“I see you have found another protector, Marianne,” he managed at last, his eyes dark with rage. He glanced again at Venables. “I wonder what she has told you?”
Marianne stiffened.
“Not another word,” Venables said, “or you will know what it is to be silenced with your own teeth.” Marianne was shocked at the violence in his voice. It was as if a sudden unsuspected aspect of his soul had been bared by the brutality of the scene he had interrupted, and a dragon had emerged.
Keeping a watchful eye on Stratford, Venables asked, “Are you much hurt, Mrs. Glencoe?”
“Is that what you are calling yourself these days, Marianne?” Stratford muttered insinuatingly. “A widow, I take it. How I should like to have been able to see you through what I am certain must have been an exceedingly dark period of mourning.”
Venables jerked forward, but Marianne stayed him. “Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, no more.”
Stratford still had not moved from the floor, but his eyes now glittered treacherously. “She is not worth it, you know,” he said. “Were I you, I should not trouble myself with the slut—or her bastard.”
Stratford’s words assailed Marianne with the shock of yet another blow, and, simultaneously, a band of agonizing pain seized her.
“No!” she gasped weakly, but Venables had already lunged at Stratford. The doctor’s face was white, as he hauled the man to his feet and dragged him through the door. She was in too much agony to protest further, but she could hear the front door open, and Stratford’s curse become one with the howl of the storm.
She concentrated on her pain, glad in one sense of a way to remove herself from the worse agony of the scene she had just witnessed. Life mirrored nature. The storm which had just broken in her consciousness threatened to be far more destructive than the one which raged just beyond her window.
In what seemed a mere moment, Venables was at her side again, his presence now not in the least comforting. Stratford’s words could not have left any doubt in the doctor’s mind of who and what she was. If only she could persuade him to go away, that she might be left alone with her pain and disgrace.
He settled his arm gently about her. “Do not worry— I have sent the blackguard into the night with a fair expectation of what he might receive were he to return. Are you injured?” he whispered.
The pain had subsided again. She shook her head, as the tears began to slide down her face. Stratford’s words echoed in her mind. Slut, Bastard. That Venables should have heard him outweighed the torment of physical pain. It was as if she had been ruined again.
Still, he held her, and his voice was gentle. She searched her mind for words that would explain everything, would make the shame go away, but none would form. She was now weeping uncontrollably, and only her shuddering conveyed the least whisper of what she wished to convey.
Venables stroked her hair and made soothing noises, as if she were a child who had taken some hurt. “My Marianne,” he whispered.
Her heart was torn asunder by his tenderness, his goodness. Surely he must have heard, must have understood the import of Stratford’s vicious revelation. But perhaps goodness could not comprehend evil. Perhaps he simply did not believe it of her.
All at once, she was racked with another series of pains, and she doubled over, trying desperately not to cry out.
“Dear God!” Venables cried. “How long has this been going on?”
She shook her head. She had no clear idea how much time had passed.
“Do not be afraid,” he said gently. “The shock has prompted a premature labor. Let me know when the pain subsides, and I shall carry you up to your chamber.”
She was torn between the desire to send him away and the fear for the child she carried, when suddenly she remembered. “What about the girls?” she whispered.
“It is all right,” he said, with an attempt to reassure her. “I have sent Annie after them, and the boys are with them now.”
“But what if he should come across them?” she gasped. “Stratford is mad and evil—Annie could do nothing. Go to them, please,” she begged. “There is already too much I cannot forgive myself ...”
He frowned in consternation, clearly at odds with himself. “I cannot leave you like this.”
“You must,” she urged. “I shall manage . . . Ring— Mrs. Bridges will hear and come to me.”
“All right,” he acquiesced, “but do not think I shall leave it to chance. I shall fetch the woman to you before I depart.”
“Just hurry,” she gasped. “Hurry.”
* * * *
After he had disposed Marianne to her servant’s care, Venables once more faced the storm. The light was by now exceedingly dim; only a few vague shapes stood out in the torrential rain. He wished to God he had a horse, saddled and ready, for he had grave misgivings about leaving Marianne alone. First pregnancies were dangerous, especially when labor was premature. He was afoot, however, and now he traced the path, making the best speed he could through the tempest.
He could hear nothing but the storm, could feel nothing but fear, rage, and the penetrating rain. There was no sign of the person Marianne had called Stratford. He was not surprised: only a coward would have attacked a woman. Doubtless he had ridden away to the cesspool from which he had sprung.
When he reached the crossroads, Venables paused for a moment, wiping the rain from his eyes. At first he saw nothing. Then the lightning flashed, illuminating the landscape. In that brief instant he perceived a rider in the distance, rearing on his mount before the scattering figures of the children and Annie. Then all was black again.
The chill hand of the past gripped his heart: children about to be ridden down. And Annie. Poor crippled Annie. Driven by instinct, he darted forward to put himself before the rider. Thunder cracked like the whip of an angry god. He could hear now the horse’s terrified screech mingled with the cries of the children, and it spurred him on.
