by Kara Summers
“With all due respect, sir, I must share the credit. Without Rheims, last night would never have taken place. He has devotedly served your son’s needs. Your son also deserves accolades for his efforts. He did not, as you know, welcome my presence. But he met the challenge. He is a man of whom to be proud. By overcoming his physical disability, he has discovered resources of strength within himself that most people never have cause to unearth. I shall never forget him.”
Chapter Ten
As the staff prepared to array the manor in holiday adornment, Cressida was packing in her room. Lady Constance had prevailed upon her husband to alter his plans for a Christmas sojourn from Lady Lenore, and he had agreed that they would open the December festivities with a supper, to which other guests, in addition to the Crittendons, would be invited. If matters went well, as he was confident that they would, the Crittendons would be invited to spend the holidays at Pennington Manor. Lord Richard knew of the supper, although not the guest list, and supported the notion now that he was himself again. He and Rheims were in London, visiting his tailor, but were expected to be back before tomorrow evening, when the supper was scheduled.
Cressida intended to be gone tomorrow morning. She had already made arrangements to be taken to the inn where she would board the coach for a return to St. Anselm’s and, in time, her next patient. She had sent word to her father that she would be coming back home, having successfully accomplished her work at Pennington Manor. She packed neatly and efficiently, as she did everything. She did not allow herself to cry, or to think back on the tender moments of her time with Lord Richard. She would amputate this episode of her life as if it had never happened. She would be gone before Lord Richard returned so that there would be no goodbyes. She had explained her plan to the Earl, who agreed that her presence was no longer required and one did not expect an employee to linger over farewells. Her work was done, payment had been made, her duty was discharged. Lady Constance said nothing, but her eyes paid close attention as Cressida spoke.
“My dear Miss Lockwood,” she said when Cressida had finished. “You have given us something which no amount of money could adequately recompense. ‘Unto us a child is born; unto us a son is given’,” she quoted. “This season, those words from Scripture mean more than they ever have before.”
Cressida’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Lady Constance,” she whispered before retreating from the room.
She was inside the coach the next morning, crammed in her seat by the window when she saw the powerful body of a chestnut horse with a black mane and tail pass by, followed by a more sedate mount. She saw Lord Richard turn in his seat to jest at Rheims for his laggard pace. Cressida pressed herself compactly against her seat so that she would not be visible from outside, but she needn’t have worried. Lord Richard had no interest in the stage on its way to London. Restored to his former life, the world he knew could once again resume its familiar schedule.
At Pennington Manor, Richard strode into the breakfast room, stripping off his gloves to fill a plate from the sideboard. “Good morning, Mama, Papa. We left London early this morning and I’m a starving man.”
“I thought to see you later today,” the Earl said. “You were never an early riser.”
“There’s much to do. I had a successful day yesterday with my tailor and I shall probably have to hock the ancestral jewels to pay for it,” Lord Richard said genially.
The Earl smiled. “I fancy the family vault will sustain the damage.”
“It’s quite amazing, really. It was good to see London again, of course, but all the same, I was in haste to return home.”
“Perhaps you are eager to resume your social life among the others of our standing, and you are looking forward to our guests tonight.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Lord Richard said, spearing a strip of bacon. “Miss Lockwood is quite correct; Mrs. Mays truly does prepare the best bacon I’ve ever eaten. I must go to her after I’m finished and commend her on her gastronomic insights.”
“Miss Lockwood is gone. She is on her way back to London.”
Lord Richard stared at his father, his bacon forgotten upon the fork in his hand. “Gone? What do you mean? Why would she depart so precipitously?”
“Her work is done. Why should she linger? Besides, she recognizes her station. She understands, as she should, that we are having guests tonight and she would be in the way.”
Lord Richard put down his fork. “On her way back to London, you say? I must have passed the coach.” He rose from his chair. “I must catch up to her.”
