by Lisa E. Pugh
With a sympathetic glance at his employer, Brenlaw knelt across from him and felt Margaret’s wrist for a pulse. There was nothing definite.
“She’s so cold.” Christopher rubbed her hand obsessively, trying to warm it.
“It’s late and too cold out here to be dressed as she is,” Brenlaw commented, feeling for the artery in Margaret’s neck. “Or I should say undressed as she is. If she hasn’t succumbed to hypothermia, it'll be a miracle.”
Closing his wet eyes, Lord Yawron kissed her fingers and murmured over and over, “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead. Oh please God, Maggie, don’t be dead.”
Brenlaw sighed and closed his eyes. “There’s a pulse, very weak, but it’s there. We’d better bind her wounds quickly, wrap her up, and get her inside.” The butler used the remains of her dress to staunch the bleeding. Then he took off his riding coat and, lifting her gently, placed it carefully around her shoulders.
His lordship gazed about the open field. “There’s no telling how long she’s been out here.”
“It wasn’t very long. Her hands aren’t frozen and the blood dripping from her face is still warm.”
The earl jumped to his feet. “Brenlaw, help me get her on my horse. We’ll go gently, but as fast as we can.”
“At once, my lord.”
“I’m cursed, Brenlaw,” Lord Yawron remarked, swirling the scotch in his glass. He sat in his armchair, holding up his tumbler to stare at the fire through the liquor. His cowl was down. His eyes were sunken, his face drawn.
“I hardly think so, my lord,” Brenlaw replied in a neutral tone that reflected a politeness which could never imply any rebuke.
The butler had been given permission to sit across from his master. The manservant had eagerly accepted, knowing his young lord needed him to listen with a friend's ear. As they talked, the old man regarded the earl with carefully veiled compassion.
After weeks of joy and blissful contentment, his lordship’s grief and despair were heartrending to witness. His skin was pale, almost bone-white, and his face was haggard. The hand around his glass shook.
The young man's expression was as haunted as any ghost-plagued hero of a horror story. To one who had rejoiced in the earl's good fortune, the sudden reversal hit with the force of an uppercut to the jaw. Yet, his lordship deserved his dignity, so Brenlaw would keep the bulk of his concern to himself. Instead, he thought back to the events that followed the horrible discovery in the wheat field.
The steady ride back to the manor had not done the earl’s nerves any good. His need to get her to safety warred with his fear that too much jostling would kill her. He was agitated, even distraught, by the time they arrived at the house.
Miss Taylor was taken to his mother's room as swiftly as possible. Brenlaw went ahead to open the doors. Though there were many offers, Lord Yawron would not let anyone else carry her. He held her close and hurried up the stairs.
As the servants cleaned and tended Miss Taylor’s wounds, his lordship fetched whatever was needed and helped in any way he could. He moved with efficiency and purpose, relieved to have something positive to do. Then he flitted and fretted until finally Mrs. Niles told him to sit down for her own sanity’s sake.
When the doctor arrived, the butler showed him to the patient immediately. Doctor Peter Rowan, a balding older man with wisps of gray-blond hair, began examining her injuries immediately. He was well respected in the village, possessed some surgical skill, and had tended the Tobias family for years. He was also perfectly discreet.
His lordship muttered and fidgeted restively, putting unconscious pressure on the physician to work faster. Doctor Rowan, finding Lord Yawron's presence a terrible distraction, finally ordered him out of the room. Effectively banished from his friend’s side, the earl stalked into the drawing room, slammed the door, and began pacing.
Brenlaw made sure the doctor had everything he needed. He set two of the house's most capable servants to act as physician's assistants and instructed them to keep him informed. Then he went looking for his employer.
He found his lordship standing by the lighted fireplace, with one hand on the mantelpiece and a full scotch glass in the other. The young man stared into the flames. A decanter sat nearby. It was significantly lower than it had been that afternoon.
Shuddering, Lord Yawron swallowed the drink in one gulp, stepped away, and, spinning around with a curse, hurled the glass into the fire in frustration.
The glass shattered loudly. A fireball flared from the mouth of the fireplace. He jumped. The blast shocked him back into some semblance of composure. Yet when he looked at his manservant, his expression was tormented.
Now, Brenlaw was worried. His master had not described himself as cursed in years. It had been much longer since he mentioned the reason for his troubles. The servant knew that, too, was about to change.
“It's true,” the earl sighed miserably. “Completely and utterly damned.”
“Surely not, my lord.”
“I am. Even after fifteen years, that woman’s hatred follows me like a bloody hound of Hell.” With a bitter laugh, he shook his head. “ ‘The just judgment of God,’ she’d call it. That’s how she described it all those years ago. Maybe she’s right this once. Maybe I deserve this.”
His lordship downed the amber liquid from the new glass in one swallow. With a sigh he refilled his drink. The decanter was almost empty now.
“But Miss Taylor does not deserve this,” Brenlaw pointed out gently.
“No, she doesn’t. God!” Wincing, the earl threw his head back and swore. “Damn it! Why didn’t the bitch come after me? It’s me she hates. Why does Maggie have to suffer for my past?”
