanced toward the door. “You are here dressed as a maid.”
“A disguise was the only way
to deceive everyone.” Sylvia wet her lips. She did not want to get the physician in any trouble, but it was only because of him that she had any chance of getting past the servants. She’d only planned to stay until Lizzy’s fever broke and she’d had a chance to talk to her again, and say goodbye. “I can’t stay, I’m afraid.”
“You only just got here.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. It’s not possible for me to remain. You see, the marquess does not approve of me right now, and I have to go before he comes back from wherever he’s gone.” She gestured to herself. “I had to resort to deception to slip past your servants and catch a glimpse of you for the last three days. Please don’t ask me to explain how my being here came about. I really don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Your son must believe I’m just another servant hired to look after you. A nursemaid.”
“An ugly one in that costume, too. I never would have recognized you, and I never forget a face.” Lizzie chortled, but then gasped and groaned in terrifying pain.
“I’m so sorry,” Sylvia cried, horrified she’d unwittingly been the cause of the lady’s discomfort. “What can I do?”
The marchioness subsided against the pillows with a subtle shake of her head. “Oh, that was unpleasant, but it’s good to know I’m alive enough to still have a sense of humor to be tweaked.”
Sylvia shook her head, in awe of the woman she’d befriended. She’d put herself through so much pain and could still find life amusing. “The weather is unpleasant, Lizzy. What you’ve willingly endured is something quite different.”
Lizzy scowled. “Are you always going to contradict me? I’m an ill woman. Be agreeable for a change.”
Sylvia moved a strand of Lizzy’s hair from her face. “Would you really have me do that to you?”
“I suppose not.”
Sylvia got to her feet, opened a deep drawer close to the bed, and rooted around until her fingers touched a thick glass bottle. Sylvia had smuggled the spirits into the room a few days ago, on the off chance the marchioness might need a stronger drink than the wine she had been offered so far. She showed it to her friend. “I thought you might prefer a glass of this to help you with the pain.”
“Blessed child, bring that here now. Wine is all well and good, but one must drink a lot to have any real effect,” Lizzy said, fingers beckoning urgently. “I don’t think I would like you as much if you were proper like everyone else tries to be. You think and act on your instincts, instead of worrying about offending. You are quite the original, aren’t you?”
“So, my lady, are you.” Sylvia, blushing from the compliment, poured the lady a large glass of the gin and helped her sip it. When the glass was well depleted, she sat back in the chair again for a moment. “You’ll feel the effects soon, I’m sure.”
“My son would faint if he knew I was drinking that dreadful stuff. Oh, it’s awful, but strong enough I hope to give me relief from the constant ache.”
“I’m not going to tell on you,” Sylvia promised, giving her the rest of the glass. “This is entirely medicinal.”
“My father said that often, always after he’d staggered back from the local tavern.”
Sylvia’s time with the marchioness was short. She measured another glass of gin for the woman and set it aside. “How is the pain now?”
“Constant, but better for seeing you at my side once more,” Lady Wharton promised. “I’ll have to do something about that.”
“But not today. He’s gone out, for how long I don’t know, and I want to hear about you. They say there is no sign of infection, but we cannot be too careful. I know it’s hard but you must rest as much as you can bear.”
The marchioness pulled a face. “I knew Wharton wouldn’t stay.”
“Actually, Lord Wharton has hardly left your side in three days,” Sylvia confided, feeling she must do something to avoid further estrangement between mother and son. “This is the first time he’s left the house since I began my ruse. He certainly does care.”
“For now.”
Sylvia soothed the woman’s hand. “Give him a chance to change. You gave him a great shock, and he’s finding his way slowly. I’m sure he’ll be a better son to you from now on.”
“He’s had plenty of chances over the years,” Lizzy insisted, closing her eyes for a moment. Her fingers rose to her chest and settled lightly beside the wound. Fearing any disturbance of the bandages might affect the healing of the wound below, Sylvia gently pulled her fingers away before Lizzy had a chance to scratch.
“People often don’t change overnight, and sometimes we don’t even see it ourselves, but he has cleared his schedule to be with you. He missed the Fratworth soiree, and a dinner with Lord and Lady Carmichael, and other things to do with his investments, too.”
