Lady Elizabeth's Comet

by Sheila Simonson

  Charles was correct. My first evening stint went without incident, but at one o'clock one of the maids roused me. "Please, my lady, Mrs. Smollet says to come now."

  "His lordship is awake?" I rose, rather muzzy, from the chaise longue on which I had lain.

  "These two hours, ma'am. Mr. Sims, he can't make him swallow the opium drops."

  "Oh, lord." I straightened my crumpled gown and pulled a warm shawl across my shoulders. "Lead on, Molly."

  The sickroom represented a scene from one of Mr. Hogarth's prints, with Mrs. Smollet in braids and robe weeping and wringing her hands over a basin of broth, Jenkins in his nightcap looking frail and frightened, and three or four underlings of both sexes swelling the chorus in their nightwear.

  The fire had burnt low, two candles smoked, and Sims, his face drawn, stood by Clanross's bed with a glass of milky liquid in his hands, trying in a hopeless voice to persuade his master to cooperate.

  Clanross said nothing at all, but he had a healthy grip of a brass rail with his right hand and the edge of the bed with the left, and his face was obstinately buried in the pillow. I could see the bunched muscles of his shoulder and arm contract as a wave of pain crashed over him.

  Clearly, somebody was going to have to take charge.

  "Out!" I roared in a fair imitation of my father. "Out--the lot of you. Not you, Sims."

  In a surprisingly short time the room cleared. I snuffed the two guttered candles and added a shovel of seacoal to the grate.

  "Now, Sims, what is the meaning of this?" I knelt by the bed and touched Clanross's brow. It was hot as fire. "He's in a high fever!" I squeaked, the paternal roar deserting me. "Have you sent for Mr. Wharton?"

  "I can't," Sims wailed. "The major won't take 'is drops, and surgeon'll kill me if 'e don't."

  "Nonsense." Authority returned. "Send for Mr. Wharton at once, and tell Mrs. Smollet to bring a pitcher of water and some cloths. The man's on fire. Has he asked for water?"

  "Yes, me lady, and I reckoned I'd just slip 'im the laudanum instead, see. 'E spit it out and now 'e won't take nothing."

  "He'll take water from me. Set those miserable drops down and go to it." Sims vanished and I stood and looked down at Clanross, who was mostly uncovered from twisting and turning.

  I gently pulled the quilt straight and folded it down at the edge of the bandage, which was stained brown with dried blood. Clanross still held onto the rail, muscles straining, head twisting from side to side. He was mumbling something and his breath came raggedly.

  "Clanross," I said, loudly and not very gently, "lie still. I know you're parched for water, and I'm going to give it to you. No tricks, no laudanum. Do you hear me?"

  He continued to twist, silent.

  Sims reappeared with Mrs. Smollet.

  I took a cloth and soaked it with cold water. "Clanross, do you hear me?" I knelt and placed the very wet cloth on the back of his neck. He stilled. "Do you feel that? It's water, Clanross. I know you're thirsty. Will you drink if I hold the glass?"

  "Yes," he croaked, quite intelligently in the circumstances. Another spasm of pain shook him.

  We managed after a fashion. Quantities of the water spilled on the pillow. I refilled the cup twice. He was terribly thirsty.

  When he had drunk, I began laying soaking cloths on his neck again, and it seemed to help, for he was quieter, though it was clear from the desperate way his hands still cramped on the rail that the pain had not eased. His purple and green nightmares must be dreadful, indeed, for him to resist the laudanum so stubbornly. I talked to him as I applied the cloths, saying nothing in particular. Presently he drifted off to sleep, hands still clenched on the rail. I loosened his grip.

  The surcease did not last long. When he woke again he was shivering and completely out of his senses, for he kept calling me Jenny and begging me not to go. I promised him that I wouldn't, but it did little good. My voice must have been wrong. This time we managed to spoon some warm broth down him. Also spilling quantities on the pillow.

  I sent Smollet off for half a dozen pillows and fresh cases and placed my soft woolen shawl over his shoulders when he muttered that he was cold, but the silent spasms of pain continued to shake him, and I didn't like the sound of his breathing at all.

