by Ranae Rose
Elsie gripped the blankets in her lap automatically, a sudden flare of fear setting fire to her consciousness. A grim prognosis? This man, with his professional mannerisms and quiet demeanor, didn’t strike her as someone prone to melodramatics. Perhaps she was in a worse state than she’d realized. Now that the thought had taken root, each passing second seemed to deepen the possibility.
“I cannot identify your condition with absolute certainty,” he continued, “but I have endeavored to educate myself on every known malady, and I had a patient once whose symptoms mirrored yours.”
Had. Elsie gripped the blankets a little tighter, balling the sweat-dampened cloth in her fists.
“She was a woman, scarcely three-and-twenty when I was summoned to treat her. She had spells of fainting and weakness just like yours, and her episodes worsened until finally she was completely bedridden, and she died soon after.”
Elsie’s mouth went dry. How did one reply to such a blunt comparison? “Is there nothing that can be done to stop it?” What else was there to ask?
The doctor’s mouth thinned to a flat line, barely visible beneath his steel-grey mustache. “I cannot promise a cure. I am sure, though, that you must rest. Overexertion must be avoided.” He held her gaze. His grey eyes matched his hair perfectly. Funny that she should consider that particular detail to be of any interest when she’d just been more or less damned to a bed for the rest of her life. “Rest?” Why couldn’t he have prescribed exercise?
“Yes, rest.” He looked as if he intended to say more, but Mrs. Hughes interrupted.
Laying an authoritative hand on Elsie’s elbow, she spoke to the doctor. “Fear not. I shall see that she rests, as prescribed.” Her touch turned to a grip, just barely firm.
The physician actually looked relieved to hear it. A conscientious professional, even when his patient was a lowly housemaid. It was a pity he’d had to deliver such dour news. Elsie probably would have found herself rather fond of him under different circumstances.
“What of the country air?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “Her mistress thought it might do her some good. In fact, she’s only recently been delivered here from London for that purpose.”
The physician nodded. “I have no doubt her health will not suffer for it, and may even be improved.” He frowned in earnest now, and the lines on his face deepened, making him look an old grandfather. “The city air is foul, and a detriment to the health of all who breathe it.”
The remembered smells of London teased Elsie’s nostrils. The Remingtons’ city home was spacious, clean and situated comfortably far from the manufactories and poor districts. The air at the estate was as good as it got in the city. In her pre-Remington life, however… She vividly recalled the hot, musty atmosphere of the factory she’d toiled in. Even the stinking, refuse-ridden streets had seemed fresh compared to that hell. Still, her heart was pricked by a sudden bout of homesickness. It was much easier to endure poor air than the scorn of her fellow servants.
“Do you have any instructions for treatment, doctor?” Mrs. Hughes’ voice called Elsie back to her present, pleasantly-scented reality.
“A healthy diet is an absolute necessity. See that she eats – though she will be resting, her body needs the nourishment. Besides that, I can only at present implore you to keep a close eye on her, and to keep a careful record of her symptoms and episodes. I will return in one week’s time to evaluate her health again. Until then…” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out two very familiar instruments. “I will of course bleed her before I leave.”
Elsie focused on one of the high windows, not looking at her arm as the physician cut into the crook of her elbow, where her tender skin was covered in a cross-hatched pattern of white and pink scars. She hardly felt the pain, or the warm streams of blood that trickled into the cup Mrs. Hughes held beneath her elbow. The doctor’s revelation seemed to have numbed her. Was she really going to die of this perplexing illness? She waited for panic to assault her, but it didn’t. It just didn’t seem quite…real. Not yet.
****
It had to be midnight, at least. The other maids were asleep – their snores and the distinct absence of their gossiping voices told Elsie that. Finally. Her bones ached with melancholy, and restlessness burned in her veins. Her stomach was a ball of knots. She’d been lying in bed all day, trying to come to terms with the physician’s words, and she’d had more than enough of it. She was going out.
