Give All to Love

by Patricia Veryan

  She turned her hand to clasp his strongly. “You are all that is good and kind and dear. But—I must go back, John.”

  “But—what will you do? When they are wed, Lady Isabella won’t—”

  “Let me stay? No. Nor should I wish to. But my uncle will come soon. If Dev prefers that—that I leave before he arrives, I shall go to stay with Guy, or with Mitch and Charity, or the Leiths. But—but not Park Parapine, John.”

  He thought, ‘It is too close to Aspenhill, of course. And everyone would be speaking of Dev.’ And, his heart aching, he said bravely, “Yes. I quite understand. We’ll go back, of course.”

  “You will recollect Lady Hersh,” said Pandora, returning to take the chair Drummond sprang up to pull out for her. “She was on her way to Bath. Dreadful gossip, but we had a nice cose. She tells me she saw Fontaine and his sister leaving Swindon on the London Road. We are not surprised. Isabella Scott-Matthias will stay in the country not one moment longer than is necessary.”

  Josie managed to speak steadily. “She is likely going to buy her bride clothes. Pan—I am sincerely sorry to be such a silly, but I want to go ho— I mean, I want to go back to Devencourt.”

  Mrs. Grenfell threw a keen glance at Drummond’s set smile and desolate eyes. ‘Poor lad,’ she thought. ‘But better now than later.’ She said without equivocation, “We shall accompany you. No, there is not the need for you to turn about, Drummond. Do you arrange for a postchaise to convey us home. We shall be quite safe with Klaus to escort us. Be so good as to convey our affection to your parents and my sister Constance Tyndale. Goodbye, dear boy. Now—eat up, Mademoiselle de Galin, for it will avail us nothing to droop like wet lettuce leaves, and we mean to enjoy our tea.”

  * * *

  Between Mrs. Grenfell’s hearty appetite and a further chat with her friend, Lady Anne Hersh, whose sharp eyes made Josie uneasy, the afternoon was far spent by the time they again approached Devencourt. Expecting to find the stableyard quiet and peaceful, Josie stared in astonishment at a scene of frenzied activity. Devenish’s prize matched greys were being poled up to a dashing chaise with wheels picked out in bright blue; saddle horses were being led out of the stables, and grooms and stable-boys darted frantically about. “Good heavens!” she gasped. “That is Mitchell Redmond’s new chaise! Whatever can have happened?”

  When they entered the east wing, Redmond hurried to meet them. He answered their anxious questions by saying cravenly that Guy could explain. “Gad, but it’s cold. I fancy we shall have snow soon, don’t you?” He led them back towards the study, making no attempt to take their wraps, nor did any servant appear to perform that service.

  A maid let out a shriek. “Miss Josie’s come back!” and from some unseen male came a hollow-voiced, “Oh, my Gawd!” Mrs. Robinson, clad in bonnet and cloak, ran to meet them, looking very agitated, and Lady Godiva darted along the hall, squealing.

  “What is it? Oh, what is wrong?” quavered Josie, suddenly much colder than she had been outside.

  Struggling along the hall, Guy Sanguinet said, “Ah, ma belle, and my good friend, you have come.” He took Josie’s hand and held it firmly. “It is something we all should have guess long since, ma chérie. You must be brave now.”

  * * *

  Thomas Corwen Ruthwell, Lord Belmont, scion of a prominent Scottish Border family, had been a fighter all his days. As a boy he had fought because he was too tall and lanky for his years and thus became the butt of crude schoolboy jokes. As a young man he fought against entering the priesthood, the Army or the Navy, and was all but cast off by his outraged family when he declared he meant to become a doctor. Ten years after that, he was fighting colleagues affronted by his brusque manners and revolutionary methods. Now a leading light in his profession, long since elevated to the peerage, sought after by the finest families in the land and admired throughout Europe, he was as blunt and abrasive as ever. When he disagreed with hospital procedures, he bought a large house in Harley Street, and turned it into a private hospital he ran his own way. Implored to teach, he did so, but he brought his best students to work with him and drove them mercilessly. Among the survivors were some of the finest physicians in the land. In appearance, he was tall, thin, and erect, his iron-grey hair a shaggy mop. His lantern jaw reflected his implacable nature, his black eyes were fierce, and his bedside manner uncompromisingly blunt—a necessary defence against a very soft heart.

