Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “Let this settle first before I give you the rest.”

  Harry tensed as if to argue but then sank down onto the mattress, reminding her of her sons when they were out of sorts. The colonel hadn’t always been like this. She needed to keep that in mind, especially in the face of his drunken demands.

  Rowan squatted on the floor next to the bed in the Indian style. He crossed his arms and began chanting in a low voice.

  Harry made a sharp gesture with his fingers, indicating he wished for the rest of the contents in the glass. Thea feared giving Harry too much. The dosage had been a strong one. The colonel opened his eyes, nodded with his chin to the glass she held. He was not about to ease his demands.

  This time when she administered the draft, he lifted his head on his own. He lay back down and closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

  Thea retreated to a chair by the table. She crossed her arms, hugging her body close. She remembered times like this with Boyd. He’d disappear for days and then drag himself home. She’d sit and watch and pray as his body battled the ravages of his indulgences.

  And then one day he’d not come home . . . and she hadn’t known if she’d been sad or relieved. Months later, she’d learned of his death. They said he’d fallen off a bridge and drowned in the river Thames. It had taken time before someone had found her and delivered the news.

  And sometimes she wondered if Boyd hadn’t jumped off that bridge, if he hadn’t taken his own life.

  Harry’s breathing continued at a labored rate. A shudder went through his body and he began snoring.

  It was a terrible sound. Certainly nothing the dashing military man would take pride in when he was sober.

  “Is everything all right now, my lady?”

  “You tell me, Rowan,” Thea said. “He’s been like this before, hasn’t he?”

  Somber golden-brown eyes considered her, and then he nodded.

  “Well, we shall see how he does when he wakes,” she said.

  At that moment, the footman returned with warm water and linen towels. “All right, gentlemen,” Thea said, rising to her feet. “We have work to do. Rowan, untie and undress him.” She looked to the footman. “Your name?”

  “Edward, my lady.”

  “Well, Edward, the three of us are going to lay these cloths over his body to sweat out what we can of any poisons in him.”

  It wasn’t the choicest of assignments. Edward did not appear pleased. He moved grudgingly toward the door. Rowan set upon the task of undressing his master.

  Soon more servants were involved in bringing hot water. For three hours they worked at steaming out Harry’s body. Thea had learned of this treatment from another woman whose husband had suffered from his weaknesses. She’d thought of attempting it on Boyd, but she’d never had the opportunity.

  At one point, when Harry turned restless, Thea gave him a bit of port and he seemed to settle down. His breathing slowly grew more rhythmic and relaxed.

  “We’re done,” Thea announced at last. “Rowan, your master should sleep through the night.”

  “Should I tie him up like Lady Margaret wishes?” Rowan asked.

  Thea shook her head. “We can’t keep him tied up forever. We shall have to wish for the best.” She thought of her sons. Neal would have seen to them, she knew he would have, but still, she was their mother. “I must leave.”

  “I will keep watch, my lady,” Rowan said.

  “Good. Come for me if there is a problem.”

  Rowan answered with a deep bow.

  Thea opened the bedroom door, realizing she didn’t know where anything was in the house—and then stopped in her tracks at the sight of Margaret sitting in a chair across the hall from the bedroom door.

  Margaret’s thick, dark hair was down around her shoulders. Her face was tight and very pale. She rose from the chair. “How is he?”

  “As good as can be expected,” Thea said.

  “He frightened me this time. He looked dead when they brought him, and then he came to life and just went wild.” The woman’s nerves were stretched thin. Thea knew how she felt.

  “The colonel is made of stern stuff,” Thea said. “He will survive this.”

  “But will he survive the next time he does it?”

  Thea shut the door, not wanting the servants to overhear their conversation. “He needs to give it up,” she said gently.

  “I’ve told him that. He won’t. He says he has nothing else in life—” Her voice broke off and she looked away, crossing her arms as if holding in all of her emotion—and Thea saw the curse’s legacy.

  The Chattans were not living; they were existing. They had put love, desires, dreams, wants, everything that made life worthwhile on hold because of superstition.

  “He misses war, doesn’t he?” Thea said.

  “Perhaps. Maybe.” There was a beat of silence and then Margaret said bitterly, “I believe sometimes he is disappointed he didn’t die a glorious hero’s death. He rode into cannon fire. He pointed his horse at where the French were the strongest, and they say he charged them like a madman. And his men followed.” Her voice broke. She tightened her hold around herself. “I know Harry would have willingly died. But apparently he didn’t anticipate that his men would go where he went, bravely. I believe Harry had thought to go it alone. They took out the cannons but at a great loss of life. And now Harry has their deaths on his conscience. He didn’t want to leave Spain, but Wellington’s staff forced him. Some think Harry is a war hero, but there are those many amongst his comrades who fault him for the deaths that day.”

  “What does Harry believe?” Thea asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He doesn’t speak of it,” Margaret said. “But I believe he is unprincipled and drunk because he wishes he were dead. He doesn’t care about his life, therefore he doesn’t value it as much as his family does.”

