Garrett stood and fell in step beside Miss Bevan. “I am very much obliged. What is bara brith?”
She smiled. “It’s Welsh for speckled bread. It is a tea loaf, with currants, spices, and fruit peel.” Her gaze roamed over Garrett. “Are you Scottish?” He nodded, not bothering to state he was only half. He was well aware that he looked as if he’d stepped directly out of the Highlands.
“Then you will like the bread.” Cristyn opened the door and held out her arm. “Make yourselves comfortable. And please, don’t worry; your nephew is in good hands.” She closed the door softly behind her.
“As soon as I have my tea and cake, I should see if the carriage driver and the horses are settled in. The coachman is taking a room at the George Inn.” Edwin strode to the basin, picked up the pitcher, and poured water into it.
“Thank you for making all the arrangements,” Garrett said solemnly.
Edwin splashed water on his face, then reached for the small towel. “It won’t be cheap. My fees, hiring the men for St. Giles, the carriage, accommodations, not to mention the costs for treatment. You do realize your nephew may be here several months?”
Garrett leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “How long were you here?”
Once he dried his face, Edwin laid the towel on the table. “A little over three months, and I was not in the shocking condition Aidan is.” He turned to face Garrett. “Prepare yourself for possible dreadful news. There could be any number of complications. Considering the orgies, syphilis may be a possibility, or any other poxes one catches from excessive and indiscriminate sex. He may even have sold himself or others for money. Those chasing the dragon will stoop to low levels to obtain the euphoric highs of opium.”
Garrett shook his head sadly. “Then let us hope that he escapes such a fate.” He paused. “What is ‘chasing the dragon,’ by the by?”
“Chinese slang, for inhaling the vapor from smoking opium.” A knock sounded at the door. “Ah, our tea and cake. Try to relax, Garrett.”
Only he couldn’t relax or stop his mind from racing. He tried not to wallow in guilt over not intervening sooner. Instead, he puzzled over why Aidan would live such a desolate, dissipated life. Hell, the lad had everything going for him. Why toss it all away on an opium pipe? But now was not the time to judge his behavior; Aidan needed empathy and support. Garrett would be standing by, ready to offer it.
His nephew looked horrible, filthy, a shocking change from the carefree lad he’d been previously. Aidan had often invited him on his erotic adventures, but Garrett soon grew weary of the meaningless sex and declined further romps to London or Bath. He’d found more gratification staying at Wollstonecraft Hall raising and breeding his horses. His father used to employ a steward, but about five years past, Garrett took charge of running of the estate and seeing to the tenants. The position gave him purpose.
Aidan obviously had no purpose in his life. No responsibilities. Society called him a ‘notorious rake.’ The nom de guerre fit. Perhaps he and the entire family should have taken Aidan to task. But since his oldest nephew was the heir apparent, sowing wild oats was expected, and, sadly, accepted. Only Aidan went too far—right off the cliff into complete darkness.
After they consumed the food and drink, Edwin headed for the village, leaving Garrett alone with the doctor. Bevan’s face was grave as he took a seat in his office. “Aidan is malnourished and dehydrated. I would guess he’s lost close to two stone.”
Jesus. Garrett recalled the last family meeting Aidan had attended in September. The lad had looked thin. But everyone was caught up in their lives and causes and didn’t think to question him on his gaunt appearance—or his behavior. He’d stumbled in drunk in the middle of the night on more than one occasion. While there was enough blame to go around, the focus must be on Aidan’s recovery.
“His body shows signed of abuse,” Bevan continued.
Garrett froze, thinking of Edwin’s dire warning. “Tell me, Doctor. I want to know it all.”
“There are indications of beatings, with various old bruises and scars. Someone held a lit cigar to his back, making a circle. The scars have healed, for the most part. But the most grievous is the indication of recent…violation. You know of what I speak?”
Garrett’s stomach turned as his blood ran cold. He had no words, and merely nodded in response.
