Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

"There is the carriage."

  "That will be all, Mrs. Peake. You will see to it that a room is prepared on the instant, and then we must have him carried up."

  Affronted, the woman marched inside, muttering something to the effect that his lordship would be displeased when he heard of this. At the door, her husband could be heard warning her to hold her tongue.

  Lucien awoke surrounded by the curious and the concerned. Blinking, he tried to collect where he was and struggled to rise, but Elinor Kingsley pushed him back against the hard stone floor of the portico.

  "What-?"

  "Apparently you have fallen from your horse, my lord," she told him. "And you are burning up."

  "No—cold," he contradicted weakly. "Was hot—cold now."

  "I think you are fevered."

  "Got to get—got to warn Wellington—Clausel's moving toward the Fifth. Going to attack," he gasped.

  "Not here. You are at Stoneleigh, my lord," she assured him.

  His black eyes darted about him, then he shook his head. "Spain—Spanish summer—remember the heat."

  "Outer his head," Jock muttered.

  Lucien caught at Elinor's hand. "Got to get to Cotton—tell him—"

  Cotton had been in charge of the dragoons at Salamanca. She knew that from Charley's letters. For a moment, she looked to her mother, then she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I shall see he is told," she declared. "Promise."

  "Cotton's got to move up—he—cannot let 'em break the line—got to attack—"

  "We shall tell him that also."

  "I—I—"

  "You have been wounded, sir, so you had best lie still until you are carried up."

  He seemed to accept that. He relaxed slightly and closed his eyes. "Tell Cotton to give 'em hell."

  "We are winning."

  "Good. And the boy—the Kingsley boy?" he whispered. "Any word—?"

  She could not bring herself to answer.

  "Lost 'is mind," Davy whispered. "Heard o' that, ye know."

  "If he is out of his head, it's the fever—he's hot," Elinor muttered, not bothering to look up. "See if Mrs. Peake has a bed turned back yet."

  He swallowed, then his jaw worked. "Got to get back—"

  "No, you are done this day. If you would live to fight again, you must let the doctor tend you."

  "Kill as many as they save," he gasped. His eyes fluttered open. "My arm—cannot feel—is it—?"

  "You still have it," she murmured. Once again, she glanced toward her mother. "Mama—"

  "You are doing all you can, Nell."

  Longford turned his head against her knee, touching her wet gown, then mumbled, "Got blood on you, Mrs. Wilson."

  "It's water."

  "Blood," he insisted. "Mine."

  One of the lower footmen came out to announce, "Mrs. Peake says she is as ready as she's going to be." He looked down at Longford dubiously. "Take more'n me and Simpson to bring him up."

  "I suspect it will take four of you. Jock, Davy—get his feet, if you will."

  The four men carried him up the stairs with Elinor and her mother trailing them. At the top, Mrs. Peake indicated the chamber at the far end of the hall. Daggett came out, surveyed the earl, then shook his head.

  "Got nothing to fit him."

  "Can you undress him?"

  He looked at Longford again. "With aid—aye."

  "Here now—what's this, puss? Heard that Longford—" Elinor's father stopped. "Egad—so it is."

  "Can you help Mr. Daggett get him into bed, Papa?"

  "It ain't my—"

  "If you don't, Mama and I shall have to try."

  Already they'd managed to lay the earl upon the bed and were struggling to remove his high boots. "Dash it, but what's Arthur to think?" he complained.

  "Arthur does not think much of anything these days," she snapped, betraying more than a trace of asperity. She looked down at her wet dress. "Please, Papa—I have already struggled with Arthur. And before you say the others must do it, I'd remind you there are none here but Daggett and yourself who are aware of what ought to be done." She moved closer, then added for his ears alone, "At least your hands have not been cleaning the stables."

  Knowing it would be highly improper to watch, she and her mother went back down to await Dr. Beatty. Dropping dispiritedly into a chair, Elinor eyed Arthur's brandy decanter for a long moment, then sighed. "I do not suppose it would be at all the thing to be discovered disguised, do you, Mama?"

  "No."

  A wave of self-pity washed over her, and once again she fought the urge to cry. "I would that Papa would let you stay with me."