  Knowing much of this, it was a dreary confirmation of his darkest fears when Alain Devenish opened dazed eyes to find the great man bending over the bed, compassion softening his gaunt features.

  “Got here … did I?” said Devenish foolishly.

  “My poor lunatic,” said Belmont, his touch gentle as a woman’s as he touched a cold, wet cloth to the waxy face against the pillows. “Why in the name of Mephisto did you not tell me? I’d never have let you go prancing off last month had I known it was this acute.”

  “Wasn’t,” said Devenish, clinging to the coverlet. “Fell downstairs. Made it—much worse. Been curst nuisance … ever since. So I came.”

  “You most assuredly did. When my porter opened the door of your carriage just now, you came down like a dead man. Not surprising, since they tell me you drove all night. I’ve some laudanum here, but if you can hang on until I’ve made a quick examination, it will help.”

  Devenish “hung on.” Afterwards, the laudanum didn’t help much, and the cough didn’t help either. The surgeon patted his shoulder and walked to a far corner of the quiet room.

  Lyon Cahill, his face very grim, said, “It’s the leg, of course, sir.”

  “Yes. Damned young fool. I warned him three years ago, it should come off.”

  “Did you, by Jove! He never told me that.”

  “Didn’t tell anyone, I doubt. Thought if he ignored it, it would go away.” Belmont swore softly. “I hope it may not take him with it!”

  Despite himself, Cahill winced. “You think—it’s the bone?”

  “’Fraid so. Oh, I’m sorry. I forget, you know him. Splendid madman. Dammit, but I wish he were in better condition. From what he says—and doesn’t say, I gather it’s been very bad for some time. He’s worn to a shade, his nerves as steady as any weaver’s shuttle, and that cough shaking him from hell to breakfast!”

  “Bit of a fever too, sir. You shall have to delay.”

  “Is that a fact,” sneered Belmont. Cahill flushed, and the older man said irritably, “If I delay, he—”

  “No!” Devenish, propped on one elbow, watched them in white-faced desperation. “No more waiting! Get it done!”

  “Ears like a hawk,” muttered Cahill, and went over to the bed. “Dev,” he said, attempting to lie him back down, “his lordship cannot—”

  Devenish thrust him away. “Now!” he cried frantically. “For God’s sake, now!” He threw back the coverlet and started up. “If … if you won’t—I’ll find some—some blasted apothecary who—”

  “All right, all right.” Belmont moved swiftly. “Here—take some of this, it will—”

  “Make me sleep, you think! No!” Devenish gasped and lay back, flinging one arm across his face. After a moment, he panted feebly, “Lyon, if Belmont won’t—you do it. Please! If—if only for old times’ sake.”

  “Easy, easy.” The surgeon met Cahill’s eyes and shrugged resignedly. “He’ll only work himself into a worse state, I suppose. You’re a stubborn ass, Devenish!” Smiling, despite the harsh words, he wiped the strained face again and said in his kindest voice, “You do understand, my dear fellow—we have to amputate.”

  “Yes, yes. ’Course I understand. You warned me—often enough.”

  For Cahill, many things were falling into place. He muttered repentantly, “Dev—if I’d known— You lamebrain, if you’d had it done three years back—”

  “I know, I know. But … I had three more years with—with her.”

  Belmont said sharply, “So there’s a lady involved? Married?”

  “Not to m
e,” Devenish muttered with sudden ineffable sadness. “She’s young, lovely … admired. Deserves—the best…”

  Cahill’s lips tightened and he turned away in silence. Cautiously, the surgeon sat on the side of the bed. “If she’s as lovely as you say, and she cares for you—”

  The fair head tossed fretfully. “Wasting time. Get it over, will you?”

  Belmont persisted. “I know what you’re going through, lad. But you must face the possibility that there may be legal matters you’ll want to—”

  “All done. Everything … tidy.” Devenish’s voice faded. “She’ll be well provided for. And she’s going to marry … dashed good boy…”

  Belmont watched the drawn face and frowned unhappily.

  Devenish opened his eyes and a singularly sweet and very weary smile pierced the surgeon’s armoured heart. “So you see,” he sighed, “it don’t matter anymore. Just—get it over, sir. I’m—so damnably tired of it.”