“The injuries are inconclusive; there is no way to know if Aidan was a willing participant or not. Again, he will heal, and we can only hope that your nephew has no memory of the incident.” Dr. Bevan paused and clasped his hands on his desk. “I have seen this in others. The further one sinks into opiate-fueled oblivion, the more they no longer care about anyone or anything. Or what is done to them. Only procuring the drug matters, and the elation it brings.”
“Does…does he show signs of any pox or syphilis?” Garrett whispered.
“Not that I’ve observed. There are no open sores as such. But most symptoms occur two to twelve weeks after infection. Rest assured we will monitor the situation. Aidan is sick, running a fever, and has rat and flea bites on his hands and torso. Then there is the withdrawal. It will be extremely rough going.”
“I will stay here with him,” Garrett stated firmly.
Dr. Bevan shook his head. “There’s no need,” he said in a gentle tone. “He won’t recognize you, especially during the next two weeks as he goes through the worst of it. After that? Once he becomes lucid again, the guilt and shame will overtake him. I have found having family members around only exacerbates the feeling of low self-esteem in the patient. My advice is to leave tomorrow with Edwin. I will send detailed updates.”
Garrett didn’t like the sound of this. Leave Aidan here with strangers? What if Edwin was wrong about this man? Yes, he and Edwin were friends. The man upheld the law, first as a Bow Street Runner and now as an investigator. Hell, he did trust him. If Edwin said this Dr. Bevan could be trusted, what choice did he have but to believe it? Aidan needed help most desperately. “You may send the reports in the care of Garrett Black, postal office in Sevenoaks, Kent. And what of the payment?”
“Ah. My fee is a monthly charge, regardless if the patient stays the entire thirty days. Shall we say two hundred pounds a month to start? The fee may seem excessive to most, but it funds this sanatorium and allows me to take on patients who could not otherwise afford to stay here.”
Well, he had to admire the doctor’s honesty. Edwin said it would be expensive. “My family is progressive, Doctor. We have our causes. It seems that I have just found mine. I can think of no better cause than assisting those suffering from addiction, especially those who cannot afford it. Money is no object. I wish to make a donation above and beyond the monthly fees. Shall three thousand pounds be sufficient?”
Bevan’s eyes widened in surprise. “More than sufficient, Mr. Black, and most welcome. Be assured Aidan will receive the best of care. We will bring him out of this dark abyss, never fear.”
Garrett reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a roll of pound notes, and placed them on the desk. “There is five hundred pounds, enough to pay for a couple of months of Aidan’s stay. You have a solicitor?” The doctor nodded. “Excellent. Give me his name before I depart tomorrow and we will set up a payment schedule for the fees and the donation. I will warn you, Doctor, once our family takes on a worthy cause, we are all in.”
“If I may ask in what way, Mr. Black?”
“We like to be involved in all aspects, such as planning for the future. Perhaps I can fund a scheme for expansion. More doctors, new clinics. I will contact you when I have it worked out. Now, I wish to see Aidan. I understand that he won’t recognize me, but I must see him, for I have to report all this to the family. To his father.”
Dr. Bevan clasped the roll of notes and placed them in his coat pocket. “Then come with me, sir.”
He followed the doctor to a room farther
down the hall. Dr. Bevan opened it and bade Garrett to step in first. Aidan lay in what looked to be a comfortable bed, the blankets pulled up to his mid-chest. The doctor’s daughter stood by, wiping Aidan’s brow with a cloth.
She gave Garrett a slight smile. “He is sleeping, though fitfully. Mr. Black has been bathed and put in a clean gown. The garments that he wore when he arrived have been burned. I will try and coax him to take a little broth later.”
A lump formed in Garrett’s throat as he gazed at the napping Aidan. There was no denying he was deathly ill. “I will send along some of his clothes and personal articles as soon as possible.” He clasped his nephew’s thin hand. It was cold and clammy to the touch. Leaning down, he kissed him on the forehead. “Get well. I love you.”
Never did Garrett feel so utterly helpless.