In a brief flash he saw how he might seize the reins, but the next dark instant blinded him once more and his grip closed on nothing. Small hands snatched at his coat and pulled him away from his object. Thunder, then lightning again revealed the rearing horse mad with fright. At the next clap, it bolted to the west, Stratford bending low to grip its mane.
He heard his name cried out, as if from a host of small voices.
“Dr. Venables!” Annie cried. “I am so sorry,” she moaned. “I mistook the way in the storm and—”
“We must gather the children and go back to Rosewood,” he interrupted. He reached down and could feel the curly heads of Jane and Becky at his knee. “Charlie! George!” he shouted.
“Over here!” He did not know which of the boys had called to him, but he ran in the direction whence the voice had come. In a moment he reached them, and a flicker from the sky revealed Charlie bent down over his brother’s form.
“It is George,” he cried, “and he does not move.”
Venables knelt at the child’s side, sought his neck, and gently tested for a pulse. It was there, strong but somewhat erratic. He heaved a sigh of relief.
“It hurts,” he heard the child gasp.
“Where?”
“My chest—it was the horse, I think. Will I die?”
“Hush. Of course not.”
“That is well,” George sighed. “I should not at all like to be an angel in heaven.”
Venables scooped him up in his arms. “Annie,” he called over his shoulder. “Are you equal to fetching Maggie?”
“Why yes, but why—?”
“Mrs. Glencoe has gone into labor. Go back to Rosewood first and fetch a lantern, for it will be fully dark ere long. I shall see to George and the others.”
“Yes, doctor,” she said faintly.
“You are not afraid, I hope?”
She gave a brave little laugh. “I am sore afraid, but there’s naught else to be done, is there?”
“Take Charlie along with you. It will take hi
s mind off his brother to have some errand. Run along now. You are a good girl, Annie.”
Chapter Eighteen
In those brief periods between the racking pains, Marianne lost herself to wretched speculation. What was to become of her and the child now? She could not stay where her secret must soon be known, for though Venables seemed confident he had put Stratford to flight, she feared he might still contrive to make good his threat to reveal her secret to the Wallers. The notion of those good people coming to know what she had been sent a tremor of humiliation through her.
And the doctor, what of him? That was worst of all. In him, she had achieved what she had scarcely dreamed of hoping for: the respect of a decent man. Now that all hope was gone, she also recognized with a sinking heart that she had come to love him dearly. She would never have dreamed of revealing her feelings, but they might have remained a. small treasure in the corner of her heart. A keepsake of what might have been. That was all over. She must, she knew, tell him of her past, explain the scene he had interrupted.
Regardless of any other consideration, though, her child was coming. What was to become of it? It was one thing to envision fleeing once again to shield them both from censure, but how that might be accomplished and whence they might escape was another thing altogether. The greater part of the monies she had accumulated had been spent on Rosewood Cottage, and she knew she was not likely to find another buyer for it any time soon. Without funds, she would soon have no other recourse than to return to her former way of life, and that was not to be thought of.
Turning restlessly in her bed, she almost wished that this brief respite from pain might be over, for it at least disallowed the invasion of such rambling, useless thoughts. Time brought her nothing but wretched confusion. If only she could concentrate long enough to think clearly what might be done to ameliorate the damage Stratford had done, if not for her own sake, then for the babe’s.
In the dim light, she saw that Old Maggie bent over her now, smoothing a stray hair off her forehead.
“I have brought you some valerian tea,” she said. “You must drink it right down all at once, for I have made it so strong it is quite bitter. It will help you to relax, though. A long night it will be, and you will have need of all your strength.”
Marianne took the cup from her and did as the older woman said. A bitter cup, she thought abstractedly. What else should it be?
“Believe me that all shall be well, mistress,” Maggie said kindly. “I do not always see the future, but when I do, I do not see amiss. Close your eyes for a bit, and listen to the rain. ‘Tis a healing sound. And I am at your side.”
* * * *
When Dr. Venables was at last able to leave George’s side, he found the night had calmed somewhat. The wind still blew, but without the ferocity which had earlier accompanied it, and the rain now fell gently upon the land. The boy, he had been relieved to find, had not been badly hurt. The horse’s hooves had thankfully missed his head, and glanced his shoulder and chest instead. By some providence, nothing was broken, but he was in a good deal of pain. Venables had dressed the lad’s wounds and dosed him with laudanum, then saddled his horse and returned once again the way he had come.
He knew that Marianne was in good hands with Maggie. Whatever their differences, he knew she was a skilled midwife in whom he might place his confidence. Still, he was plagued with visions of Marianne at the hands of that villain, and wretched with worry lest the shock she had sustained might have some unsuspected deleterious effect on her system. The mind and the body, he knew, were linked in ways medicine had yet to discover.
Of the assailant’s words, he had thought little until now, on this solitary ride through the night. One thought tumbled over the other, defying logical order. Whence came this demon, and how had one as gentle as Marianne become entangled with such a brute? And if the words the man had spoken of her were the truth, if they were not some vile fabrication…?