Pushing aside her blankets and slipping out of bed, she moved as carefully and quietly as she dared. Still, she paused to stuff her pillow beneath the bedclothes. If any of the other maids awoke and happened to glance at her bed, they’d think it occupied. If they didn’t look too closely, anyway.
Elsie’s heart slowed a little after she closed the door behind herself, escaping successfully into the abandoned hallway. She’d never taken off the clothing she’d donned earlier that day, and was still fully dressed. The August night would be warm enough that she wouldn’t want for a shawl or any other extra garment. A small mercy, for she didn’t dare reenter the maids’ chambers to retrieve one.
She encountered no one as she slunk quietly through the house and exited through a door in the kitchen. Outside, the night air was just cool enough and the sky was brilliant with a million diamond pinpricks. She took a deep breath and uncurled her hands from the fists she’d balled them into. It felt so good to be out of the house, breathing in the country air she’d heard so much about. There was a little moonlight, enough that she was able to keep from stumbling as she began a solitary walk through the back garden.
Darkness dulled the fiery reds and vivid pinks of the gorgeous blooms that dotted the rosebushes, but did nothing to suppress their sweet aroma. Leaning toward one perfectly trimmed bush, Elsie caressed one large blossom and smelled it delicately. A petal drifted down and landed on her toe. She retrieved it and stroked its cool, smooth surface with a thumb. After a day spent trapped in bed, every sensation was precious.
“No!” A voice drifted from beyond the flowering shrubbery, softened by distance but so vehement that Elsie heard it clearly anyway. She jumped, and her skirt tore as it caught on a rose thorn. Fortunately, whoever was speaking was surely too far away to have heard. Elsie carefully plucked the hem of her skirt from the bush and stood perfectly still, listening to the soft murmur of voices – yes, there were definitely two.
With a feeling that was half guilt and half secret delight, she realized that she recognized one of the voices. It was all soft velvet and quiet intensity. Who else spoke like that? No one she’d ever heard. Images of Damon flooded her mind as she relished the distant cadence of his speech, and a touch of corresponding heat crept into her cheeks. Who was he speaking to?
The other voice was undeniably feminine – pleasant in pitch and faintly musical. A little bit like Mrs. Remington’s. Surely it wasn’t hers, but might it be her daughter’s – Lucinda’s? The young woman did sound somewhat like her mother. Well, that was one mystery solved. But what were she and Damon arguing about?
She shoved the question from her mind. It was none of her business, after all.
Her resolve to turn a deaf ear to the conversation soon wavered. She should have left and gone back into the house. She knew that. But once again, she let her fascination with Damon lead her. The sound of his voice was so becoming that it left little room in her heart for guilt. She only wanted to have a look at him. That was all. Under Mrs. Hughes’ strict rule, who knew when she’d have a chance to see him again? It was lucky that she’d been able to slip outside tonight, and even more so that she’d happened upon Damon in the garden. Yes, she’d take a look – if what the physician said was true, it might be her last, or too close to it for comfort.
She wound her way around the rows of rose bushes, following the sound of Damon’s voice. At last, she saw him, standing at the edge of the garden, scarcely two feet of space between himself and a figure in a fine midnight-blue gown. Lucinda. She was every bit as beautiful as her mot
her, whose coppery hair color she’d inherited. As she spoke to her brother, her pretty face was distorted by frustration. She was his junior by two years, but she might as well have been his elder – the stern look she was giving him was one a woman might show her little brother. “Murder!” she hissed. “It is a serious charge, but money speaks, Damon. You must avoid this trial, for your own sake and the family’s.”
He shook his head, and his dark, glossy hair gleamed in the moonlight. “Indeed it does. But even a Remington is not above the law. I have been spared spending the days leading up to it in prison, but I must attend the trial.”
Lucinda compressed her mouth into a tight line. “And if, God forbid, you are convicted? What then? Can you imagine the scandal if they tried to hang you, or even to whip you? The whole country would know our secret, and it would be the end of us.”