Chapter 3
Abbie had spent the rest of the afternoon penning a lengthy and honest letter to Alberta. It had helped to calm her turbulent mind. She revealed her shock over Garrett’s appearance, and the complicated and powerful emotions that had reignited at the mere sight of him. Since Abbie had a standing invitation, she informed Alberta that she would visit as soon as she could arrange it. At four pages, the newsy letter was thick when folded and would require extra postage.
When Mrs. Jones arrived to do the housekeeping, Abbie slipped a shilling in her hand and sent her along to the post, then to Gethin’s to relay that she was unwell and would not be able to attend to her volunteer duties today. Once the woman departed, Abbie took to her room and curled up on her bed, burrowing under her quilt. Confronting Garrett today was not feasible, not while she remained in this current mood of uncertainty and turmoil. Abbie had to be in complete control when she faced him. Also, she needed to decide whether to mention Megan or not.
One glance at the fourteen-year-old girl, with her tall, slender form, reddish-blond hair, and profusion of freckles, made it clear Garrett was the father. When Megan was first born, she and Elwyn had decided they would tell her about her real father when she turned sixteen, an age when she would be mature enough to absorb the news. Does she tell Megan now, or wait as she and Elwyn had originally planned? For Megan believed Elwyn her father. To tell her otherwise would be upsetting indeed. For more years than Abbie cared to count, she’d been hurt and angry over Garrett. When at last it had dissipated enough for her to think rationally, she had struggled with the decision of letting him know that he had a daughter. But she had respected her husband too much to bring the whirlwind that was Garrett into their lives.
For her own self-preservation and fearing her response, Abbie had not wanted to face him. If today was any indication, she had been wise to avoid Garrett in the past, because—damn it all!—she still desired him, and she would have never allowed Elwyn to see it, for it would have hurt him.
Besides, Elwyn had been Megan’s father in every way that counted. He brought her up, loved her unconditionally. The years flew by, and Garrett had slowly disappeared into the haze of memories. Why upend their quiet, content lives?
And what would be the impact on Megan? She was at an emotionally tender age; how would she take the news? Not well. Abbie had gone back and forth the past two years arguing with herself over what to do and how to proceed. Now, with Garrett’s appearance, the decision had been made on its own accord.
After a fitful sleep, Abbie rose the next morning determined to see Garrett and at least renew their acquaintance. She could not put it off any longer, regardless of her trepidations. Perhaps he wouldn’t care to see her again one way or the other. No doubt he’d moved beyond their brief, intense encounter; he could even be married. Though Alberta had mentioned in one of her recent letters that Garrett’s nephew, Riordan, had taken a bride, the rest of the occupants of Wollstonecraft Hall remained unattached. It was best to meet with him before bringing Megan into the picture.
Once she managed to eat a late breakfast, Abbie donned her heavy wool cloak and her hat and gloves and made her way toward the village. Steeling her spine, she entered the sanatorium. The carriage was nowhere in sight, but the driver could be staying in the village proper.
Cristyn stepped out of a patient’s room and closed the door. “Feeling much recovered today, Abbie?”
Not really, but she gave Gethin’s pretty daughter a polite smile. “Yes, thank you. A new patient?”
She nodded. “Mr. Aidan Black. His uncle brought him in yesterday. Opium addiction.”
Aidan? She remembered the twins; they were twelve that summer, following behind Garrett like a pair of adoring devotees, especially Aidan. He often had to put the run to them so that she and Garrett could be alone. Heavens, they would be twenty-six now. Opium? How horrible. Abbie removed her cloak and bonnet and hung them on the hook. “How can I assist?”
Abbie followed Cristyn to the kitchen area to the left of the entrance. “I will need your help in encouraging him to take some broth. Last night he knocked it out of my hand. I fetched Dad to help and we managed to coax him to take a few spoonfuls, but Aidan promptly brought it back up.”
Volunteering here the past fourteen months had given Abbie an eyewitness account of what a person suffering from addiction goes through. Elwyn had often spoken of it in detail through the years, but to see it firsthand was shocking indeed. “A rough night, I take it?”