  He twisted like a ferret in a trap. Fresh blood soaked through Charles's neat bandage. I began to think I'd have to make Sims and one of the footmen pin him down, for I couldn't hold him still myself. He was far too strong. Once he fetched me an accidental blow that took my breath away. I persisted, however, and finally he lay quiet again but still awake and rigid with pain.

  Charles appeared at three o'clock, yawning.

  "So you've come at last." I glared at him. "Have you broken your fast? Shall I fetch you a nice fresh pot of tea?"

  "That sounds splendid. My word, you have had a lively time of it. When did the fever set in?"

  "A good four hours ago."

  "You should have sent for me."

  "I wasn't here," I said basely. "You threatened this great gaby Sims with gaol if he didn't dose Clanross with laudanum. He was afraid to send for you."

  "No laudanum?"

  "No laudanum."

  "Has he had water?"

  "Yes, and some broth."

  "Small blessings. I see he's pulled a stitch." Charles examined patient carefully, frowning at the ragged breathing. He took a pulse and shook his head. "Racing, poor devil. Not much longer now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The crisis. If he pulls through the night I daresay he'll live, but it's a devilish high fever. I'm going to administer a saline draught and try to get some more broth into him. I don't believe I'll bleed him yet. After that we'll see. If he doesn't rest soon, we'll have to force the laudanum down him."

  "I think he'd rather die."

  "He may in any case."

  "Then let me try my hand first."

  Charles shrugged. "If you insist. Do noblemen's families defenestrate unsuccessful physicians these days?"

  "I trust you'll have no occasion to find out. Sims! He's slipping off." Sims pulled our patient back on the bed and held him, with some effort.

  "Laudanum," Charles said grimly.

  He and Sims continued to administer the saline draught. I didn't watch. I poked the fire, shivering, and listened to the ugly process. There was nothing noble about such suffering. It was plain ugly, and I hated it and hated being in the room. The night was clear and beautiful. I should have been at my telescope.

  "Liz." Charles must have called me before. His voice rang sharp.

  I took a long breath and marched back to the bedside. "Is it mixed?"

  "Here's the glass."

  Clanross was digging at the bedclothes with his left hand, trying to grasp something solid. I gave him my own left hand and regretted it. His grip was vise-like.

  "Clanross, listen to me. They are going to force laudanum down your throat, and you'll fight it and choke. Will you drink it quietly if I give it to you?"

  He did not respond. I wasn't sure he could hear me.

  "Clanross," I said desperately, "you are going to drink this laudanum, and then I'll give you water to take away the taste."

  He twisted his head away. Perhaps he did hear.

  "I promise you," I said more softly, "if you take it now I'll keep them from making you take it again. Do you hear me? Word of honour." It wasn't working. I looked at Sims and Charles. "Lift him up." He struggled but he was growing weaker, and presently I thought I could try. I lifted the glass carefully. "Tom!" I said sharply. "Swallow it."

  Perhaps the use of his Christian name startled him, as I had hoped it would. He had half-swallowed the stuff before he knew what happened, and I fear I tipped the rest down his throat without any pretense of gentleness.

  He choked and spluttered but most of it stayed down. Charles and Sims let him back onto the pillow again gingerly.

  I was glad he kept his eyes shut tight for I could not have met them. Although I had taken pa
ins to be open with him, he was in no condition to see reason. I had tricked him.

  The laudanum did not take effect immediately. For perhaps half an hour, during which he still fought the waves of pain, he continued to grip my hand. When he finally slept, his hold relaxed and I examined my fingers ruefully. I did not doubt they would swell and turn purple.

  I rose, trembling at the knees. Sims and Charles were looking at me. "Gapeseeds. How long will he sleep?"

  "With luck, four hours." Charles cleared his throat. "I say, Lizzie, he didn't hurt you, did he?"

  I began to laugh.

  Presently, with a glass of my father's excellent brandy warming my stomach, I felt somewhat better. Charles was all for packing me off to bed, but I intended to see the matter through to the end, good or bad. I did consent to sit down at the old desk and after a short time I slept. I woke with my head on one of Mrs. Smollet's spare pillows. It was almost full daylight.

  I yawned, stretching, then stiffened.

  "He's not dead, is he?"

  "No. The fever broke. He must have the constitution of a frigate."