  Thea had never considered that a man would turn to vices to escape his disappointments. Had Boyd indulged because he’d been unhappy with his life? Unhappy with her?

  She had to take a step away.

  Margaret raised a hand to dab at the tears that had started falling down her cheeks. “I don’t like to cry. It’s weak.”

  “It’s human,” Thea answered, thinking back to the way she had broken down with Neal the other night.

  “Tears serve no purpose.”

  “They cleanse the soul,” Thea said. “We all need a good soul cleansing from time to time.”

  Margaret shrugged her response. “Not in this family.”

  “Yes, in this family,” Thea declared. “Margaret, you and I can’t save Harry from the demons he faces. But you putting your life on hold is not going to help. You can’t protect him. I know this. Harry must help himself. He is the only one who can. That’s advice that was given to me years ago, and it is true.”

  “It may be too late to do anything. You saw him in there. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies as long as he has laudanum and a bottle of something, anything, really. He is not choosy as long as it is spirits.”

  “Oh, he cares,” Thea said with complete certainty. “He’s a Chattan. He is made of the same stuff as you and Neal. If he wants to become better, he must learn to forgive himself and to understand that war is made up of men’s sacrifices, honest lives given for a cause.”

  “You make it sound simple,” Margaret said, anger lighting her eyes. “You talk as if you know us, and you don’t. You won’t, either. Because of your interference, Neal will die shortly, and I will have nothing to do with you.”

  On those cruel words, she walked off.

  Thea sat down in the chair, shaken. She had not anticipated a joyful reception into the Chattan family, but this was too much. She needed Neal. She had to find him and her sons. Then the world would make sense again.

  Of course, she had no idea where they were lo
cated in this house, and she assumed it would not be safe to ask Margaret. She glanced around at the portraits on the walls, the shining glass and bronze sconces, the thick carpet beneath her feet.

  A footstep sounded on the stair. Relieved to not be alone, she turned to see a tall gentleman of advanced years coming up the stairs. He had the dignified air of a butler.

  Thea stood and met him at the top of the stairs. “Dawson?” He nodded. “Please, tell me where my husband and my sons are?”

  “They are in his lordship’s room, my lady,” Dawson said. “Please, follow me.”

  He took her to the end of the hall and knocked on the door. The valet answered. He recognized Thea immediately.

  “Good evening, my lady. You are looking for Lord Lyon and your sons?”

  “I am.”

  “This way, please.” He opened the door, revealing a sitting room that took up almost half of the second floor. The furniture was designed with hard, masculine lines, and the colors were burgundy and brown.

  It was a fitting lair for a Lyon.

  “I’m Perrin, his lordship’s valet. Lord Lyon and your sons are in the bedroom. They have been waiting for you. His lordship is entertaining them by reading. I took the liberty of unpacking your bags,” Perrin continued. “We all know you were helping Lord Harry, so I also ordered a tray for your supper.” He pointed to the silver serving dish on a table by the window.

  “Thank you,” Thea said. “But what of my sons and my husband?”

  “Oh, they ate, and right well, I should say.” He had been leading her across the room to another door, but now he stopped, one hand on the handle. “It is good to hear the sound of children’s voices, my lady,” he said. “All of us have commented on it. You are raising two fine young gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, Perrin,” Thea said, pleased.

  “Of course, all did not go according to plan.”

  “What do you mean, Perrin?” Thea’s mind immediately jumped to some unforeseen disaster.

  He raised a finger to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet, and opened the door.

  Thea peeked inside. An oil lamp burned on the bedside table of a massive carved wood bed. On the side of the bed closest to the light were Neal and her two sons, one snuggled up on either side of him, sleeping with a peacefulness that tugged at her heart.

  Both boys were in their nightclothes. Their faces appeared freshly scrubbed. Neal wore his shirt, breeches and stockings. An open book rested facedown on his chest, as if he’d been reading and they’d all drifted off to sleep. He had an arm around each boy in a loose but protective hold.

  Perrin quietly closed the door behind her, leaving Thea alone with her men and a feeling of such contentment that the ugliness of the preceding hours vanished.

  This was what she wanted for her sons.

  This was what Neal needed.

  Moving quietly so that she didn’t disturb them, Thea prepared for bed. She picked the book up from his chest and read the title. Robinson Crusoe. Of course. She closed it. Neal’s eyes opened. He gave her a satisfied, sleepy smile.

  Now it was her turn to place a finger to her lips, warning him not to wake the children. She needn’t worry. He wasn’t going to give them up. Still smiling, he closed his eyes.

  Thea picked up a coverlet at the foot of the bed and pulled it up over her men. Then she came around to her side of the bed, where her nightdress had been laid out on a chair. It looked very forlorn and dingy amid such opulence. She turned down the lamp, changed her clothes and slipped beneath the covers, turning so that she faced her little family.

  They were all so tired that not one of them moved.

  She closed her eyes and joined them in sleep.

  The room was on fire. Thea woke, startled to see flames rising from the handsome furnishings, the upholstered chairs, the drapes, the tables. She must not have turned down the lamp—

  Her first thought was of her sons and Neal. She reached for them, but they weren’t there. The bed was empty save for her. She was completely alone—although she could hear a voice. A woman’s laughter.