He shook his head. “I will not be convicted. As you said only moments ago, money speaks. It has already kept me out of prison easily enough.” Some of the tension went out of his voice as he adopted a soothing tone. “It was easier than it should have been to secure my freedom with the magistrate. A few pounds and a promise not to leave my home until the trial was all it took, really.”
Lucinda dented her lower lip with a surprisingly sharp-looking tooth. “Would that I could be so sure.” She reached out and laid a hand on her brother’s arm, the air of attempted authority draining out of her voice. “I am worried, Damon. So worried. If there’s even the smallest chance that you could be found guilty…” She lowered her gaze as she chewed her lip.
A moment of silence stretched between them. After a little while, Lucinda looked up to meet Damon’s eyes again. “Are you, Damon? Guilty, that is?”
He snatched his arm away from her touch, as if she were on fire. His eyes flickered with indignation and something else – betrayal? “No! I’m not like…” His gaze darkened, and he seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. “How could you even consider the possibility, Lucinda?”
Though she seemed embarrassed, she didn’t lower her eyes. “You’re always having those strange midnight escapades. You were gone that night, weren’t you?”
His tone was flat. “I am gone every night.”
“I thought that perhaps…”
“I was not at the club when Lord Griffith was killed. Nowhere near it, in fact. Whatever happened to the man, I had nothing to do with it. I was already here, in my own bed, by the time he was discovered lying still warm in that alleyway at three in the morning. Would that I had someone to vouch for that fact, but…”
“But you rode alone, as always,” Lucinda said tersely, “and told no one where you were going. Yes, Damon, I know you pride yourself on being the consummate man of mystery.”
The set of his shoulders was rigid. “Have I any choice? No one in this family understands me. Not even you, Lucy.”
She sighed. “I am sorry. I should not have asked.”
He shook his head in dismissal. “Don’t be sorry. I’ve already forgotten that you did.” He let his shoulders drop just a little and chuckled wryly. “Would that Ares could talk… He’s the only one who could testify that I was nowhere near Green’s club.”
Lucinda gave a small snort. “If your horse could talk, I fear none of us would ever hear from you again.”
“Of course you would. Anyway, Lucy, you mustn’t fret over the trial. I’ll see that the necessary persons are well paid to deliver the only true verdict – innocence.” His tone was wry. “If I may take the liberty of calling any Remington ‘innocent’.”
Lucinda arched a brow. “You think too much, brother.”
“You already know what I would say if I had a will to disrupt the peace between us.”
She held his gaze in silence for several moments before replying. “Good night, Damon. If I were still a girl, I would pray that our money will be enough to silence the charge against you. As it is, I will have to settle for hoping.”
Lucinda glided past her brother, her skirts rustling faintly as she headed in the direction of the house. Left alone under the stars, Damon sighed.
Elsie sighed too. How terrible it must be for him – accused of murder. A thorn snagged her hand, the sudden sting as unexpected as the realization that sometime during her eavesdropping, she had come to believe that Damon was innocent. She studied the slumped set of his shoulders and the way he pushed his hands into his jacket as he tilted his head back and looked up at the stars. If he was reading something there, he didn’t like it. With a disgusted sigh, he turned abruptly on his heel and began taking long strides toward the rose bushes. Within moments, he’d come within a few scant yards of Elsie.
She pressed herself against the bushes, hardly daring to breathe as she ignored the sharp little pains of thorns piercing her clothing and digging into her skin.
Damon breezed past her, the heady aroma of rose blossoms drifting behind him as he brushed a bush, disturbing its foliage. Elsie was on the verge of sighing with relief when he stopped. Guilt crashed down on her as she stood frozen, and she experienced an eerie sense of being watched. That was impossible, of course – his back was to her. But as she waited breathlessly, he slowly turned and looked directly at her.
Chapter 4
Elsie didn’t say anything. How could she? This wasn’t as bad as if she’d been caught watching Damon in his bedroom, but it was a fairly close second. What would he think of her and her motives for eavesdropping? There was no way she could explain to him that she’d only wanted to have a look at him, to hear his voice, because she feared she’d die soon and knew she couldn’t possibly get enough of him before that day came.