  "Nell, I cannot." Her mother leaned forward to clasp both her hands. "I dare not."

  "Then why not Charlotte?" Elinor bit her lower lip, but could not maintain her composure. "Mama, I don't want to be alone with him! At least for a time there was Charley, and now there is no one!"

  "Lord Kingsley sent money that Charlotte could be sent away to school, Nell. Perhaps one of the younger girls..."

  "As if they would understand," the girl retorted bitterly.

  "Nell... Nell..." There was no mistaking the sympathy in her mother's eyes. "Do you think I would not wish to stay with you? That there is even a day that passes that I do not feel for you?" she asked softly, sighing.

  "Mama, if you loved me, you would stay!"

  "If I stayed, there would be nothing, Nell," the older woman declared sadly. "As it is, I must guard every farthing, else the girls shall have nothing."

  "Arthur gives him an allowance!"

  "Once a gamester, always a gamester, I'm afraid. And now he has taken to drinking to excess. He cannot accept that the allowance is all Lord Kingsley means for him to have."

  Elinor stared through tears. "Papa has debts again?"

  "Yes." Her mother looked away. "More than twelve thousand pounds that I know of, and God only knows how much more than that."

  "Oh, Mama! Arthur will not pay any of it—I know he will not!"

  "For nearly five years he has lived on expectation of Arthur's dying."

  "And what would he have done had Charley lived? Did he never consider that? I could not—I would not have asked Charley for the money, you know."

  "Nell—" The slender, bony hands smoothed the younger ones, then patted them. "Promise me this— promise me that no matter what he asks of you, you will not give him money. Rather than settling his debts, he will attempt to come about—and he cannot."

  "Mama, I could not let you suffer for his folly. If—if Arthur does not recover, there are my jewels—and all manner of things he has given me. Surely—"

  This time, it was her mother's turn to be bitter. "If you loan him anything, he will not repay it. If you give him anything, he will squander it. No, I should very much rather die of shame than see him bleed you for that which you have earned so dearly."

  "Mama—"

  Her mother forced a smile. "Besides—you did say that I and the girls might live with you, did you not?"

  "You know it, but—"

  "Hush. One of these days, we might need to."

  "It would seem the day is now, Mama. Indeed, but I should like—"

  "Lady Kingsley, Dr. Beatty is without," Peake announced.

  "Go on—see him up," her mother urged her. "And do not worry—leave Thomas to me. Indeed, but I should have said nothing of this to you—not at a time when your plate is already full."

  Elinor rose, then turned back. "Mama, you are welcome wherever I am."

  "I know, dearest—but now is not the time. I cannot leave else he would sell Charlotte. Later, when this is past, when the purse strings are yours, we shall hold the better hand, Nell."

  CHAPTER 21

  While Elinor sat, her face averted, the physician examined Longford, grunting and murmuring to himself occasionally. From time to time, she stole a curious glance at the earl, who tossed fitfully beneath Dr. Beatty's probing. Finally, the doctor stood up.

  "Fellow's burning up," he d
eclared.

  "But he was sweating when he arrived."

  He nodded. "A grave sign—body's in distress."

  "Grave?" she asked, alarmed. "You do not think that he-?"

  "Seen it before, and lost 'em. Final shock, you know."

  "But what—?"

  "Spanish fever, I'd say, but there's more than that wrong with him." His eyes met hers and his expression was troubled. "You ever see a bullet wound?"

  "No—of course not."

  "Suppose not," he agreed.

  "I collect you think it is his wound, then?"

  "Don't see anything else." Walking back to where Longford fretted beneath several blankets, he turned them back to expose the earl's shoulder and chest, revealing two still angry scars. "Ain't pretty, is it?" He pointed to the lower one. "A wonder he lived this long—had to have got the lung. Usually takes 'em right then and there, but I guess he was fortunate—for a time." He turned his attention to the shoulder. "I'd say it was this one," he murmured. "See where it appears to have healed?"

  There was an irregular scar just below the joint itself. And while the skin around it was pale, ashen, the wound itself was reddened, strangely shiny, and as smooth as if the skin had been stretched to cover the bullet hole.

  "Feel that—go on," the doctor urged.

