Could she say anything to Lyndon? Amanda hesitated to do anything that might come between them. Nevertheless, how could she turn a blind eye? What could she do?
From time to time there was an exception to her notice of what was said.
"Shot at!" one man shouted as Amanda came into the front hall upon leaving the kitchen. "Lyndon, you never!"
"Who'd want to shoot you? What have you been about?" another rallied Lyndon. "Not letting country life get dull, have you, you dog? What, some husband?"
"Nobody shot at you!" a third scoffed. "What did you do, fire your own gun to deflect any suspicion from you in the death of that cousin of yours?"
Amanda's eyes flew to Lyndon, but met Gerald's, instead. He averted his. Did he think that? Could he fear Lyndon was behind Humphrey's death, the trip-wire which had brought down Sir Henry's horse?
Lyndon had joked about that, at least, that if Eliza succeeded in wedding Gerald, they would blame Lyndon to disinherit him. But, oh, no. Impossible.
Lyndon would never do such things. Not even shoot to make pretense at being a target. But would he? If he felt sufficiently threatened?
On this day, Amanda felt she hardly knew her husband. All instincts were to love and trust him, and yet logic stated something entirely different.
Dinner was early, country-style, not fashionably late, as in London and many great houses. By its end, enough spirits had been imbibed that behavior was still more rowdy, laughter more shrill and raucous. Games began, games which involved considerable running and jostling and squealing from the feminine members of the company.
With a despairing glance about, Amanda approached Lyndon at her first chance. "Sir, I fear I have the headache and must retire. You will excuse me, I hope."
His eyes were concerned. "To be sure. It is a pity, but this is not the sort of frivolity you could ever enjoy, I fear." He turned his head, in response to a call for him. "Yes, coming. Good night, then, love." Lyndon was off, springing up the staircase two at a time.
Amanda spoke a few words to Price, and then she climbed those stairs, but more sedately. In only a moment she would reach the top, reach the sanctuary of her room-
But, at the head of the stairs, as she turned toward her door, here came a shrieking knot of people from behind her, surrounding her, jostling as they passed, some drunkenly colliding with her.
Stunned, Amanda staggered and flailed for balance.
Nothing was beneath her feet.
Helplessly, screaming in terror, she began to tumble down the long staircase.
And then a man leaped up the steps and strong hands caught her before her body struck the treads or the floor, swinging her around. He couldn't stop her from falling, but he did ease her on down.
Gratefully, she looked into his face.
He wasn't Lyndon.
Wickes. The man whom she had so heartily detested all day.
But where was Lyndon?
Here he came, bounding down the stairs, concerned, Isabella and several of the others in his wake. Others clustered, inclined to make light of the incident, with jokes about drinking and unsteady feet.
The scene wavered, distorting and dimming.
Amanda lost consciousness.
* * *
The sharp fumes of smelling salts brought her round, and Amanda opened her eyes and found Pym kneeling at her side, face screwed up in worry.
Amazingly, humble elderly Mrs. Price was in full cry, outspokenly furious. "Fine goings-on in a gentleman's house! What if our lady loses this baby she's carrying, tell me that! When Lord Devonridge hears of this, I wouldn't be in your place, Mr. Lyndon, sir! Mayhap it will cost me my position, but I'll still say so. I'm not the one who will pay most for this day." Her flashing eyes transfixed Lyndon. "Even without this fall, the poor lamb has been troubled enough all day, and in her condition, that's the last thing she needs."
Lyndon stood looking helpless, a mere boy, not his usual sophisticated gentleman self.
His mouth opened and shut several times, and then he said quite meekly, and yet gaining in authority, "You're quite right, Mrs. Price, and it won't cost you. Your loyalty to your mistress is quite commendable. I-I should have realized. I did realize, but...I should have put a stop to it." He looked around at the rest. "It is time to end the frivolity and the day. I would not be thought inhospitable, but I am sure that tomorrow you will all wish to return to Town or Brighton, where there are more entertainments, and less cramped accommodations than our small home can afford."