“Richard! What on earth are you saying? We are having guests tonight. Lady Lenore will be among them. You cannot abandon your duties as a host to run after a nursemaid who neglected to bid you farewell.”
“Father, Mother, Cressida Lockwood is much more than a nursemaid. She is the woman I love. I realized how shallow my feelings for Lady Lenore were. And how shallow were her feelings for me. I did not know the Crittendons were on the guest list for tonight, or I would have spoken sooner. I have never told anyone before what it felt like to be helpless. That day, when El Diablo threw me and I lay on the ground, unable to get up, I was ashamed. My fiancée was standing above me, telling me to get up and I could not. She could not understand why I did not simply rise to my feet and I could not explain to her I was unable to do so. I sent her away to tell my parents that I had been injured and that was genuine. But I wanted her to get away from me. I didn’t want to see myself as helpless and weak in her eyes. I do not expect you to understand, but in Cressida’s eyes, I am the stronger because I overcame my weakness. I must bring her back. She will be my wife, Father. Can you accept that?”
Before his father spoke, Lady Constance said, “We will accept your choice of bride, Richard. How could we not? Miss Lockwood is a phenomenal woman and I applaud your decision.”
The Earl was thunderstruck. “She is a nursemaid!”
Lady Constance got up from the table. “She will be our daughter-in-law, dearest. But Richard, you must take Rheims with you, and you must speak to her father. I will make your excuses for tonight.”
Richard was already on his way, calling for Rheims, donning his multi-caped cloak and heading out the door on his way to the stables. Rheims, alerted to the errand, chose a swifter mount this time.
The coach moved slowly, making it no effort for them to overtake it on horseback. The driver, convinced that he was being attacked by highwaymen, pulled the horses to a stop and begged them not to shoot.
“We are not armed, my good man. I merely need to speak to one of your passengers.” In a loud, ringing voice, Lord Richard called out Cressida’s name.
The other passengers gazed at her with a mixture of alarm and interest. Embarrassed, Cressida tried in vain to shrink back against her seat, but then the stagecoach door opened and Richard stood before her.
“Miss Lockwood,” he said formally, although his eyes were merry. “I have something for you.”
He took from his pocket a white feather and handed it to her. “You gave me this when we first met and you thought me too cowardly to undertake what you had planned for me. If you do not have the courage to continue on the path that we have begun, I shall be forced to call you craven.”
Now the guests were watching in rapt fascination as if they were attending the theatre. Cressida, her face burning, looked at Lord Richard helplessly. “My lord,” she began. “I am on my way back to London, to my father, and to my work. That is my place.”
“Cressida, I really do not wish to propose to you on the highway with an audience. I would much rather do so in private, with your father’s blessing. Now I demand that you get out of this coach or I shall brand you a coward. We must hurry to London so that I may meet with your father and ask for his permission to marry you. Will you leave the coach now, or must I carry you out?”
“You are making a spectacle of me,” she said, aware that all eyes were on her.
“So I am. But there will be more
eyes gazing upon you when we exchange our wedding vows, so I suppose you had best accustom yourself to it.”
He held out his hand. Hesitantly, she took it and accepted his help in descending from the coach.
Lord Richard’s gaze consumed her with an expression of delight, pride, and the ownership of a man who prized what he had attained. “Up on El Diablo now,” he commanded. “He will carry us both to London. Rheims is our chaperone.”
“I do not ride, my lord,” she said.
“In this,” he replied, taking her into his arms, “I am the tutor. But if you persist in calling me by my title and not by my name, I shall make you walk to London.”
“I cannot sit astride a horse, not in these skirts!” she said, aghast.
“My love, we shall be riding so quickly that no one will have time to gaze upon what are undoubtedly most alluring ankles.” He held out his hand. “El Diablo is fond of you. He and I have reached an understanding. He knows that he threw me once. He knows that I will not let him do so again. We are in accord. I have chosen for my wife a woman who can, should she choose, throw me. But I will give her no reason to do so. Are we in accord?”