A frown had grown on Lizzy’s brow, and she moaned softly again. She wriggled her shoulders as if trying to dislodge a discomfort. Sylvia quickly offered the gin again, and the lady drained the glass quickly. She lay still after that, appearing to grow somewhat drowsy, and then a smile lifted her lips. “How do you know so much about my son’s schedule?”
Sylvia smiled back. “He wrote and sent off his excuses to a dozen families from this very room. I happened to overhear the directions he gave to a footman for their delivery.”
Lizzy sighed. “While you were skulking about in that ugly gown and glasses?”
She grinned. “Precisely.”
Sylvia suddenly became aware of activity on the street outside the townhouse. “I fear the marquess has returned,” she whispered.
“Don’t go yet.”
“I’ll try again to change his mind tomorrow,” she promised but she clearly heard the front door open and close, and then heavy treads on the stairs coming up. “There’s no time, but I will be back as soon as I can.”
Sylvia donned her cap and spectacles, hid away the empty glass of gin and bottle, and set her head in her hand, pretending to be dozing in the chair beside Lady Wharton’s bed.
The door creaked open slowly, and then closed again. Footsteps drew closer one slow step at a time. When Sylvia risked a peek, the Marquess of Wharton stood beside the bed opposite her, staring down at his mother. He wore a heavy frown, but hardly spared Sylvia a glance as he dismissed her. “You can go for the night. I’ll stay with her until dawn.”
“Yes, my lord,” she muttered in her assumed accent, heaving herself out of the chair as if she was older and wearier, and departing the room with the marquess none the wiser still.
Chapter 18
Alexander hadn’t spent much time in the sickroom during his life, but a week after learning what his mother had done to herself, he conceded that he wasn’t cut out for the idle tediousness of keeping someone he loved company while they recovered.
Mother, too, was a worse patient than expected.
“Mother, I won’t change my mind,” he said for the hundredth time.
“I want to see her,” she insisted.
He glanced at his mother’s face, noting her color and overall appearance had significantly improved over the course of the last few days. If she’d not been swaddled in bandages, she might have jumped from her sick bed to pester him with the point of her finger the way she’d once done. However, Mama couldn’t be allowed to exert herself that much. Even a slight shift of position caused her considerable discomfort she couldn’t hide.
“If you will not heed me, I shall have to send for your physicians again.”
Mama made a decidedly unmotherly sound, almost a curse held under her breath. “Oh, why don’t you go walk in the square, or better yet, take yourself all the way to the House of Lords and play at politics again. Leave the nursemaid to take care of me.”
“If I could find her,” he grumbled.
The one day he’d made plans to go out was the one day she’d apparently found a better position. He’d had to conscript Carmichael into checking on the Norringtons’ situation for him. The earl was always at White’s on Wednesdays. Today was the only day of
the week when he could accidentally on purpose run into the man’s wife to see if their situation was still on the rise. Carmichael had grumbled he wasn’t cut out for espionage, but he’d do what he could to get the answers Alexander needed.
“You’re not getting rid of me so easily, Mama. Whether you like it or not, I will be supervising your recovery.”
“You’re bored.”
“I am not bored.” Well, perhaps he was a little, but he’d not admit to it to Mama. He’d already sunken very low in her opinion. “I am trying to make up for my lack of attention to you in the last years.”
“I want to see my young friend.”
Mother had been asking for Sylvia Hillcrest every day, every time she woke, for two days straight. She demanded to see Sylvia in her sickroom when it was just not possible. Sylvia had gone behind his back, concealed her knowledge of the danger to his mother from him. He couldn’t trust her.
On top of that, he’d misdirected all his anger and fear upon her head and not thought enough of the likely consequences. He’d laid all the blame for Mother’s actions on Sylvia instead of where they really belonged—on himself. He’d banished her, and the woman had taken her expulsion to heart. She hadn’t returned or tried to call on Mother. Not that Mama was aware of that yet.
But Sylvia had certainly done a good job to worm her way into Mother’s affections quite skillfully and quickly, too. Not an easy task, actually. He felt bad for Mother now.
“We will discuss this later.”
“We will discuss this now,” Mother demanded. “I’ll not have you lord your title over me while I’m on my deathbed. I am your mother, boy. Do as I wish!”
“Yes, I heard you the previous dozen times you reminded me of that fact, and I’m sure you will not die given the way you are carrying on, too.” He put his book aside and moved to stand at the foot of the bed. “You will learn to trust my judgment. You need quiet and calm. I don’t want to argue with you anymore.”