Surprise flickered across his face, but he quickly tamed it. “You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” His voice wasn’t the velvet rage she’d expected. If anything, it was calmer than when he’d spoken with his sister.
“Yes.” Elsie answered, feeling as if someone else had spoken for her. Someone who wasn’t thanking God that it was too dark for Damon to see how red her face was.
He stood perfectly still, peering down at her with an unreadable expression.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“What are you doing out here?” he interrupted. “It’s past midnight. You should be in your bed.”
“With all due respect sir, I’ve had quite enough of my bed. That’s why I’m here.”
He strode forward, stepping into the shadow of the bush she was still pressed against. She forced herself to relax a little and breathed an automatic sigh of relief as the sting of the thorns ceased. The distance left between them now was polite, but it sent her heart racing nonetheless. She could smell the spicy, musky scent of his cologne. “Did it go poorly with the physician, then?”
He remembered? Elsie would have felt a spark of pleasure, had she not had to relay such grim news. For a moment, as she’d breathed his scent, even she had forgotten about the physician’s prognosis. “It did. I… He does not expect me to survive my illness.”
He might have frowned, but the shadow they stood in was too deep to tell for sure. “I am truly sorry to hear that.”
“You’re too kind, sir.” She was trembling now, though for once it wasn’t a symptom of her sickness. The full weight of the doctor’s news seemed to crash down on her at once, and it was staggering. Why, God, did she have to lose her calm now, while standing in Damon’s shadow? It was difficult enough for her to maintain her composure when near him under normal circumstances.
“Here.” Damon reached into his coat and pulled out something white.
Elsie took the kerchief, her hand trembling as her fingertips brushed his. Heat crept through her body, a slow burn to vie with the crushing regret that had descended upon her so suddenly. Nineteen years of life. First as an impoverished child-laborer, and then as a maid. Her steady working existence had been interrupted only twice, by brief sensual encounters that were no more than memories, and not even cherished ones. Was that really
all she’d ever taste of life? Nineteen years seemed like both a very short time and a very long time. She dabbed at her eyes, feeling Damon’s gaze on her as she wiped away the moisture.
“Have I frightened you,” Damon’s voice was as soft as the fine kerchief he’d handed to her, “or only saddened you by dredging up the afternoon’s events?”
A tremor wracked Elsie’s shoulders. She pressed the kerchief to her face, hiding it under the guise of catching her tears, and breathed in the scent that had been placed upon it. It was musky and spicy – Damon’s scent. The smell of it put enough fire in her blood to quell her nerves, at least a little. Emboldened by the cover of darkness and her seemingly uncrushable desire for him, she spoke the truth. “Both.” Still holding the kerchief to her face, she continued. Her lips brushed the soft material as she spoke, and her stomach fluttered. “I was so afraid you’d be angry if you discovered me. Are you?”
“No.”
A happiness that was perhaps absurd, given the situation, welled up in Elsie. Despite the day’s news and trials, it dawned on her that this moment was lovely in its own way. If Damon wasn’t angry with her, then she couldn’t bring herself to be sorry that she’d captured his attention, however it had happened.
“But no doubt you’re still frightened,” he said, his tone not quite resigned.
She lowered the kerchief and shook her head. “No. Not if you’re not angry with me for eavesdropping. I…” She hesitated for a moment, then hurried to continue before she could worry too much over whether she was being too bold. “I don’t believe you’re a murderer. I believe you are innocent.”
The crescent moon emerged from behind a cloud and was reflected perfectly in the dark centers of his eyes. His expression was peculiar, but his face no less handsome than usual. “Odd,” he said, “that a maid should have such faith in someone she does not know. Tell me, do you give everyone the benefit of the doubt, or is your loyalty to my family simply so great that you cannot bring yourself to consider the possibility of my guilt?”