  I was surprised at the relief I experienced. I felt quite lightheaded with it. Or perhaps it was hunger.

  "I want breakfast," I announced. A perfectly sensible idea. Both men fell into the whoops. Perhaps they were lightheaded, too.

  * * * *

  We all ate breakfast in the kitchen while one of the footmen watched the sleeping Clanross. I had never eaten in a kitchen in my life. The cook was scandalised by the invasion of her domain, but we ate so enormously that she gradually lost some of her starch.

  Thereafter Sims and I divided the time between us, and to be truthful there was little to do beyond the usual sickroom tasks. Mrs. Smollet and a footman hovered by me whenever I was in the chamber--lest Clanross leap from his couch and make indecent advances, no doubt. In fact, he slept most of the time and was silent when he did not. Twice he ran fevers but I felt confident enough to deal with his thrashings without Charles's aid. Charles was very well pleased. After the fourth day he sent me home.

  I decided to walk to the Dower House. I had reached the curve at the edge of the woods, which would reveal the Dower House beyond, when a curricle bowled round the first turn of the carriageway and pulled up spraying gravel.

  "Good God," I said blankly. "Bevis!"

  "How d'ye do, Liz. How is Tom?"

  I must have gaped, for he added impatiently, "I got away as quick as I might when your letter reached me, but the dashed wind kept me at Calais. How's Tom? He's not dead!"

  I collected my wits. "No. He's recovering. I just nursed him through a very bad bout. With Sims's help," I added, conscientiously. "But Bevis, I said nothing of an illness in my letter."

  "No." He looked grim. "I could tell. I was afraid something was amiss when Tom didn't write me from Brecon. How bad was it? Climb up, Liz. Is he paralysed this time?"

  "He's not paralysed, and I suspect he's asleep right now." I scrambled up beside Bevis. "Turn round and drive to the Dower House, Bevis. I'll explain what I know, then you can go on to Brecon. I daresay Clanross will be glad of your company."

  I left Bevis to Jean and the recovered Maggie, who plied him with good things in the withdrawing room while I freshened up and changed into a clean gown. I did not look forward to apologising to Bevis for my satires. I dawdled. Finally, when I reckoned his impatience to see his friend must have mounted to its original height, I went slowly down the stairs.

  Bevis is too great a gentleman to betray irritation with a female. He rose and greeted me, complimenting me on my looks. He even insisted that I take tea and chatted with Alice and the girls until I had done so.

  Then he said firmly, "I must speak with Lady Elizabeth alone, Mrs. Finch, and I know you will not object, such old friends as we are."

  I objected, but silently. Alice, of course, was rosy from the effects of superb manners and judicious compliments. She would probably have allowed Bevis to drag me out by the hair.

  "Come, girls." She beamed at Bevis. "Monsieur will be arriving in no time. Let us go up to the schoolroom."

  When the twins groaned and rolled their eyes, Bevis leapt up and kissed their hands in turn, paying them extravagant compliments in vile French, and they swept from the room in a gale of giggles.

  "Charming vixens."

  "A pair of fire nymphs," I agreed, translating freely. "Paris has not improved your accent."

  We stared each other out of countenance. It was an old game. Finally he said, lips twitching, "Ah, Liz, unchanged, I see. Shall you marry me?"

  "Pray excuse me, sir. I am sensible of the honour you do me, but in truth I fear we should not suit."

  We both laughed a little wildly.

  He sobered first. "Give over, Liz." He pulled a chair beside me.

  "Very well." I sighed. "My letter. I daresay you thought my wits had gone begging, Bevis. I apologise."

  He waved a dismissing hand. "Oh, that's nothing. I perfectly see how you came to be put off. Tom's a reserved chap at the best of times."

  "And this wasn't the best of times."

  "That's it. I was not overjoyed when he decided to do the Grand Tour of the Conway estates. All that jolting in carriages was bound to play the devil with him, and besides it sounded uncomfortably as if he were putting his affairs in order. He wrote me cheerfully enough from Scotland."

  I grimaced.

  Bevis eyed me. "He was dashed amusing at your sister's expense."

  I flushed but said nothing. Kitty is a peahen and unfortunately, when she's at all unnerved, she plays the great lady with preposterous results.