She raised her head to find that lips were waiting. “Rheims, oblige me by fastening your gaze upon that tree yonder for a short time.”
“Yes, my lord,” Rheims said, grinning. “It’s a fine tree.”
“Now, Cressida, we have time for a kiss before we make our way to London. Pray do not waste any time in protesting or we shall be delayed.”
She let him embrace her, his arms strong around her, his kiss a pledge of strength and love. She kissed him in return, marveling at what was transpiring. He broke off the kiss with an expression of triumph.
Helping her onto El Diablo, Lord Richard instructed her. “Sit like so, and I will ensure that you do not fall.” He got up on El Diablo, taking the reins and keeping her solidly between his arms. “To London and to love!”
The Blind Eyes of Love
Chapter One
“There you go, sir, right down this way, mind your step or you’ll be down in the dirt and that’s no way for those fine white breeches of yours to end up now, is it? Down one more, there you go, and then more—oh, have a care, sir, that step is a bit tipsy, like. There we go, ‘tis all right now. Just a bit more.” The sturdy grip of the innkeeper’s wife steering him out of the inn was both reassuring and annoying. “Now up you go, into the post-chaise, that’s right, sir, up—yes, that’s it!” she crowed as if he had done something quite remarkable by hoisting himself into the post-chaise after she had directed him to the opening. “Now, mind, my Harold will go along with you to get you to Laverly Hall, sir, and he’ll come back after you’re safely home.”
Dennison St. John, Duke of Laverly, fumbled for his purse. “Please take this for your pains, and your Harold’s, too,” he said, drawing out a coin.
“Not to hear of it, sir. You kept Bonaparte out of England, and that’s good enough for us,” the woman said.
She sounded sincere. More likely, she pitied him, to have gone off to war in full manhood and to return home sightless. It would doubtless be a tale she’d regale others with in the tavern; the poor Duke, not a soldier any longer, just a blind man who’d given his eyes at Waterloo for the glory of England .
“I insist,” he said, his tone firm and cold.
“Can’t do it, sir,” she said. “I told you, you’ve given us enough.”
Laverly put his purse back in his coat. He would give payment to her husband. Perhaps the good Harold would be more willing to be paid for his pains.
He could hear Harold entering the carriage and the seat creaking as he sat down opposite Laverly. Then the post-chaise took off. Harold, who smelled, not unpleasantly, of ale, cleared his throat.
“Good to be heading home, sir,” he said.
Laverly kept his gaze, such as it was, on the window, as the landscape he couldn’t see passed.
“Reckon you’ve had enough of Europe,” Harold tried again.
“Europe,” Laverly said, “has had enough of me.”
“Right, yes, of course. Did you see him, sir? I mean, before? Did you see Bonaparte?”
“Unfortunately, no. I was in hospital when he was taken.”
“Pity. You’d have wanted to see that,” Harold said.
“Not really. Bonaparte isn’t worth the effort.”
“No, course not,” Harold said hurriedly, as if aware that he was on unwelcome territory but unsure of how to deliver himself from it. “Still, I reckon it’s like seeing a monster when you’re a little ‘un. You’re that frightened of him, , but then it turns out to be only the shadow of the bedpost or some such thing, when you wake up.”
The bedrooms at Laverly Hall were grand; he remembered that much, although he’d been away for years, serving with Wellington. His family wealth, his mother’s style, and his father’s pride of heritage had guaranteed that Laverly Hall did justice to its architectural ancestry. The estate had been long inhabited by Laverlys when the Yorks and Lancasters were fighting one another. Now, centuries later, it was the one constant remaining in his life. At least in his own home, with the family servants around him, he could take account of his life and decide his next step. He would not venture out into society until he had mastered himself. Blindness was not death; that was what the doctor had told him. Of course, the doctor could say that, he had his bloody sight. But at Laverly Hall, Laverly knew that he could restore himself. The family paintings in the hall that celebrated the Laverly who’d married a Spanish princess, the Lavelry who had taken the cross to Jerusalem, the Laverly who had served Queen Elizabeth; they were part of his inheritance, even if only in portrait form. He could no longer see them, but he remembered where they were, each and every one. He recalled his father, when guests came to stay, showing them the gallery of Laverlys and reciting the biography of each one’s renown. For one did not merit a portrait merely because one was a Laverly. No, one was expected to have done something of note.