Cristyn nodded. “We had to tie his hands to the bed rails, as he thrashed about constantly. We took turns sitting with him.” Her expression took on a sad look. “Between the bouts of cursing, then crying, and the tremors and vomiting, it was quite an ordeal.”
Once they gathered the broth and fresh water, they headed to the room. Abbie opened the door. In the bed lay a shirtless young man, emaciated, sweating, his hands tied and his eyes unseeing.
“He is not wearing a nightshirt for the time being. He ruined two yesterday from sickness and perspiration,” Cristyn said.
Underneath the horror of opium withdrawal was a handsome face with light blue eyes and black hair. She could see the resemblance from the gangly twelve-year-old of years past. This was Garrett’s nephew. Her heart ached at the sight of him.
Obviously they were using a false name, and Abbie would not reveal their secret. Would he recognize her? It would be fifteen years this summer since they had last laid eyes on each other. Aidan pulled at the restraints, grunting and snarling like a wild animal. Perhaps not, for he was glassy-eyed and not aware of his surroundings. As soon as Cristyn approached and wiped his fevered bow, he quieted. “There, cariad,” Cristyn whispered. “Be at peace.”
My goodness. There had been a development during the past twenty-four hours. Abbie had not witnessed Cristyn being quite this familiar with previous young male patients. Calling Aidan “love”? Yes, it was often used as a general term, as in “Hello, love. How are you?” but the way she gazed at him led Abbie to believe that there were more emotions at play. How interesting.
Sitting the tray on the table near the bed, Abbie asked, “What of his uncle, is he still about?”
“No, Dad insisted he return home to Kent. There was nothing he could do here. Mr. Black left this morning with his friend, Mr. Seward.”
Blast it. Now she would have to travel to Kent and confront Garrett there. Or should she? Writing him a letter informing him that he had a daughter was rather impersonal and craven on her part. Did she really wish to stir up this hornet’s nest of emotions? It was too late on her end, for the hornets were already buzzing about, stinging her with heated memories and giving her no relief. Abbie understood that she would not find respite until she met with Garrett in person.
But first she would have to speak to Megan. Tell her the truth. And ask if she even wanted to meet Garrett. Regardless, he would be told of their daughter. What Abbie needed to hear more than anything? An apology. She also wanted Garrett to admit that he’d been wrong when he cruelly turned her away, for whatever reason. Surely it couldn’t be because o
f that family curse he had told her about.
Regardless, it became rather important that she heard those words from him.
* * * *
Oliver Wollstonecraft, the Earl of Carnstone, had not been looking forward to saying goodbye to Riordan. He’d enjoyed having his grandson at the hall the past six weeks. As much as he had enjoyed it, and becoming acquainted with Riordan’s bride, Sabrina, it was Mary Tuttle, former lady’s maid, who had held his full attention at this moment.
Since she’d discarded her servant title and the plain outfits, a mature attractiveness had emerged. She wore colorful day dresses and styled her chestnut brown hair differently. She also had a well-rounded and luscious figure. But it wasn’t her looks or figure that made him give her a second look. Mary Tuttle was honest and humorous, with no counterfeit emotions or sly machinations. She had a ready smile and a full-throated laugh that made his insides heat. They were of a like age, and had much in common.
Now they must say goodbye, at least temporarily. Riordan and Sabrina had already said their goodbyes and were outside, seeing to the new carriage and horses that Riordan had bought and making sure the trunks were well secured before their imminent departure.
Oliver only had Mary alone for a few minutes. She gazed at him, unblinking, waiting for him to speak. Damn it all, tongue-tied at sixty-four.
“My lord—”
He clasped her gloved hand. “I’ve asked you to call me Oliver when we’re alone. Carnstone when we’re not. You agreed.” He smiled.
“Yes, I did agree. It feels strange to use your first name. I must be still thinking with my servant’s mind…Oliver.”
His eyelids lowered briefly, savoring the way her voice deepened when she said his name. “I will miss you, Mary.” He opened his eyes and caught her gaze. Let her see the heat simmering in them.
“As I will miss you,” she replied, her voice soft.
Scandal with a Sinful Scot Page 3