Lady in the Briars

by Carola Dunn

  As they hastened to obey, the officer on the quay also shouted a command. The troopers swung rifles from their shoulders.

  “Get down!” ordered John sharply, forcing Rebecca full length on the deck. He sprawled beside her, half on top of her, sheltering her with his body as a ragged volley of shots rang out.

  Bullets whined overhead. One nicked the wood six inches beyond Rebecca’s outstretched hand, between her and the prostrate captain.

  She heard John grunt, felt him jerk.

  “Are you all right?” She tried to sit up, desperate to see if he was hurt.

  “Keep down. They have to reload but we may still be in range. Don’t move, Beckie.”

  “Are you all right?” she repeated urgently.

  “The sons of bitches winged me. Nothing serious hit. Ouch! Dammit, keep still, woman. They are bound to fire again.”

  Rebecca lay still, tears streaking silently down her face. He was hurt, and yet he thought only of protecting her.

  “Hell and damnation,” swore the captain. “We’ve made just enough sail to keep underway. I daren’t raise more till we clear the channel.” He began to crawl towards the helmsman, who stood at the wheel with a pipe between his teeth, nonchalantly steering the Rochester Rose towards the island fortresses.

  The crack of the rifles sounded again, more distant this time. As far as Rebecca could tell, the bullets did not reach the ship. John rolled off her and lay on his back, groaning and clutching his arm.

  She knelt beside him. There was a dark patch just below the shoulder on the left sleeve of his greatcoat. It was spreading ominously and he was very pale.

  The most important thing was to stop the bleeding. She undid the top buttons of his coat, then ripped the flounce from her petticoat and thrust it down into the sleeve. His neck-cloth was the ideal bandage. He lifted his head, smiling faintly as she pulled it off and bound it as tight as she could about his arm.

  “Better get below,” he muttered, struggling to raise himself with his good arm.

  She helped him sit up, but he was far too big for her to lift to his feet. She glanced round for help. Rowson was hurrying towards them.

  “Head going round,” said John thickly. “Going to cast up my accounts.” He leaned forward and was thoroughly sick.

  His forehead was alarmingly clammy under Rebecca s supporting hand, and he sagged heavily against her.

  Rowson joined them. “Best go below, Miss Beckie. The captain’s sending the carpenter with a stretcher. We’ll bring his lordship down to you right and tight.”

  “Is there a surgeon on board?”

  “I didn’t think to ask, miss, but I doubt it, this not being a man-o’-war.”

  He helped her lay John down on the deck. She hated to leave him, lying so still with his eyes closed and his face a ghastly white, but there were preparations to be made to receive him. She smoothed his dark hair, lank with cold sweat, back from his forehead and hurried below.

  Hot water, linen for bandages, a well-warmed bed—what else could she do for him? A gunshot wound was far beyond her experience. Teresa’s medicine chest was lost, but surely the captain must have a few basic remedies. She prayed the bullet was not still in John’s arm.

  For the next half hour she was too busy to worry. Rowson and his assistant laid John on the sheet-covered table in the saloon and cut away his sleeve. The bullet had gone straight through the fleshy part of his arm, leaving a ragged exit hole. Though the bleeding was already slowing, he had lost a lot of blood. He seemed scarcely conscious.

  Annie kept the frightened Esperanza in her cabin while Rebecca and Rowson washed John’s arm. The ship’s carpenter claimed to have been apprenticed to an apothecary before going to sea, and on his advice Rebecca bathed the wound in vodka, there being no brandy aboard. She refused, however, to let him bleed John. Popular remedy for all ills it might be, but enough blood had been spilt.

  As she put the finishing touches to the bandage, John opened his eyes. “Cheer up, Beckie, I shan’t stick my spoon in the wall.” His grin was crooked and when he reached out to her with his good arm he let it drop half way through the gesture. “Dash it, I’m weak as a newborn kitten though.”

  She laid her hand on his forehead in what appeared, she hoped, to be a professional manner. “Yes, I daresay you will live to be a hundred,” she said with attempted lightness. “At least you neither look nor feel like an iceberg now.”