Amanda was tenderly helped up the stairs, protesting she was unharmed and could walk unaided. In her bedchamber, Pym assisted her to undress, and tucked her in bed. Mrs. Price bustled in with spiced hot milk laced with brandy, clucking over her like a plump little mother hen.
"Mrs. Price, I do appreciate..." Amanda said hesitantly. "I shall never forget...I have felt so alone...so helpless..."
"Now, Mrs. Lyndon, lamb, don't think that way. Here, you have a good sleep, and in the morning you'll feel ever so much better. Especially once you wave good-bye to that lot, and if you prefer to stay up here and let Mr. Lyndon do the honors, I'm sure that is quite unexceptional."
Amanda smiled faintly, obediently sipped the last of the milk, and with a grateful smile, she returned the glass to Mrs. Price.
The candles were snuffed out, and Amanda curled on her side, huddled in terror.
What if this day, culminating in the shock of falling, caused her to miscarry?
And, of equal horror, too distinctly, she remembered.
The fall had been no accident.
She still felt the hand splayed on her back-forcefully shoving her down the stairs.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
"An eightieth birthday is, indeed, an occasion for all his family and acquaintance to celebrate." Amanda smiled over the invitation from Devonridge, then glanced up to Lyndon. "Particularly when we owe so much to your grandpapa."
"We have another occasion to celebrate," Lyndon said soberly, and then at her inquiring glance, "I give thanks that Wickes broke your fall, and that you were not injured, nor was our babe."
"Yes. Yes, indeed." Amanda thanked God almost constantly for that-but almost as constantly, she remembered that forceful hand shoving her down the stairs.
No one would do such a thing, surely. What reason would any of those people have had? They had never met her before that day, and they had no reason to dislike her. Not to that extent. She had greater reason to resent them, yet she would never have done such a thing.
But then, she was very different from any of them. And most assuredly, someone had done it. Amanda knew she was not mistaken. That hadn't been a shoulder, or elbow, accidentally striking her while the knot of people jostled together around her.
That had been a hand, spread between her shoulder blades, pushing with full strength.
Lyndon and Isabella were the only ones she had met previously. They might have been amid the cluster of persons at the head of the stairs; Amanda remembered seeing Isabella there. Lyndon had come running down the stairs after she fell-but what reason would either of them have?
Isabella might not care for her, any more than she cared for Isabella. Isabella had imbibed considerable wine, but to push her? Unless, as a spiteful impulse, to get her out of the way, not realizing the stairs were so near?
As for Lyndon, his concern was all Amanda could wish, reassuring and comforting her, promising there would be no reoccurrence of that visit, and he was so pleased by impending fatherhood and the further boost which that would give his prestige within the family.
Lord Devonridge's birthday celebration would provide a most welcome distraction. At least, so it should.
The letters brought by each day's post were a diversion, and Amanda was grateful for them. Not those from Eliza and Harriet, no. However, Sally dashed off a note almost daily, with gossip phrased far more agreeably then Eliza's, and full of plans for the birthday gathering.
The entire
family was to assemble, staying at Devonridge Court, even those such as Gerald, and Amanda and Lyndon, who lived nearby. There would be dinners, and a ball. Beyond that, Sally was eager to see Amanda's home, which she only dimly recalled from her childhood, when her mama had taken her along to call upon Cousin Louisa; her memories, expectably, had been of shabbiness and cats and kittens everywhere. In the latter respect, Sally would find Highbriars quite unchanged.
* * *
A commemoration such as this most assuredly dictated a visit to Madame Jolie to confer regarding new gowns suitable for the planned events, all the more so as Amanda's figure was changing.
"We leave the final fittings until the day before you go, n'est-ce pas? If you prefer, Josette and I, we come to you. Now, as to the colors-ah, being a house of mourning makes this très difficile." Her glance at Amanda was sympathetic. "All such grays and blacks!"