Changing tack, the butler remarked, “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but this doesn’t seem the work of a woman. This attack might have another motive.”
The earl froze. What little color the liquor had returned to his face drained instantly. “No! It can’t be that, surely.”
“It’s possible—some rogue sensing an opportunity in a woman walking alone, perhaps. Given the sheer savagery, it’s a miracle she still lives.”
Just then, the doctor entered. Summoned as soon as the riders had reached the house, he drove to the manor as fast as any ambulance. What seemed like an age ago, he forced his lordship out of the sick room. Now he came in, grim-faced and tired.
Completely forgetting his hood, the earl leaned forward intently. “How is she, Doctor Rowan?”
“She’s resting. I saw fit to keep her in Her Ladyship’s old room. The less we move her the better, I think. She’s being watched by young Louise Kaithland and Mrs. Niles.”
Brenlaw asked the question his master could not. “Will she survive?”
“I don’t know.” The physician ran his hand through his thinning hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “I tended her wounds as best I could. The blood loss was serious. I am only a country doctor, and I don’t have the instruments to safely replace it. We can only hope all our efforts stopped the hemorrhaging in time.”
Lord Yawron cursed under his breath. The surgeon nodded. “Indeed. It’s the head injury I’m most concerned about, however. All the other cuts, though savage, can be treated. Even the slashes on the abdomen and chest should heal in time. Infection is always an issue, of course, but I think we have that risk under control. If she has any damage to her skull or brain, however, it can’t be attended to in the normal way.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Unfortunately, my lord, no there isn’t, short of praying,” the doctor sighed wearily. “Does she have family?”
“Her mother lives in London. Mrs. Niles checked the purse we found in her car. It contained an address book.” Christopher ran a hand through his hair. “Brenlaw called her mother’s home. The lady’s maid informed us that her mistress is away and won’t be back for a week. What’s more, she’s staying at a location with no telephone service. We left our number and asked her to call us i
mmediately upon her return.”
“That will have to do, I suppose. Now, I must get back home. The Markum boy is still missing, and the police want me to stay on-call. Keep me informed of anything that may occur during the night. If she takes a serious and sustained turn for the worse, we’ll have to call for an ambulance to take her to the hospital in Oxford. She'd be there now if I didn't think the trip might make things far worse. Tomorrow, I'll send a nurse to check in and readminister the sedatives.”
Brenlaw retrieved the doctor’s hat and coat and helped him shrug on his Mackintosh. Rising, Lord Yawron nodded. “Thank you, doctor. I appreciate you coming.”
“It's my job.” The doctor shook the earl’s hand and looked around. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. Not since your father died. The place hasn’t changed. Glad to see some things don’t in this crazy world. Anyway, I’ll wish you good night.”
“Good night, doctor, and thank you.”
Brenlaw saw the doctor to his car. Then he returned to his master’s side. The man was filling his glass again.
“What caused her to come here, do you think?” the earl asked, regaining his chair. The doctor's interruption had helped the earl regain a touch of his sangfroid, even though it was only skin-deep. His hands still trembled.
“Maybe she wished to talk to you,” Brenlaw suggested, taking his place again.
“You saw the skid marks. She drove here with her foot to the floor, only stopping when the road did. Our argument wouldn't have brought about that reaction. If anything, she would have approached carefully, unsure of her welcome.”
“Are you suggesting someone chased her here?”
“Or someone frightened her, and she drove here, believing no one would dare follow her—thinking we could protect her.” He bit his lip and turned away.
Brenlaw considered the idea. “But she couldn’t find us at home and began crossing through the grounds?”
“Yet someone did come here. And whoever he or she was attacked Maggie.”
“But, what if I’m right? If it was…”
“Think of the brutality. If it was as you suggested, why leave her alive at all? Why not slit her throat? Or gut her and be done with it? None of the wounds were deep enough to be quickly fatal. What assailant would leave a victim so? Who would risk the chance, slim though it may be, of rescue and survival? Those injuries show ferocity and anger, but it was a cold rage. It was almost as if the damage was deliberately made to look like a violent assault.”
Brenlaw narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that she wanted it to appear to be the worst kind of violation.”
“That would be pretty cold-blooded, even for her.”
“But think about it, Brenlaw, who would be the natural suspect? I would. The field is my property. I've been known to keep company with Margaret. The rumormongers already have us doing God-only-knows-what. Someone's bound to know she was at my house this morning.”
“True, but…”
“And of course, half the village thinks I’m cracked in the head,” he sneered.
Brenlaw said nothing to that. His master had a point. The tales spun about their relationship were obscene. The rumors of his mental instability had been consistently, if quietly, passed along until some people took such an illness for granted. The two opinions made a dangerous brew.
A moment later, the earl continued more pensively, “Time can do strange things to hatred; it can diminish or increase it. Fifteen years of nursing a grudge can poison a mind.”
“Wasn’t your…”
“No, it wasn’t enough. You remember what she said?”