Venables shook himself. The past, his own and hers, did not figure, he told himself staunchly. Words, mere words. If Marianne wished to speak of it, she might do so, but he would not importune her with questions. He had no right.
Such a resolution was difficult, nay impossible, to keep to, however. As he steered his mount along the dark pathways, various questions and explanations presented themselves. What he could not rationalize away was the feeling that, regardless of what the truth of the matter might be, his heart was still engaged. It made no odds. It was clear she required love and protection. If she would accept his, he might be a happy man.
As he approached the cottage, he heard the patter of footsteps as Charlie ran up to him from the doorway where he had been keeping watch. “Is George dead?” he asked falteringly.
“Not in the least,” the doctor said, laying a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Bruised and battered, but still among the living. When I left him, he was asking for biscuits!”
In the light from the doorway, he could see that the boy’s eyes were sparkling with tears. Sniffling a bit, he wiped these away with his sleeve and summoned a smile, saying, “God’s a knowin’ fellow and sees what’s best, for what George said was right—he would make a very bad angel.”
Venables laughed softly as he entered the vestibule. “So he would,” he agreed. “Have you found a place to sleep?”
The boy nodded. “Mrs. Bridges made me snug by the fire here, but I could not sleep ‘til you were come.” He yawned hugely then, shifting from one foot to another.
“Off to bed then,” Venables said.
The child nodded and made as if to do so, then turned and said, “You see. It is just as we thought. Best to marry Mrs. Glencoe, and you and us boys shall protect her better. ‘Tis no good for her to be alone.”
Words of wisdom, Venables thought as he ascended the staircase. Just as he reached Marianne’s chamber, however, he encountered Maggie coming out of it.
She raised a finger to her lips. “Hush,” she said. “She has only been able to close her eyes these last minutes. I gave her a stout cup of valerian tea, which I think has settled her somewhat. The pains have subsided for the nonce, but unless I am far afield, we shall see the child before morning. But come, let us go down to the kitchen and have a sup of tea. I have left the mistress in Mrs. Bridges’ good care. She will call to us, if we are needed.”
He placed a hand on the door, loath to go away without having at least looked in on the lady. Maggie nodded to him, and he went in. Marianne lay still for the moment, her dark hair spread out on the pillows like a cloud. Mrs. Bridges sat in a chair at her side, busying herself with a length of drab-colored knitting.
He stood quietly a moment, glad at least to see that Marianne had been granted a respite, however brief it might prove to be, from the torments she had lately suffered. The physical pain would be gone eventually, but her wounded spirit, he knew, would take far longer in healing.
Though he was already weary, he did not at all wish to leave her. “Go ahead, Maggie,” he said. “I shall join you presently.”
* * * *
He sent Mrs. Bridges off to her bed, and took the chair at the bedside. A bruise was beginning to darken Marianne’s cheek, and he cursed beneath his breath. A doctor should not, he knew, indulge in violent thoughts, but he would have given all to have wrung the neck of the villain who had dared to injure his love. As he pulled his chair closer, he saw Marianne’s eyelids flutter, then open. As she recognized him, she turned away her head.
“Go away,” she whispered. “You are far too good. You need not stay, now you know the worst of me.”
“The worst I know of you,” he said softly, taking her hand in his, “is that you are too full of love.”
She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “I have threatened a man with murder today. And before that, I have sinned, sinned past count.”
“Hush. You know nothing of sin. If you have threatened that man— no matter. No one condemns the shepherd for defending his flock against the wolf. I do
not know what he held up to you, but— “
“I must tell you,” she said.
“No,” he said firmly. She had had a great deal too many shocks for one day. Doubtless, if he allowed her to speak, the morning would bring regret.
She gripped his sleeve. “You already know or have guessed part. I would rather you knew the whole.”
“I must beg of you, Mrs. Glencoe …” he pleaded.
She shook her head. “That is not my name.” She looked beseechingly at him. “Please, please, you must listen to me.”
He nodded, and she seemed to relax somewhat. Perhaps it was best, after all, if the telling would help to ease her mind.
In the darkened room, her words tumbled over each other: the story of a young girl named Marianne Gardiner entering the jaded world of the ton, full of hope and romance. She told him of her flirtation with the Marquis de la Roche, his attentions and flattery, and finally his betrayal.
“I knew I should not have gone to him,” she whispered. “But I was headstrong, certain I knew what was best, certain my life would fall into the perfect lines of a fairy tale. I slipped away and met him in a park, thinking he might perhaps try to kiss me, but no worse. I even cherished a hope he might offer for me—not because I fancied myself in love. It merely would have suited my pride to count such a distinguished gentleman among my conquests.
“When I reached the park, I found he had his carriage waiting. I protested, but he laughed at me and coaxed me inside—and took me to his house. His servants had been sent away for the afternoon, he told me, so I need not worry that my visit there would be reported. He seemed very kind, at first, merely interested in showing me his collections—music boxes, exotic bibelots, such things as would appeal to a young girl’s fancy.”
She was silent for a moment then, and Venables took her hand. She barely returned the pressure of his fingers.
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