  Chapter 19

  The three mud-spattered carriages and the six outriders set heads turning as they raced at reckless speed along The-New-Road-From-Paddington-to-Islington, and turned right onto Harley Street.

  Lord Jeremy Bolster, who had been exercising his fine young dapple grey stallion amid the delights of the newly laid out Regent’s Park, glanced idly towards the commotion as an indignant pedestrian shouted imprecations at the fast-moving cavalcade.

  “By J-J-J—by thunder, that looked like M-Mitchell’s new chaise, Harry,” he exclaimed.

  Sir Harry Redmond turned his green eyes to the south. “Not possible, Jerry. My brother went up to see Sanguinet.”

  “Did?” Bolster, unconvinced, battled his mettlesome and half-broken steed around again. “Why? Thought he just c-c—got back.”

  “Said he was uneasy about Dev. Something about the look of him after that damnable fire. We must go down, Jerry, no matter what Dev says.”

  “We sh-should’ve gone at once, my Tulip,” his lordship muttered. “Y’know once or tw-twice I’ve had the notion old D-Dev ain’t been quite— By God, Harry! They’ve pulled up in front of Belmont’s n-new place!”

  The two elegant young men eyed each other, then two more horses were racing along the sedate street. They drew rein in time to see Mitchell Redmond hand a strained-looking Josie from the leading vehicle and run up the steps of Lord Belmont’s establishment to ring the bell.

  Guy Sanguinet’s pleasant face appeared at the window of the chaise, and he called to his friends as they dismounted, handing their reins to outriders.

  The porter having opened the door, Josie ran precipitately inside. Two men who had been sitting in the luxurious waiting room sprang up as she entered. The Reverend Mordecai Langridge watched sympathetically as she ran into Leith’s outstretched arms. “Oh, Tris,” she gulped, blinking away tears. “How is he? Have they—have they—”

  The tall Colonel bent to kiss her cheek. “They started to operate an hour ago, love.”

  Langridge, patting her shoulder kindly, added, “Lyon’s in there, child. Never look so fearful. Alain is in God’s hands.”

  Trembling uncontrollably, she sat beside Leith while the clergyman went to shake hands with his nephew.

  Tristam said, “You got here very fast, dear. Did you drive all night?”

  “Yes. I was able to sleep a little, but the servants were so good. Wolfe, and Hutchinson, and Mrs. Robinson are with us—they were all so grieved. And—and Cornish rode off ahead.”

  “I know. He found Langridge and me at Watier’s. We’ve sent word to the others.”

  She whispered, her lips so stiff she could hardly make them obey her, “Is it—his leg?”

  Leith squeezed her hand. “Yes. I’m afraid it is.”

  “Oh … God!” She closed her eyes and shrank against him, and he slipped his arm around her. “They—they’re never going to … oh, Tris! Lyon told us only a little while ago he had amputated a poor man’s leg—”

  “W-well, then, there you go,” said Lord Jeremy, hurrying into the room and taking off his hat as he dropped to one knee beside her. “Not a th-thing to fret about. Old D-Dev—game as they come.”

  She stretched forth her icy little hand, and he bowed his yellow head to kiss it. “But—the p-poor man—died,” she finished. “Lyon said—if it had been a little lower, there—there would have been more chance, but—”

  “Tush, Milady Elf,” put in Harry Redmond, coming in with Guy. He crossed to lean over Josie and plant a kiss on her ear. “Dev’s only three and thirty. Got a long way to go yet. He’ll likely be up and—and prancing around in no—” He broke off as a rear door opened, and Lyon Cahill, wearing a long white robe and looking unwontedly stern, started into the room, only to check, aghast, as he saw Josie surrounded by the staunch group.

  Clinging to Leith, she stood, her eyes enormous in her pale face. “Is it over?” she whispered.

  He nodded and came forward to take the hand she held out.

  She gulped. “He is—not…”

  “No, no. He came through it very well and without a whimper.”

  She collapsed against him, and he held her close.

  “’Course not,” said Sir Harry, indignant. “Old Dev’s not—” He met Lyon’s eyes over Josie’s shoulder, and blanched and was still.

  Dashing away tears with an impatient hand, she said, “I want to see him, Lyon.”