  She had to leave the room. The flames would engulf her. The heat was overwhelming. She put one bare foot on the floor and snatched it back. The floor was on fire. Her foot burned where she’d placed it down.

  Flames started up the carved columns of the bed. Thea looked to the bedroom door. It was aflame as well. There would be no help coming from there.

  The only thing she could do was sit in the middle of the bed and watch as the fire raced up the room’s walls and leaped across the ceiling.

  She was sitting in an unholy inferno. And then, there was a cracking noise. The ceiling began raining fireballs down upon her—

  Thea woke with a gasp, sitting straight up, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around wildly, expecting to see the room in flames—

  All was fine.

  The room was cool with the night air. The moonlight shone on intact chairs and tables . . . and Neal and her sons were right there beside her in the bed.

  The dream had been so real. Thea had to climb out of the bed and walk around the room to convince herself that all was well.

  “Thea, is something the matter?” Neal’s sleep-laden voice asked.

  She faced him. She could tell him about the dream, but that would be silly. “Everything’s fine,” she murmured. “I was just hungry.”

  “There is a tray for you in the other room,” Neal said, yawning and closing his eyes again.

  It was a long time before Thea ventured back to sleep again.

  Life became better than Neal could ever have imagined possible. Thea and her sons brought a new energy, a vitality to the stately manse that had been gloomy for too long.

  His first act as stepfather was to arrange for ponies for each of his boys. The first afternoon they went riding in the park, Jonathan fell off his. Brave lad that he was, he didn’t cry, even though his pride was hurt. Christopher took to riding as if he’d been born to do it. Neal couldn’t help but draw comparisons between Jonathan and himself, and Christopher and Harry.

  Chris named his pony Victor, a bold name for such a pudgy beast. Jonathan named his horse Chattan, in honor of his new family. Neal was deeply touched.

  He also discovered the true joy of married life. Thea was all he could want in a mate. She was open and inventive in bed and efficient and calm-headed during their daily life. Nothing soothed the challenges he faced more than lying beside his wife at night talking over the day’s cares. She made him laugh at the absurdities of people and the frustrations of both business and government.

  The days turned to weeks, with Neal discovering a renewed sense of purpose and a serenity about life he’d not known before.

  Harry recovered from that terrible night and seemed determined to keep his vices in check. However, both he and Margaret kept their distance from Thea. Margaret pouted, wearing her disapproval on her sleeve.

  Because Neal was not going to let anyone belittle this woman who had become so important in his life, he kept his distance from them.

  Thea was exactly what the lady of the house should have been. She didn’t take offense at Margaret and Harry’s silence and rudeness, but she didn’t hesitate to start placing her mark on the house and Neal’s life.

  The servants admired her. That pleased Neal. They’d been afraid of his mother. Thea managed to walk a careful line between not usurping Margaret’s practices and authority and making changes to those issues that mattered to her.

  As for the goodwill of society and the Montvales and the Pomfreys and their ilk, Neal could not care less about their opinions. With Thea and her sons, he had everything he’d ever wanted. Of course, Lady Palmer was a frequent and welcome guest. She helped soothe the way for Thea’s reintroduction to society in her new role as his countess. The weeks flew by in a blaze of joy and c
ontentment.

  Yes, the Carpsleys attempted to keep Jonathan out of Westminster. A letter was sent to the house from the school expressing regret that they would not be able to interview Master Jonathan Martin.

  Neal responded by contacting a few of his close friends, including the Prince Regent, and in short order, Jonathan was accepted. On the day they received the notice, Neal took the boy on a walk, just the two of them. He wanted to be certain Jonathan understood school life. Christopher was most annoyed to be left behind.

  “It won’t be easy at the school,” he warned Jonathan after they had walked a good distance. “Schoolboys are harsh on each other. They play cruel pranks.”

  “What sort of pranks, sir?” Jonathan asked.

  “They will push and shove you without cause. They may even hit you or play very mean jests that won’t be funny to you. Don’t complain and don’t tattle. They are doing those things to see what sort of character you have.”

  “I believe their character is very rude if they behave that way.”

  Neal had to smile. At Jonathan’s age, those had been his thoughts exactly. “Sometimes the older boys will do something the tutors or headmaster don’t like and blame the younger boys.”

  “That is not fair.”

  “No, it isn’t, but it is often the case in life. You must be brave and learn when to speak up and when to be quiet.”

  “I won’t treat younger boys that way when I’m older.”

  “Very good, Jonathan. I would not want you to be so mean-spirited.” They had come to a small park, and Neal let them inside. It was private here. He came down on one knee to be on Jonathan’s level. “There is something I want to warn you of. The headmaster might not be kind to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is not pleased with your mother and myself. However, Westminster is a very good school, and I expect him to treat you fairly. If he doesn’t, you need to tell me. Not your mother—me.”

  “But if they play pranks and blame others, how shall I know if he is being fair or not?”