Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

  That afternoon, to take her mind from what her papa called her "unreasoning fear" of him, she visited Arthur, totally unprepared for what he had become. He seemed shrunken, smallish like a curled spider, and he was as helpless as Leighton had painted him. His eyes followed her as she came into the room, and there was no mistaking that he was glad enough to see her. He lifted a frail hand as though he would beckon her closer, then he let it fall limply to the covers. "You—came—home."

  "I had nowhere else to go," she said simply.

  Tears formed in the rheumy eyes and spilled over onto his sunken cheeks, and he had not the coordination to brush them away. "Sorry—for—it," he whispered.

  "For what?" she asked coldly.

  "Ever—Every—thing."

  As much as she hated him, she felt a certain pity for him. To a man of his pride, how it must gall him to have to lie there like that. She pulled up a chair and sat down. "Do you hurt, my lord?" she managed to ask him.

  "No—cannot feel—beyond"—he gave up for a moment, marshaling his breath before going on—"beyond my—arms."

  She sat there, not knowing what to say, trying to separate the pitiful creature before her from the husband who'd cost her so much. Finally, she started to rise.

  "Don't—go—yet. The—the babe?"

  "She looks like Lucien," she told him brutally, "so we are both cheated, aren't we?"

  "Sorry for—that—also." His voice was thin, breathless, and so faint she could scarce hear him. "Misjudged him." Then, sucking in air again, he managed to ask, "What name—do—you—give her?"

  "I don't know. I'd thought perhaps Elizabeth—it's my second name."

  He nodded weakly and closed his eyes. Once again, she started to leave, only to have him stop her. "Not yet," he gasped. "Stay—read—anything."

  She would have denied him, but she could not deny a certain pity for him. Reluctantly, she reached for the book that lay on the small stand beside his bed. To her surprise, it was The Iliad, the book Lucien had teased Bell with in what seemed another lifetime. She opened it to a folded-down page and began to read, losing herself in the epic tale of fabled heroes. After an hour or so, when she laid it aside, she heard him whisper, "My thanks."

  Later, early in the evening, word came that he wanted to see "his daughter," as Daggett reported it. Taking her mother for support, Elinor carried the infant into his chamber that he might see her. Yet, as helpless as he was, she kept her daughter beyond his reach. But he held out his hand, trying to touch her, and finally she drew close enough that his wasted fingers found the babe's arm.

  "Pretty—like you."

  "Thank you."

  "Elizabeth—Louise—Char—Charlotte—Kingsley."

  The next day, when the vicar and his wife made a late afternoon call to finalize preparation for the babe's christening, Eliza Thurstan made over Elizabeth, saying that she was honored to have the child named for her. And she remarked with a completely straight face how much the infant looked like Arthur.

  She took them up to see him, thinking perhaps it would lighten his spirits. Eliza gushed over "little Elizabeth," to which he replied, "Named her—for—my mother— also. Pretty little—thing." After they left, Elinor started to thank him for carrying on the sham, but he shook his head. "Got to—keep—my bargain." He gestured to the laudanum bottle on his bedside table. "Might—as well— give me—some. Cannot do—aught—but sleep."

  "Are you hurting?"

  "No."

  Once again, she felt sorry for him. A man who had striven so hard, sacrificed so much for the emptiness of money and station, and he had nothing worthwhile left to him.

  "I could read to you again," she offered.

  "No. Go on—got better—things—to do."

  But she didn't. She picked up the book and read aloud again, until Mary came to tell her that Elizabeth was rather insistently hungry. As she laid aside The Iliad, she saw that Arthur slept. Without the laudanum.

  After that, as much to pass her time as his, she took to reading to him twice each day, and when she was informed that he'd quit eating, she began feeding him also, ordering that instead of gruel and jellies, he ought to have what the rest of the household ate minced for him.

  Still, he did not seem to want to eat. After a few bites, he pushed feebly at her hand.

  "Don't know what your lay is, Nell," her father complained. "He ain't like to push off if you keep it up."

  It seemed odd—after nearly six years of waiting for him to die, she was prepared to see her elderly husband live, and until he was gone, she'd do her duty to him. After all, despite everything else that had passed between them, he had given Elizabeth his name.