  “I’d best get his lordship into bed now, Miss Beckie,” Rowson said firmly. With the carpenter’s aid he carried John into his cabin, and shut the door in Rebecca’s face.

  Resisting the longing to sink into the nearest chair, she began to clear up. The mess in the small saloon was indescribable and Esperanza could not be kept confined in the even smaller cabin much longer. Annie tired easily these days. She was always willing but it would not be fair to expect her to take sole charge of the active child, nor to nurse John. There was no time for Rebecca to give way to the megrims.

  The carpenter came out of John’s cabin and carried off the red-stained debris. Rowson followed a few minutes later.

  “He’s asleep, miss, and comfortable enough for now. I’ll make so bold as to tell you, you was splendid. Even our Miss Teresa couldn’t have managed it better.”

  “Thank you, Rowson.” No praise could have been more welcome to her ears. She wished John was there to hear it.

  “And so I told his lordship,” Rowson continued.

  There was a spring in her step as she went to release and reassure Esperanza and Annie.

  * * * *

  Rebecca was sitting by John’s bed when he awoke. He was as angry as his weakness allowed.

  “We are not on a Finnish ship now!” he pointed out. “These people are all going to London, they speak English, and there is bound to be talk. You are not to come into my cabin alone, understand?”

  ‘Yes, my lord.” She smiled at him, glad that he was alive to upbraid her, and glad of his care for her reputation.

  As the days passed John gradually regained his strength. Once he felt well enough to get up it was impossible to keep him abed all day. He was quite willing to sit quietly in the saloon, his arm in a sling, making up stories for Esperanza or talking with Rebecca about every subject under the sun.

  The better she came to know him, the more she loved him and the harder it was not to show it.

  The wounds were healing well and she was pleased with his swift recovery. It was a shock, therefore, when she left her cabin one morning to find Rowson awaiting her with a grave face.

  “His lordship’s a mite feverish, Miss Beckie. Will you come and see him?”

  John was hot and uncomfortable and, above all, cross. “Don’t fuss so,” he complained. “I’ll wager I just have a touch of the grippe.”

  “Let me see your arm.” Before Rebecca took off the light dressing that had replaced the bandage she could see that the area around the wound was red and swollen. She forced herself to stay calm. “I believe I shall ask our friendly apprentice apothecary to take a look.”

  Her patient glared at her. “He will just want to bleed me.”

  “Since you are not half dead from lack of blood, perhaps I shall let him this time, if only to keep you quiet. Do lie down, John, and stop looking daggers at me.”

  He obeyed, laughing at her fierceness. “Very well, ma’am, but I do not promise to allow that carpenter to cup me.” He twisted restlessly.

  “Fetch him,” Rebecca murmured to Rowson. Their eyes met and she saw that he feared the same diagnosis as she did. An infected wound might mean losing an arm—or it might mean death.

  The carpenter-apothecary inclined to the latter. “‘Tis too ‘igh up ‘is lordship’s arm, you see. Belike the poison’ll already be up in ‘is shoulder. I’ll take the arm off anyways, if you like, miss,” he offered with gruesome cheerfulness.

  John looked at her with fever-bright eyes and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Whatever you say, Beckie.”


  Rowson was silent.

  Rebecca reached for John’s good hand and held it tight. She could not make such a decision! But she had to, they were all waiting.

  Then she noticed the faint red line running up across John’s shoulder to the hollow of his throat. With one gentle finger she traced it. It was too late for amputation.

  “No. We shall fight it. The captain must put us ashore to find a doctor.”

  Captain Hardy was very sorry but he had seen too many men die of blood poisoning to be sanguine. The least delay would increase the risk of his ship being caught in the Baltic ice, and all for nothing. He refused.

  * * * *

  John’s fever mounted until he was delirious. He was in no state to lay down the law. Rebecca helped Rowson bathe him with cool sea-water and slept on the floor beside him at night. While Rowson held his flailing arms she forced him to swallow a bitter decoction of willow-bark provided by the captain, and poured broth and weak tea into him by the gallon. In his rare lucid moments his dark eyes never left her face as she battled for his life.