  There seemed to be something daring, almost obscene about touching the man's body, and she hesitated. Then she reached gingerly, tentatively to examine where Beatty had pointed. Longford's shoulder bore little resemblance to Arthur's. He was bigger, more solid, harder. She drew back and looked up questioningly.

  "Blood poisoning. See the streak that runs to his arm?"

  "Yes."

  "I'd say that in their attempt to save his life, they tended the lung first and missed something in there." As he spoke, he reached for his bag. "I'll need assistance, Lady Kingsley. Perhaps a footman—or a maid even."

  Blood poisoning was usually fatal. Guilt washed over her for wishing him dead in Charley's place. "I—I shall not mind doing it." When he looked up in surprise, she added more definitely, "I am not of the least squeamish nature, I assure you."

  "We'll need water to wash the mess if I am right." He stopped, listening to the earl's tortured breathing, and he shook his head. "That does not sound good either. I hear rales."

  Rales? The death rattle? Elinor's hands shook as she went to the washstand. The bowl and ewer were empty. "Mary!" she called out. "Dr. Beatty'd have water!" When she turned back, the physician had assembled an evil-looking collection of instruments on the coverlet.

  "You might want to ask for towels to protect your bedcovers also," he added.

  "And towels!" she shouted.

  "I brung 'em," the maid answered. "And I'm right here as where ye needs me." She looked at the earl, then back to Elinor. "He don't look—"

  "Hush." Elinor's eyes dropped to the instruments on the bed. "Do you think we ought to notify someone, sir? I mean, before you—"

  "There's no time, Lady Kingsley. As it is, it's a race with the reaper."

  "Oh. Yes—of course."

  Longford suddenly tried to sit, scattering scalpels and probes, shouting, "Forward! Got to charge! Come on!" Then he fell back, mumbling, "Cannot see for the smoke—damned smoke—"

  "Get a footman—no, best make it two footmen," Beatty barked. "Cannot have him thrashing about."

  "Laudanum?" Elinor asked.

  He shook his head. "Body's under too much distress already. Time enough to dose him when it's done."

  Mary did not have to go far for the footmen—full half the household hovered just outside the door. A strapping fellow Elinor scarce knew and the lower footman in charge of the silver stepped inside.

  Beatty did not look up. "Hold him down—one to each side—and for God's sake, stay out of my way. Lady Kingsley, if you insist, you may hold the basin—though if I am right, I don't know what good that will do."

  "What am I to do with it?"

  "Try to catch the stuff when I drain it. And the maid-is the maid still here?"

  "Aye, yer honor," Mary answered.

  "Tell someone to find a piece of salted meat—pork preferably—then come back. I'd have you ready with water and a cloth."

  "Damn you, Jack! First it was Mama—and now it's me!"

  Elinor leaned down and tried to soothe the earl. "You are all right, sir—everything's going to be all right."

  "Cannot reason with him," Beatty muttered. "Just try to keep him as still as possible." He selected a small, sharp knife, and held it poised above Longford's shoulder. "Got him, boys? No matter what, you've got to hold him down." Satisfied, he moved the knife, then stopped. "Damn—got to have better light. You"—he pointed to Mary—"hold a candle close. You can wash him later."

  "Aye."

  He waited only until she returned with a lit candle, then with one hand, he guided her arm, showing her where he'd have her hold it. He sucked in his breath, then plunged the knife directly into the healing scar on Longford's shoulder. The earl's body stiffened, then went limp as the two footmen pushed him into the feather mattress. Elinor gasped, recoiling as the abscess beneath spewed the fetid corruption, spraying everything around it. As some hit her face, she gagged. "How—how do I catch it?" she choked.

  "You are nearly too late," he grumbled.

  The wound smelled both sweet and foul, reminding her of meat that had spoiled. Swallowing the gorge that rose in her throat, she forced herself to tip the basin slightly and hold it steady. Beatty pressed the outer edges of the scar, expressing more of the greenish ooze. It welled, then drained again and again.

  "Don't know how he got home in the first place," the doctor muttered more to himself than to her. "Ought to be dead." Finally, when the wound began to yield only thin, watery blood, he exhaled his satisfaction. "A wet cloth."