  When the christening came, it drew the curious, but she managed to hold her head high as she watched the vicar dribble the baptismal water over her child's head. At her side, Lord Leighton stood godfather in the absence of any other. And it was duly recorded in the parish register. Elizabeth Charlotte Louise Kingsley, b. 6 July, 1813, d. of Arthur, Baron Kingsley, and his wife, Elinor. She was officially now and forever legitimate, despite Elinor's rearrangement of the names Arthur had wanted. Somehow they sounded better in that order.

  Afterward, she took the babe, still in the exquisite christening gown he'd ordered from Switzerland, to show Arthur. And once again, he pronounced Elizabeth pretty. She and the infant stayed for a while, until he said he was tired. He appeared despondent, and despite her offer to come back to read, he shook his head.

  Even a suggestion that perhaps on the morrow Jeremy and Daggett might take him down to sit in a chair on the porch did not seem to improve his spirits. She quarreled with her father over that, sending him home in a huff, muttering if she continued, Arthur was going to outlive him. But as agreed, he left her mother, advising her privately to keep an eye on his expectations. His departure suited both of them.

  Two days later, Arthur spent perhaps an hour with the solicitor he'd demanded. And later he surprised everyone by asking to be carried downstairs. He lay upon a settee, watching as Elinor sat stitching, her bright hair falling forward as she leaned toward the light from the window. Aye, she was as beautiful as ever, a woman to do a man credit, and for all that she'd betrayed him with Longford, he did not blame her for it. It had been his idea from the beginning, and it had not taken much suggestion for the earl to act upon it.

  If he regretted anything, it was Charles. He lay there, propped against pillows, remembering reading the boy's journal, thinking how little he'd known him. And a man ought to know his own flesh and blood, for in the end, money had no memory, money did not grieve. Now he had no one to cry for him, and even if he chose to live, it was unlikely that little Elizabeth would remember him as anything beyond a sick old man. What Elinor and the infant needed was a strong man like Longford, someone who could take care of them with more than money.

  He looked again to Elinor, thinking that her real worth lay not in her beauty, but rather in her capacity to forgive, to live and survive in adversity. If anything, her beauty had been enhanced by it, for it gave her a certain character that so many lovely women lacked.

  If he'd made mistakes in assessing her, his worst he supposed was in assuming she was as fickle, as empty as the rest of them. Despite her professed hatred of Longford, he did not doubt that there was still a bit of a spark there, something that could be rekindled when he was gone. And the realization brought with it a pang of regret that he'd not been younger when he'd wed her.

  He could still remember the triumph she'd given him in London. He had made it to Almack's. He had hobnobbed with the ton, speaking with the likes of the Jerseys, the Seftons, the Melbournes. She'd gained him the entree he'd asked for. And had it not been for poor Charles, she'd be the reigning Incomparable still.

  She looked up, aware of his scrutiny. "You look a trifle hagged, my lord. Perhaps you have been down too long."

  "Aye."

  She rang for the footman, ordering that his lordship be carried back to bed. As they bundled his
blanket about him, he asked for a bottle of port, surprising her. He still had difficulty swallowing. But if Daggett were there... She nodded.

  It was not even his household anymore. He was so helpless he had to ask for everything. And to him it was as though he'd lost all consequence, as though he were merely de trop, as though the world had already left him, and there was nothing left for him to do—except one last thing.

  She laid aside her sewing and followed them up to see that he got his port. She reminded Daggett that someone ought to stay with him lest he choke, then she left to feed Elizabeth, who could be heard wailing down the hall. To him, it was almost obscene that she'd chosen to nurse the infant herself, but he supposed that was another thing that had passed him by. In his day, his first wife had nursed his son because he'd not had enough money to engage a wet nurse. And he'd always felt sorry about that.

  He let her go, then stared for a time at the ceiling, seeing the gold-leaf rosettes he'd had copied from Marie Antoinette's bedroom. He'd managed to get it all—more money than he'd ever dreamed existed when he was a boy. But a man had to be ruthless to get what he wanted, and he wondered briefly if he'd see any of his enemies again.