  “He’s unconscious, dear,” he said kindly. “Just at the end, he drifted off. We don’t mean to do anything to bring him round, but you can—”

  Again, the outer door was flung open. With a swirl of ermine, a breath of perfume, and a cry of agitation, Lady Isabella swept into the rapidly filling room. “Is it truth?” she demanded shrilly, gazing wide-eyed at these men who shared a comradeship that was already a legend in this old city of legends. “I could not credit it, when my maid had it from the greengrocer’s boy! Good God! What happened? Did that silly cold turn into…” She paused, noting their solemn faces, and because she loved Devenish, insofar as she was capable of loving any man, she whitened. “He’s not … dead?”

  Taking pity on her, Josie went to hold her hand. “No, dear ma’am. And it is so fortunate you are come.” She managed to smile, though tears were blinding her. “I wish I did not have to break it to you, but—but they have had to—to take poor Dev’s leg off.”

  Isabella’s lower jaw dropped and her glorious eyes fairly goggled with shock.

  Josie went on gently, “He will want to see you. Why do you not go in.”

  Mitchell Redmond exchanged a sardonic glance with his brother.

  Isabella, paler than ever, sat down suddenly. “The … shock…” she muttered.

  Misunderstanding, Lyon said, “Yes, that’s our greatest threat, but I must tell you—”

  “If—I could have a … glass of water,” whispered Isabella.

  “At once.” Lyon turned to the inner door, but glanced back. “It will be quite all right for you to come now, ma’am. Under the circumstances. In fact, it might give Devenish an incentive to—”

  Isabella swayed, and her eyes closed. Leith leapt to support her.

  “I’ll come,” said Josie, and followed Lyon.

  He led her along an immaculate hall that smelled of soap and medicines and tar. She could hear the murmur of voices from two rooms as they passed, and then Lyon opened the door to a large, darkened room, where a tall man stood at the foot of a narrow bed. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the dim light, Josie saw first that the bedclothes were fashioned into a sort of tent, extending from about hip level to the end of the bed. Then her eyes found Devenish and everything else faded. She did not hear the great surgeon speak, nor Lyon’s quiet response. She was beside the bed, bending over the still figure, the sight of the worn, ashen-pale face and darkly hollowed eyes wringing her heart. Dimly, she saw a vase on a small table beside the bed, and the handful of wilted flowers it held so wrought on her that her vision blurred and a muffled sob escaped her. With a hand that shook, she touched
the short damp hair, and tears splashed onto the small curls that had plastered themselves across his brow.

  The cold feel of those tears troubled Devenish, and drew him back from the void where he had escaped pain at last. He thought for a minute that he was still alive, but then he saw the adored face bending above him. He smiled, but registered a faint complaint. “Didn’t think it would … hurt so much, after I was dead.”

  Josie threw a hand to her mouth and battled for self-control.

  Lord Belmont paced forward. “I’m afraid you will be rather uncomfortable for a little while, my dear fellow,” he said softly, “but—”

  “Eh?” Devenish’s eyelids, which had started to drift down again, jerked open. “The devil!” he gasped. “I am still alive!”

  Josie sat on the bedside chair, took up his limp hand, and kissed it repeatedly. “If you had—died,” she gulped. “I’d never—never have forgiven you, Dev.”

  He smiled, and his hand turned to caress her cheek. “My little … Elf. You should not be here, but—I’m deuced glad you—” He coughed, and turned his head away, his lips gripping together.

  To see him so weakened and in such pain was tearing her to shreds, but she fought for calm and, stroking his hair, said with loving reproach, “Dev, my darling Dev, how could you? How could you shut me out? Don’t you know how—how I worship you?” He turned a blurred gaze back to her and she added, “Admit, wretched, wretched creature, that you do know it. And—and that you love me, too.”

  He was exhausted and pain-racked, and convinced there was very little time, his defences crumbled at last. A look of such tender adoration lit his ravaged face that Lyon, seeing it, held his breath, and Belmont frowned and stepped back to allow them this moment together.

  His voice barely audible, Devenish murmured, “I have loved you for … so long, my little one. So very long. But—it was quite useless. No hope. On top of—everything else, there was this … stupid leg. I knew if I told you, and if I lived, you’d … devote your lovely life to a—sick half man, rather than following … your own heart.”