“I remember what you told me. You said she whispered to you in hospital, among other things, that: ‘This is the just judgment of God, Christopher. No woman will love you after me. Tragedy and misfortune will follow you everywhere. And I’ll watch you for years to come, enjoying your torment until I can dance on your grave.’ ”
“That’s correct. I'd ruined her family's hopes of social advancement and destroyed her mother's carefully laid plans. After the lady in question had lorded her upcoming position over everyone in the village, I humiliated both women when I reneged at the last moment. Never mind that her high-handed actions had prompted me to break off the engagement in the first place. I had denied her the longed-for manor and title. I had to be punished. She was going to enjoy my humiliation until the day I died and she ‘danced on my grave.’ ”
“She almost got that last wish before she wanted it.”
“Oh, no. If she'd wanted to kill me, she could have sabotaged my car’s brakes. You remember how fond she was of working on automobiles. It used to vex her mother no end that her daughter had become ‘an expert in a tradesman's field.’ ” He scowled. “No, she might have caused my accident, but she did her best to make certain it wasn’t fatal.”
“And now, fifteen years later, why show her true nature now?” A second later, Brenlaw swore at his own naïveté. The answer was plain as a pikestaff.
His master answered him anyway. “For years, she was quite content with things as they were. As long as I was alone and miserable, brooding—so she thought—on the accident and her revenge, she could live a happy carefree existence.”
“Then Miss Taylor came into the picture.”
“Yes. Within weeks of her arrival, she had the temerity to accept my invitation to dinner. Then she showed the added gall of continuing to visit me in spite of the gossip and ostracism. That she-devil found herself with a rival for my attention.”
“And we’ve seen in the past what she does to those who threaten her plans.”
“Precisely, Brenlaw. She eliminates them.” He shuddered and pressed a shaking hand to his brow. “And I let Maggie walk into danger unawares.”
“You didn't know the witch would move against her.”
“But I should have, Brenlaw, I should have. I ought to have at least thought of the possibility.” He stared at his servant with a tragic look and muttered, “This is all my fault.”
A timid knock at the door drew their attention. A young maid looked inside the room. “Excuse me, my lord, but I thought you should know the young miss is sleeping much easier now.”
“Thank you, Louise. How are both of you holding up?”
“Oh, I’m fine, my lord, could go on for hours. Only, I'm worried about Mrs. Niles. She’s likely to wear herself out with all the fussing she’s doing.”
“I’d better relieve her,” Brenlaw said, rising.
“No.” His lordship forestalled him with a raised hand. “You have your own duties. Stay down here and see to the running of the house. I’ll go.”
The servant would have objected, but his master gave him a telling look. The young man needed this, needed to be at his friend's side. He would go mad if left by himself without an occupation of some sort, even if it were just holding vigil.
With an understanding sigh, the old man nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Chapter 20
“Evening, Nanna,” the earl said as he entered his mother’s room.
“Evening, Christopher.”
“How is she?”
“Sleeping like a baby, the poor lamb. I’ve tried to make her as comfortable as possible.”
“I know you have, Nanna, and I am very grateful. Now, however, I would like you to leave her to Louise and myself.”
“My lord?”
“She'll be perfectly fine with us, and you look about ready to collapse.”
“I will admit to a little fatigue, my lord, but…”
“ ‘But’ me no ‘buts,’ Nanna. You’re run off your feet, and there is the rest of the house to look after. The best you can do at the moment is to go down and tell Mrs. Hinten that we want strong coffee sent up immediately. After that, I insist you get on with your other duties.”
“Christopher, I don’t think…”
His Nanna was too compassionate by half. He was obviously going to have to f
orce the issue. With a hard look, he instructed, “Mrs Niles, you will return to your normal duties. That is an order.”
“Yes, my lord.” The old lady flinched, bowed and shuffled out.
Louise smiled at him. “I’m glad for that. I thought she was going to fret herself to death.”
“Worse than I was?” he asked lightly with a raised eyebrow. She just blushed and dropped her head. He smiled gently. “Very likely, you're right. She has a tremendous heart and a caring nature like few I've ever met.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
Rubbing his hands together, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“It’s now just a case of watching her and making sure she doesn’t become any worse. The doctor gave me advice on what to do if her breathing stops and things like that. Right now, I need to get some fresh water to bathe her head. I’ll be back soon.”
As the young maid left the room, he muttered sardonically, “I’ll be here.”
Christopher gazed around his mother’s room, a chamber that, until this crisis, he had not seen in over ten years. He walked up to the dressing table and examined the photographs. Looking up, he stared at the portrait over her bureau.
These were the images from which Maggie tried to picture him. In her mind’s eye, she would see him as powerful, handsome, and young. Nothing like he was now. Nothing like he looked for fifteen years.
Instinctively replacing his cowl, Christopher approached the four-poster bed. For one moment, he was twenty-four again and, instead of a friend’s sickbed, he was walking toward his mother’s deathbed.
After the initial shock and horror subsided, his mother could look at his face without flinching. He had always admired how she could talk to him without her eyes darting away or drifting to his scars. However, he still kept his mangled physiognomy covered as a courtesy.
That last afternoon, she called him to her. She had been very ill for many months. The wretched tuberculosis had ravaged her lungs and sapped her strength beyond help.