Amanda considered. "There has been mention of setting aside full mourning at Devonridge during these days of celebrating his lordship's birthday. What may we contrive, do you suppose?"
By the time Amanda and Lyndon set out to drive to Devonridge, his man and Pym following in the gig with their baggage, she had managed to relegate the incident to the back of her mind.
Still, she couldn't forget it entirely. That had been a hand pushing her, but surely by accident, not intention. Someone had stumbled, perhaps, and flung out a hand, which just happened to strike her.
She had not mentioned that to Lyndon. Should she? Perhaps he had even seen who it had been, and could reassure her that it was, indeed, an accident. But how to bring it up?
In any event, now they were going to an enjoyable family gathering, a celebration. All would be most pleasurable. This was no time to broach such a subject.
"I daresay they'll rake me over the coals for our uninvited guests." Lyndon's apprehensive words showed that his mind was on that. Then he smiled at her, shrugging it off. "Nothing new. I shouldn't know how to go on, if not. At least this time I'll know how they heard of it. Most times, in the past, it's been a mystery. I mean to say, things that happened at small private gatherings should have remained private, but somehow the tales reached Grandpapa and Uncle Henry. Exaggerated versions, I promise you. Quite luridly so"
Amanda smiled back. "Never fear. I can assure them you were not responsible for our guests, and, in fact, that you sent them to the right-about as soon as hospitality allowed." She considered. "Perhaps I can even broach the subject before anyone else can." That subject. Not the one which preyed most fearfully on her mind.
"Can you?" He drove in silence for a few moments, musing. "They seemed the best of good fellows in London. Even Brighton. And yet here, in the country-"
She nodded. "There are town friends, are there not, and country friends. Perhaps it is best to enjoy each in their own milieu." That was the best she could find to say of any of them.
They reached Devonridge to find the Warrenby party also arriving. Amanda had never been more delighted to see Sally, and they exchanged hugs, in a babble of exclamations and questions, before they were borne on into the mansion, to find Lady Mathilda and Eulalia entering the hall to welcome them.
They were far from the first of the family to get there. Another aunt and her family had arrived, as had the duke's younger brother, sister, and some of their children and even grandchildren. Some friends had, as well.
Amanda was an object of interest to all, as the newest addition to the family, plus being the wife of the next heir to the title. She surmised word had already spread among them that she not only was a good influence upon the black sheep of the family, but that she was in the family way.
They were a friendly group, welcoming her. Not only were they celebrating Lord Devonridge's birthday, they were pleased to be together, seeing one another once more, exclaiming at how the youngest members had grown, joking and teasing. They were all that a family should be, Amanda thought, warmed. How very different this was from the Drumm family.
Most members of the family were either much older or much younger than Sally and Amanda, so the two of them retired to the bedchamber of first one, and then the other, in the afternoon to examine one another's newest clothing, to rest, and to enjoy a long gossip.
Dinner this evening would not approach the magnificence of the actual birthday banquet and ball, but even so, Amanda was impressed by the grandeur, and the profusion of dishes served, and the lavishness of their sauces and decorations. She could partake of only the veriest nibble of each, although the excellence of the chef made her want far more of them.
Amanda wished that she had writing materials to jot down a list of her favorites. Lacking that, possibly she could remember them well enough to do so later, in order to discuss them with the chef at some later date. During the next few days, the chef would be far too busy for her to take more than a moment of his time to express her compliments upon his genius. He was in his element, true, with so many illustrious guests to enjoy and admire his creations.
While Amanda very properly conversed with only the person at each side of her, she glanced about at the table, and the relations and guests. All seemed to be finding pleasure in the company and the food.
Sir Henry, perhaps, enjoyed it rather overmuch. Could these rich sauces and spices be good for a gentleman known to suffer from dyspepsia? Especially when partaken in such greedy quantities. Amanda noticed Lady Mathilda look along the table at him, concern and irritation blended in her expression. Yes, he knew better than to overindulge in this manner, and his wife would suffer along with him if dyspepsia attacked in the night.