  "Satire must run in the family. I thought you might write me, especially when you found out that Tom had been working for me--for my father, to be exact--and I was looking forward to the acid bath. If Tom hadn't stopped writing..."

  "I see," I said doubtfully. So it was Lord Dunarvon, Bevis's papa, who had been the parvenu nobleman to employ Clanross.

  "What you said about his gait and carriage and--what was it? 'stiff half-bows'--confirmed my suspicions. It was a dashed fine portrait of Tom with a red hot ago if the wind had cooperated."

  "So you said. Bevis, why didn't you write me of your friendship with Clanross?"

  He flushed. "Slipped my mind."

  "Nonsense."

  He said slowly, "At first I daresay I didn't see the connexion, for he never spoke of it, and later I gathered he was not on good terms with your father."

  "I know of no break. Papa procured his commission."

  Bevis shifted in the chair.

  "Out with it. I daresay Papa was tactless."

  "There was that business of Mr. Henry Conway and your mother, of course."

  "What!"

  "You don't know? Oh, the devil. I beg your pardon, Liz. I ought not to have mentioned it."

  "Now that you have, you'd best finish."

  "Lord, I suppose so. Henry Conway ran off with your mother--or tried to--whilst she was betrothed to your father."

  "My word!"

  Bevis was equal to almost any social situation, and I ought to have been amused at his discomfiture. I wasn't. I was too stunned. I did not remember my mother well, but she had certainly seemed a pattern card of propriety.

  "They were stopped within hours, of course, and it was hushed up. The thing is," Bevis said uncomfortably, "Henry Conway was a married man at the time. You mustn't think ill of your mama, Liz. I daresay he tricked her. She was only seventeen and not up to snuff. My mother always said he was a dashed attractive bounder."

  "No wonder Papa despised him. I thought him merely a gamester."

  "Oh, that, too. Had the audacity to apply to your father for funds, I daresay, but he lost everything in the end. Died of a bad liver before he could be clapped into Newgate."

  "Ugh."

  "A thoroughly ramshackle character."

  "So it would seem." I sighed. "I must say I perceive why you didn't plump yourself on the acquaintance."

  "N
one of it was Tom's fault. He was in leading strings when his papa decided to play the gay seducer."

  "Yes, but you will allow it explains why my Papa felt a certain coolness toward him."

  "And why Tom wouldn't ask your father for help when he needed it," Bevis muttered.

  "What do you mean?"

  He fell silent for a moment, then went on, choosing his words, "Tom was wounded when we crossed the Nive into France. We could see, once he decided to live, that he was going to be invalided out as soon as the Chelsea sawbones clapped eyes on him. I saw how it would be, and God knows I told him so bluntly. The army surgeons couldn't do anything, but there was no saying a really advanced practitioner mightn't have been able to. I told Tom to apply to your father, and he dashed near bit my head off, said he wasn't a case for Lord Clanross's alms yet, thank you very much, and to mind my own damned business. Sorry, Liz."

  "Think nothing of it," I said hollowly.

  "Well, it turned out just as I thought it would. They retired him on a captain's half-pay and he could live on that, but there was no way he could chase over Europe hunting down first-rate surgeons. It made me sick as a cat."

  "Why a captain?"

  "Horse Guards' nip-farthing ways, my dear. He was given a brevet majority a sixmonth before he was hit, but he couldn't afford an exchange, so they retired him at his permanent rank."

  "He must have hated my father very much."

  "I don't think it was that precisely." He regarded me with a gloomy countenance. "I say, Liz, keep this behind your teeth, will you? I ain't so indiscreet as a rule."

  I forced a smile. "You may be indiscreet, Bevis, but you're a good friend."

  He did not reply to that at once and finally muttered, "I hope I am, though my best intentions seem to go awry. I daresay the family were put off to find Tom working as a land-agent."

  "They were surprised. Sims says he was bored and wanted something to do. I see that. I hope your father received his money's worth."

  "Lord, you're vulgar. When Tom puts his mind to something he always does it well. My father had no cause to complain, though that didn't stop him when he found out Tom had succeeded to the title. I was in the suds then, I can tell you."

  "Serves you right."