  He took the glass Daggett poured him, then waved him away, muttering that he was not a child. The faithful valet hesitated as though uncertain as to whether to obey him or Lady Kingsley. In the end, habit triumphed, and he left also.

  Arthur lay there for some time, sipping slowly, thinking of his life, wondering if much of it had been worth the price. Finally, he poured himself some more of the port, spilling a great deal of it on his covers. Then he reached for the bottle of laudanum he'd been hoarding beneath some papers in a bedside table drawer. His hand trembled so much he was afraid he'd drop it, that he'd spill some of it, but he managed to get it. "Daggett—"

  "Aye, my lord?" As always, the valet hastened when the bell was pulled.

  "Get—the—stopper out, will—you?"

  "Aye."

  "And do not—set it—tightly, for I may—have need— of more later."

  "Would you have a dose now? Should I inform Lady Kingsley you are in pain?"

  "Not yet."

  He waited only until Daggett was out the door, then he emptied the bottle into his cup. At first taste, he thought he would vomit, then he drank enough to add more port. Finally, he had it all down. His stomach churned, but he lay quite still, hoping it would settle. Then he waited until he began to feel drowsy, until he knew it would be too late. Slipping the empty laudanum bottle beneath his pillow, he rang again for the valet.

  "Fetch—Lady Kingsley," he gasped. "So—little— time."

  Mystified by the message, Elinor came back to sit with him. "What do you need?" she asked him. "Hold—my—my—hand."

  She was used to his sometimes childish behavior, but just now he surprised her. Nonetheless, she took his hand between both hers.

  His speech sounded even more slurred and she began to wonder if he were having another stroke. "Arthur—?"

  He blinked, then roused. "Tired—so tired."

  She leaned over him to pull him up onto his pillow, and saw the empty bottle. "What on earth—? Arthur, what is this?"

  "Too—late," he mumbled.

  "Daggett! Daggett!" Her voice rose. "Daggett— now!"

  "Aye, my lady?"

  "Send someone to fetch Dr. Beatty on the instant— and have him take a good horse! Now, Mr. Daggett!"

  "Is aught amiss?"

  She held up the bottle. "I think he drank it."

  "It was full."

  Arthur roused again, and his eyes blinked as they sought Daggett's. "Aye."

  "But why, Arthur— why?" Her eyes were hot with unshed tears.

  "Too—old," he mumbled.

  "Arthur!" She half-crawled onto the bed with him and shook him hard, trying to keep him awake. "Arthur, you cannot—it's a sin!"

  "Cannot—"

  Mrs. Peake, Lady Ashton, Mary, Peake—full half the household came as she began screaming. But they were all too late. Arthur Kingsley slipped deeper, drawing away from the world that no longer pleased him.

  By the time Beatty arrived, he shook his head. "Nothing to do but wait, I'm afraid. By the sound of his breathing, it would do no good to make him vomit. Besides, he cannot swallow now—it would go into his lungs."

  She sat there, perhaps another hour, until the physician announced it was over. When she looked up, she managed a twisted smile. "It was Arthur, was it not? He was still determined to control what he could."

  "Sometimes, Lady Kingsley," Beatty murmured, "it's easier to die than to live."

  Two weeks after Arthur Kingsley was interred beside Charles, Eleanor, her parents, and Lord Leighton sat in the bookroom at Stoneleigh for the reading of his will. And the provisions of it shocked nearly everyone. The title he could not keep from his distant Cit relation was duly mentioned, but with it went nothing but one thousand pounds in total for its maintenance. No house, nothing else, as all of his possessions were acquired and therefore not entailed.

  To Elinor, there was the customary one-third widow's portion, enough to make her incredibly wealthy for life— "on condition that she spend none of it beyond what I have mentioned on her relations," which amounted to five thousand pounds each to her sisters "for their marriage portions," and one last ten thousand pounds to "Baron Ashton," for a final settling of his debts, beyond which he must not apply to Elinor. And the jewelry, of course, was to be kept for her use "so long as she shall live, whereupon it shall be passed on to Elizabeth, my daughter." Stoneleigh was to go to her "during the child's minority," and then it would belong to Elizabeth, as would the remaining two-thirds of his estate.