Or would she? Amanda was well aware, from her nights under this roof, that the older couple no longer shared a bedchamber; indeed, their rooms were not even particularly close together. Perhaps Lady Mathilda would leave it to Sir Henry's man to tend him during the night.
By the end of the dinner, Amanda thought Sir Henry looked somewhat queasy, definitely uneasy, and he merely pushed about on his plate the food remaining there. Or perhaps her own knowledge of his digestive problems caused her to think so. Her own appetite was certainly a thing of the past; she felt over-full, and her clothing too tight.
Upon Lady Mathilda's signal, the ladies correctly withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to enjoy brandy and cigars and talk of sport and politics. Most likely they also recounted racy anecdotes, judging from the laughter that sometimes bellowed from the dining room. The feminine members of the party found more pleasure in their own gossip, and the discussion of their children, preparations for a daughter's wedding, the new house one family was building, the trip that another family had taken, and plans to travel which yet another was debating.
The raised voices from the dining room were surely more than mere debate and jollity. That crash sounded like-broken china? An overturned chair?
Amanda's eyes flew to meet Sally's, in silent question.
Not Lyndon. Surely not Lyndon, in some new scandalous exploit. Not when all had been going so very well. No. Here was the butler, slipping into the drawing room as inconspicuously as was possible, to say a few quiet words to Lady Mathilda. She rose hastily, to follow him out, frowning in concern.
In their wake, glances were exchanged, and half-questions.
"What-?"
"Who-?"
Lady Mathilda's sister, who had been seated beside her, could answer them.
"Dear Henry has been stricken. His heart, they fear. The doctor has been summoned." She clucked a little. "He does know better than to eat and drink so much, but there. How very like a man. I hope this is not the finish of him."
Indeed, Amanda did, too.
However, if it was, no one could wonder at the cause.
Unlike Humphrey's death.
* * *
The doctor did, indeed, diagnose another heart attack, and prescribed bed rest and no excitement of any sort.
That created a dilemma, for the first impulse of Lord Devonridge and Lady Mathilda, of all caring persons, wa
s to cancel the scheduled banquet and ball. How awkward that would be to contrive so soon beforehand. Many guests would already be on their way from their homes and London or seaside resorts. However, when Sir Henry got wind of that intention, he protested so vigorously that they became alarmed by his agitation.
"Indeed, I think proceeding with our original arrangements will be best," Lady Mathilda decided after lengthy consideration and discussion with the doctor and Lord Devonridge. "Most assuredly, hearing guests arrive, only to be turned away, would distress him quite dreadfully. And, indeed, how could we turn them away, without offering any hospitality?" "Mama, I will gladly bear him company," Eulalia volunteered. "I do not really care to engage in festivities." A little gesture indicated her black gown. Although the family as a whole had laid off mourning for the occasion, Humphrey's mother and widow were still in blacks except for the evening of the banquet and ball. "A simple tray meal with Papa in his room will be far more preferable to me, I promise you."
"Well." Lady Mathilda gave thought to that notion, while the various other ladies present smiled and nodded, approving Eulalia's forbearance and dedication to Humphrey's memory. "But you must come mingle with our guests, perhaps before dinner, and at the ball. I shall replace you at Henry's beside while you do. You are a good daughter, indeed."
Amanda, watching and listening, wondered whether Eulalia was motivated entirely by self- sacrifice. Possibly knowledge that Humphrey's death was still fuel for gossip, and that she herself was no longer a creature of any importance in the family played a part in her readiness not to attend. Not a future duchess, not even mother of a young future duke. As for Lady Mathilda, was her gracious acceptance due in part to a willingness to ease Eulalia out of the family circle? Amanda was aware that they were anything but fond of one another, and now Eulalia meant to leave Devonridge. The proprieties would be observed, but now Amanda had replaced Eulalia in precedence, as mother of the next heir.
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