  She reached the edge of exhaustion, passed it and went on.

  Chapter 18

  “Beckie.”

  The single word that was more of a croak brought Rebecca instantly out of her light sleep.

  “John?” She rose to her knees on the thin mattress and, in a gesture that was automatic by now, felt his forehead. It was cool and dry. “John!”

  She reached for his wrist, so thin now that the bones seemed too big for it. His pulse was weak but steady.

  “Oh John!” Tears of joy rose in her eyes.

  “Fetch Rowson,” he whispered. “Quick.”

  She realized why he had awakened her and hurried from the cabin, a smile of pure delight on her lips. The return of modesty was surely a sign that recovery was on the way.

  She knocked on Rowson’s cabin door and he was with her in an instant.

  “He’s not…?”

  “The fever has broken. He needs you urgently.”

  “Needs...?“ Understanding dawned and a beam spread across his face. “Right, miss.” He sped to John’s cabin.

  Rebecca peeked round the door of the room he had left. Esperanza was fast asleep but Annie was easing herself into a sitting position on the bed, her expression fearful in the dim lantern-light.

  “What is it, Miss Beckie?”

  “He’s better.” Rebecca sank down on the bed beside her and hugged her. “He’s going to be all right.” She burst into tears.

  Annie held her, soothing her like a child until she was calm. “Now off to your own bed with you, miss, and you get a proper night’s sleep for once. There’s going to be plenty to do the next couple of days.”

  * * * *

  The Rochester Rose was two days out of London. As the maid predicted, they were busy days though John no longer needed constant watching. He was too weak to talk and slept a great deal, but the way his face brightened when she entered his room persuaded her to spend with him as much time as she could spare. Everything had to be packed into their various trunks and portmanteaux and boxes, which must be carefully labelled so as not to go astray in the confusion of unloading. Then the captain had to be interviewed.

  Since the Duke of Stafford’s son had unaccountably survived, Captain Hardy was most anxious to do everything in his power to make up for his earlier lack of sympathy. He agreed that the first priority on docking must be to send one of his crew for a couple of carriages. He agreed that men should be detailed to help Miss Nuthall’s party ashore. He agreed to stand surety for them so that they would not be delayed by customs officials, to see their trunks through customs, and to have them sent on by carrier to Stafford House.

  In fact, Captain Hardy was so agreeable he even offered to send a messenger ahead on horseback to warn the duke’s household of their arrival.

  As the ship sailed up the Thames estuary, Rebecca sat back, satisfied that everything had been done that could be done to remove John with all possible speed to the safety and comfort of his own home.

  At three o’clock on a crisp, smoky November afternoon, the Rochester Rose at last reached her berth in the London docks. That was the moment when Annie’s pains started.

  If anything, their arrangements were expedited by this. Neither the captain nor the customs men wanted a woman in labour on their hands. Sooner than Rebecca had believed possible, the carriages pulled up before Stafford House.

  The front door swung open and a swarm of footmen raced down the steps. Their livery, green with red trim, reminded Rebecca of the uniform John had been wearing when he rescued her from the fortress. How strong and sure of himself he had been then. Now he was emaciated, exhausted by the short journey, lying patiently on the carriage seat waiting for help.

  The moment the carriage door opened, Esperanza jumped out and darted up the steps shouting, “Gr’uncle Duke, Gr’uncle Duke!”

  As Rebecca stepped down into the street to direct the servants, she caught a glimpse of a grey-haired gentleman in the hall, who caught the little girl in his arms. A short plump lady trotted past them and stood at the top of the steps, her hands clasped anxiously. Rowson was emerging from the other carriage, helping Annie down with tender care. A pair of footmen rushed to aid them.

  “Canaille!” shrieked Gayo, the sight of the familiar house reminding him of his old vocabulary. “Hello, hijo de puta,” he addressed the butler. “Slimy son of a sea snake!”