  In that one document, Elizabeth Charlotte Louise Kingsley had become a great heiress. His only request was an odd one—he'd have Elinor and the child visit his grave annually in remembrance of him. It was, Lord Ashton whispered, "a small price to pay for the enormous fortune he's left the both of you."

  But perhaps the most startling portion was that which named "Lucien, Earl of Longford, my daughter's guardian during her minority, which shall for these purposes be determined to be the age of twenty-five. In the event of his absence from the country, I should ask George, Viscount Leighton to act in his stead."

  It was at that point that her father started from his chair. "No! By God, it's a miscarriage! The guardianship ought to go to me—as the babe's grandfather, it's my right!"

  The solicitor looked up over the rims of half-spectacles. "Lord Ashton, I am afraid Lord Kingsley was most specific in his preference. Thrice I asked him, and thrice he said it was to be the Earl of Longford. I'm sorry, my lord."

  "Sorry! Sorry?" Ashton's voice rose. "I had quite counted—" He stopped, and it was as though he could hear Arthur speaking from those years before, saying it was never wise to count another man's money. "I don't suppose the provisions can be broken?" he inquired hollowly.

  "Only if Lady Kingsley and all other heirs can be brought to agree."

  He turned to Leighton, appealing, "You've no wish for the duty, have you? And Longford—Longford—" He fairly choked on the name. "Well, I'll not abide it, sir! Not after what he has done!"

  Leighton shrugged. "I shall, of course, do as Lady Kingsley asks me. I quite count myself a friend to both her and Lucien."

  "Puss—tell him—"

  She sat there, her hands gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white. Arthur had named Lucien Elizabeth's guardian. Why? There could be only one answer—only one. For a moment, it was as though her heart stood still, then relief flooded over her, bringing tears. And she could scarce contain what she felt in that instant. Arthur had lied.

  "Lady Kingsley, are you all right?" Leighton asked gently.

  "Yes. Yes." She bit her lip to maintain what composure she could. Looking up at her father, she managed to shake her head. "I am satisfied with the terms, Papa," she whispered.

  "It's a disgrace! You shall be a laughingstock—or worse! When
the world gets a look at Elizabeth and makes the connection—"

  Lady Ashton rose. "That will be quite enough, Thomas," she told him sharply.

  "Enough!" he howled. "It'll be a scandal! She cannot recover! The child—"

  "The child will be so wealthy I doubt any will cavil over an old scandal," Leighton cut in coldly.

  Elinor's father turned on him. "You did this!" he accused.

  "Papa, stop it!" She looked across to Leighton. "If you do not mind it, George, I would that you wrote Longford of this. And tell him that I do not object."

  "Puss, you cannot!"

  She stood to face her father. "Papa, do you not understand? I am rich enough to do as I please—you saw to that when you sold me." She nodded to the solicitor, then to Leighton and her mother. "If I may be excused, I should like to tend to my daughter."

  The black silk skirt of her gown swished against the petticoat beneath it as she passed her father. He started to reach out to stop her, then dropped his hand. He stared at her in bewilderment before looking at his wife.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "When you sold her to Kingsley, you gave up any claim to her, Thomas."

  "I did it for her!"

  Lady Ashton met his eyes for a long moment. "Did you, Thomas? I don't think so." Moving around him so that she did not even touch him, she left the room also.

  Behind her, she could hear him insist to Leighton and the solicitor, "I did it for her own good—tell them—"

  "Yes, well—" Leighton reached for his hat. "If there's naught else to be attended to, I shall go home and write Longford."

  "Tell them!"

  But the solicitor ignored him. "There's naught else for now, my lord," he told Leighton. "You may write the earl that I shall await his instructions."

  CHAPTER 35

  August 30, 1813: Outside St. Sebastian, Spain

  It had been a grueling month since he'd arrived, one that had seen appalling losses among Britain's ill-fed Spanish allies, so many that after their victory at Sorauren, they'd been unable to pursue the French back over the Maya Pass. And now they were poised for another assault on St. Sebastian, which still held out. Rumor had it that Marshal Soult was preparing a force to relieve the British siege from across the Bidassoa, so time was short.