  "Aye, yer honor." Mary passed it to him.

  He washed the area carefully, pressing and frowning, then he dropped the cloth onto the coverlet and reached for the thin-pointed probe. "Got to be something in here somewhere," he murmured. He dug deeply into the hole. "Bring the candle closer," he ordered. "Got to be a piece of the ball or something." He stopped, thinking he felt something, and exchanged the probe for pincers. "Ahhhh—yes, yes." There was no hiding his excitement as he drew out what appeared to be a small bit of bloody cloth. He leaned back, holding it up.

  "What is it?" Elinor asked curiously.

  "Wadding."

  "And that made 'im sick?" one of the footmen wanted to know, clearly disbelieving it. "It ain't hardly nothing."

  "It's foreign and contaminated by lead and black powder," Beatty snapped. "A lot of fellows have died from less."

  "Gor!"

  "I'm not going to try to sew it—not yet. Need to see if we got it all. Right now, I'd have a hot compress to draw it, then we'll put a piece of salt pork over it—salt tends to pull the pus, you know."

  "No," she admitted.

  "Well, it does." He began putting his instruments away. "Though by the sound of his chest, we've got as much to worry about there. I'd say he's been afraid to cough, and now he's given himself pneumonia."

  Pneumonia. A foul abscess. Blood poisoning. Spanish fever. Any one of them sounded bad, but together, they made Longford's case seem hopeless. Elinor swallowed. "Will he—? That is, now that you have drained the wound—?"

  "Lady Kingsley, I am a physician—not a prophet. In the first capacity, I should say I think it unlikely—but sometimes we see God's hands work in mysterious ways. Sometimes those we have quite given up survive." Then, recalling the recent loss of Charles Kingsley, he tried to soften his prognosis. "There is a lot to be said for a strong man—and there is much to be said for assiduous care. Between the two of them, we can be surprised. I am sure you have a number of competent staff to attend him."

  "Yes, of course."

  But the overriding thought that echoed within her mind was that Longford was going to die, that he was going to die at Stoneleigh with her watching. A ne
w wave of guilt washed over her, for had she not begrudged him his life? Had she not wished him dead instead of Charles? But now if he died, after what had happened to Charles, she was afraid she'd go mad. It already seemed that she clung to sanity by little more than a fine thread. And with Arthur's bitter withdrawal and her mother's leaving, there would be none to fight the battle with her.

  The room was dark, the silence punctuated only by the earl's labored breathing and episodes of hallucinogenic raving, none of which made much sense. From time to time, he chilled so hard that he shook his bed, then he would toss, mumbling of the heat. Twice already, she'd summoned footmen from their beds to change his sweat-soaked gown and sheets.

  He cursed, he rambled obscurely, he mumbled. He was in hell, he was leading a charge on the battlefield, he was bringing Charles home. Then he was silent again, and for a moment, she feared the worst, that he was perhaps dying. But when she leaned over him to wipe his face, his eyes opened, and his hands caught at hers.

  "Mama?" he croaked.

  "No."

  "Can't leave—can't go." His fingers curved over hers. "Don't leave me, Mama." As he spoke, tears welled in his eyes. "Don't—don't want to be left with him." De- spite the weakness, there was a degree of urgency in his voice.

  According to Bell, Longford's mother had died long ago. Indeed, but he'd hinted darkly that there had been rumors of a scandal quickly hushed. But it seemed as though everything about Longford had been touched by some sort of scandal. "You are all right, my lord," she murmured soothingly, pulling away her hand.

  She'd only meant to come up, to ask Mary of his progress, for she was nearly too tired for thought herself. But the maid had been afraid, saying she didn't want to be left sitting with a corpse, and in the end, Elinor had stayed. Now she herself thought she felt the eerie presence of death. Beneath her fingers, he burned, his skin nearly too hot to touch. And in the hour or so that she'd been there, he'd not responded rationally to anything. It was as though he were already in that valley between, seeing and speaking with those who'd gone before him.

  "Nell?" her mother whispered. "How is he?"

  "Worse, I think."

  Her mother came into the room. "You ought to be abed. Arthur—"