What was there for him to do? He’d served with Wellington, fought with honor, earned his medals. Was that enough to garner a portrait? A fine showing he’d make in his scarlet coat and white breeches, polished boots, saber in hand, the unruly black hair that defined a Corinthian’s style, and of course the famous Laverly jade eyes--and dark spectacles. Just what was needed to polish off the dashing figure of a Hussar, that final proof of his sacrifice for King and country.
Laverly realized that he must have spoken out loud because Harold cleared his throat and Lavelry could hear him shift his weight in the seat as if he were uncertain whether to get up or stay seated.
“We’ll be there shortly, sir,” Harold said encouragingly.
Yes. Home. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until the days after the artillery explosion when he’d awakened in the field hospital, his eyes bandaged and his surroundings strange to him in a way that the barracks never had been. His wounds were healed, the doctor had said dispassionately. It was true that he couldn’t see, but there had been damage and they’d feared scarring, but he had nothing to fear there.
As if a scar would be worse than this, Laverly thought savagely, his anger roiling through him anew at their stupidity. To be blind, when he was not yet thirty, when he had not married nor fathered a child, was a cruel prank worthy of the Greek Furies or an uncaring God. In his present state of mind, he could see little difference between the two.
“Almost there now, sir,” Harold said as if he were a talking timepiece. “Will your servants be expecting you?”
They would not. Laverly had told no one that he was coming home. Explanations were too unwieldy; he had dictated a letter to be sent to Glesson, the butler, explaining that he had been wounded and would be mustered out and returning home before the harvest was over. That was as much as he would let the nurse write, even when she begged him to allow her to provide more detail. He refused. One didn’t provide one’s itinerary for servants, he had told her haughtily. B
ut that wasn’t the reason for his reticence. He would be returning home to a staff that had known him since he was a wild youth; now they would seem him chastened. They would most likely feel it was his comeuppance. And he would not be able to tell who pitied him, who was amused, who mocked, because they would be able to see him and he, with his useless, sightless, ruined eyes, could see nothing. To be so humbled when one was an officer, a gentleman, the scion of a noble line, was to be less than a servant, it was to be nothing at all.
“I’ll wager they’ve missed you, sir,” Harold offered. “We don’t hear much from Laverly Hall; quiet, it’s been, since Her Ladyship passed on. A house in mourning.”
His father had died four years ago. His mother had been gone a year. A sister had died in childbirth three years ago, her child taken with her. There were cousins, and if he should die without an heir, there would doubtless be someone who would be more than willing to inherit the title, the lands, the estate, and the gold. But he didn’t intend to die without an heir. Dammit, he didn’t need sight to do that!
“Yes,” he said simply, feeling obligated to acknowledge Harold’s efforts to make the journey a pleasant one, even if his attempts simply conjured forth the ghosts of Laverly Hall and the fact that the living Laverly was not a whole man any longer.
The post-chaise stopped. The postilion and coachman dismounted, and Harold got out of the vehicle. Impatient, Laverly got up from his seat. He could hear the two men talking in low voices as if they didn’t want him to hear. He banged on the door of the post-chaise to indicate his desire to descend and obviously, since he couldn’t see the bloody ground, he would require some assistance.
“Sir, did you say no one knows you’re back?” the coachman asked.
“Said as much. No, I didn’t announce my homecoming. I expect they’re inside. Be so good as to carry my trunks to the door, if you please. One of the footmen will take them from there.”
“Sir, it don’t look as though anyone’s about,” Harold said uneasily.