  Rebecca supervised another four footmen in lifting John onto an improvised stretcher. She watched as they carried him up to the front door, the elderly lady fussing alongside, then she turned back to see that the few pieces of luggage they had brought with them were unloaded.

  The last of John’s bags was just being borne away and only her own two portmanteaux were left. There was a sudden dearth of servants. She looked round just in time to see the front door of Stafford House close.

  The great mansion with its pillars and pediments had embraced its own. There was no room for the outsider.

  Dusk was already falling. Rebecca swallowed her hurt, squared her shoulders, and told the coachman to take her to Hill Street. Lady Parr was her cousin, she would take her in.

  * * * *

  As the carriage turned the corner from Park Lane into Upper Grosvenor Street, the front door of Stafford House swung open again. The portly butler, his bald head shining in the light of the gas street-lamps, stepped out onto the top step and peered up and down the road. Shrugging his shoulders, he retreated to the shelter of the magnificent marbled hall and gave the porter a sharp dressing down.

  “Lucky for you the young lady went off to her own home,” he concluded severely, and forgot the matter.

  * * * *

  Cousin Adelaide’s house was not precisely what Rebecca would have called home. But then, she reflected drearily as she trudged up the well-known stairs, nor was any other place on the face of the globe entitled to that name.

  “Lady Parr and Miss Curtis are in the small parlour,” the sturdy footman who was leading her up had told her. At least he had not said he would have to see if her ladyship was at home, thus giving her the chance to deny herself. But then Donald had always had a soft spot for Rebecca when she lived here. It did not mean that he was sure of her welcome.

  She wondered what sort of person Cousin Adelaide had found to take her place when she departed for Russia.

  “Miss Nuthall, my lady,” Donald announced, then stood aside and gave Rebecca an encouraging nod.

  While Lady Parr’s drawing room was decorated in the elegant, if uncomfortable, Egyptian style, the small parlour was not intended for entertaining company. The olive green curtains were drawn against the dusk, and her ladyship was seated by a roaring fire in one of the heavy brownish-red armchairs she had inherited with the house from her brother. She was reading aloud from her favourite book of sermons. She paused in mid-word, looking up in astonishment as the footman’s announcement sank in.

  “Rebecca! Heavens
above, what are you doing here?”

  The faded wisp of a woman sitting opposite, untangling silks, stared in alarm, as if she thought the visitor might be a ghost.

  “We arrived today from Russia, Cousin Adelaide. I hope I find you well?”

  “Yes indeed, Emma and I go on excellently together. Miss Emma Curtis is my companion. Emma, this is my young cousin whom I told you of.”

  Miss Curtis seemed unsure whether to stand up and curtsy to her employer’s cousin, or merely nod to an ex-employee. Her internal dithering was clearly visible on her face. Rebecca took pity on her.

  “Pray do not get up, ma’am, you will spill your work. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “Delighted…that is, so happy...I’m sure...” She cast a nervous glance at her ladyship then buried her nose in her silks again.

  “Sit down, Rebecca,” Lady Parr commanded. “You are thinner than ever, I declare, and no wonder, rushing off to foreign parts as you did, without notice.”

  For some weeks Rebecca had had no leisure to think of her looks, though she had been vaguely aware that her clothes were hanging loosely on her. However, the second part of this speech was of more immediate interest, containing as it did a scarce hidden rebuke for her abrupt departure.

  She was too tired to continue fencing. Sinking into a chair, she leaned forward and said, “Cousin Adelaide, I have nowhere to stay in London at present. I must beg your hospitality for a little while.”

  “The Graylins have dismissed you? I am sorry to hear it. I fear I have no position to offer you, for I am perfectly satisfied with Emma.”

  Miss Curtis looked at her with timid gratitude.

  “The Graylins have not dismissed me!” Rebecca retorted sharply. “However, they are travelling by a different route and are not yet arrived and I do not know when to expect them.” She kept to herself the fact that her charge, Esperanza, was already in London. “I have no intention of attempting to usurp Miss Curtis’s place. All I ask is your charity to a relation, however distant, in allowing me to stay here until I can make other arrangements.”