Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  The long miles were tedium personified, leaving Maret weary emotionally as well as physically. The afternoon gave way to night and still they surged on, making only the briefest of stops. Maret was unsuccessful in his efforts to sleep, as he was in his attempts to drum out the thought that Stratford might already be gone. Again and again, the vision of Miss Helen rose before his tired eyes, but the realization that she might soon be free brought only bereavement into his narrowed eyes. Finally, just as the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn, Maret dozed fitfully, the demands of his body overcoming the torments of his soul.

  *****

  Noon had barely gone, the sun was dazzling in a sky of gloriously bright blue when Freddy Lawrence dashed into the sitting parlor of Appleton to echo his springtime announcement that a carriage was coming.

  “And it’s my lord’s, it is!” he finished happily before darting out, while his audience displayed various degrees of astonishment. Wonderment was heightened when Mrs. Mosley followed Freddy’s words with the disclosure that a Mr. Maret was calling.

  Maret halted in the frame of the door, stiffening at the sight before him. Helen stood perched on a small stool, resplendent in a wedding dress of white tulle embroidered with tiny pearls and graced with a long train which fell from her shoulders to dust the floor. The high waist, square bodice and puffed and laced bretelle sleeves set off her petite figure to perfection. Jacques’s heart constricted and he stood transfixed.

  He was himself the recipient of a round of stares. His usually flawless appearance was quite sadly rumpled, the hours cramped in the carriage having creased his dark pantaloons and jacket beyond, his valet would insist, repair. The starch had long ago wilted out of his knotted cravat, which hung limply against his wrinkled and stained shirt.

  Rose was the first to recover, saying as she set down the scissors and pins she had been holding, “Forgive us! Freddy quite led us to believe for an awful moment that it was Lord Stratford come to call, and you must know it would be fatal for his lordship to see Helen in her wedding dress before the day!”

  Maret winced at her words, but collected himself sufficiently to enter and bow over Miss Lawrence’s hand.

  “All me, Mr. Maret, to present my mother and my sister-in-law.”

  The elder, delicate-looking lady reclining on the settee received his brief nod with a flutter of the hand, but the spare woman standing beside Helen merely inclined her head slightly, a curtsey seeming unsuitable, in her view, for a mere “mister.”

  Maret’s attention had already, however, fixed on Helen. “I am afraid,” he stated flatly, “this is not a call of pleasure.”

  Stepping down from the stool, consternation crossing through her vivid blue eyes, Helen asked quietly, “Whatever is wrong, Mr. Maret?”

  “Is it . . . Viscount Stratford?” Rose questioned sharply.

  “Forgive me, I bring bad news,” he replied grimly. “Lord Stratford has been badly wounded.”

  Amidst the loud shrieks of the older women, Helen’s hand flew to her cheek, her eyes widened in shock. But Rose had seemingly encountered Medusa, remaining utterly motionless throughout Maret’s terse explanations. She was suddenly galvanized to action, however, when Helen cried softly, “What shall I do?”

  “Do? We must go to him—at once! If there is the least chance we may yet arrive on time, we cannot hesitate!” She pulled her unresisting sister from the room, ignoring Nell’s plea to pick up the train and brusquely begging Mr. Maret to wait.

  For twenty minutes, Jacques endured the incessant barrage of questions, interspersed with mournful exclamations from both the Mrs. Lawrences. He sustained himself with port, but even this was inadequate when Nell ventured to suggest a deathbed wedding, should they arrive in time. It was perhaps fortunate that at this moment Rose reappeared with Helen in tow. Each wore a simple traveling dress, poke bonnet and gloves. In addition, Rose carried a single portmanteau.

  “We are ready, Mr. Maret,” she said woodenly.

  “Oh, my dear, sweet child!” Susanna wailed, clinging to Helen. “That you should suffer the misery of widowhood so soon, so young!”

  “She is not a widow yet, Mama,” Rose put in, “as she has neither married Lord Stratford nor as yet confirmed his death.”

  “So much the worse!” her mother insisted on a sob, an opinion with which Nell seemed heartily inclined to agree.

  In time, they managed to detach mother from daughter and joined young Freddy as he stood talking with Harry and the viscount’s postillions. For once the boy did not wear his merry smile and he knuckled his eyes, determined not to shed any unmanly tears. Rose gave her mother and Nell a swift kiss each, then entered the coach without another word. Helen climbed in beside her, bewildered and not a little concerned at this sister who suddenly seemed drained of all emotion.

  As the vehicle jerked forward, it was Helen who leaned the window with promises to write as soon as may be. Rose asked no questions, offered no comments. She sat, erect, immobile, as hour chased hour upon the road. Maret and Helen spoke in the hushed tones of the bereaved, and though the sharing of the grief brought them both consolation, it only increased Rose’s own dull misery.

  Their progress slowed considerably after the sun passed into night. The full moon was covered by a haze while dark streaks of clouds skimmed across its face. The golden reflections bespoke a mysterious world of beauty in which Rose could take no interest. For her each mile was sounded out by the horses’ hooves repeating, Let me be on time—on time over and over again until her head fairly pounded with the refrain and the hands in her lap clenched in frustration.

  When next the coach rolled to a halt in a posting yard, Maret descended and passed into the inn. He soon returned to extend a hand to Helen, and after seeing her to the ground, to Rose. She did not take it.

  “Come, Miss Lawrence, you will accomplish little by arriving at the Keep weak as well as tired. An hour’s stop and a good meal will do us all good.” He again put out his hand, which she reluctantly accepted.

  The warm aroma of the meal being set upon the table by a sleepy-eyed male and the comfort of the chair to which she was ushered were more welcome than Rose would have admitted. The large brim of her poke bonnet had effectively shadowed her face all day and as she now removed it, Helen was shocked at the drawn look of her sister’s wan face, at the deep circles beneath the sorrowing eyes. Throughout the short meal, Helen made small conversation with Maret, in which Rose took no part, but as the plates were cleared away, she asked him to procure them some scented water that they might freshen up. He glanced knowingly from sister to sister, then excused himself from the private room.

  “How long has it been?” Helen asked after a brief silence.

  “Has what been?” Rose asked in a tired tone.

  “That you have been in love with Lord Stratford.”

  Rose’s head bobbed up. She saw a sad understanding in her sister’s gaze, but none of the distress she had feared would be there. “It seems . . . forever,” she finally said in a low voice. “I—I am sorry, dearest.”

  “Oh, Rose, ’tis I who am sorry!” Helen cried, rushing to embrace Rose tightly. “I’ve been so blind! So stupid!”

  They were still clasping each other when Maret discreetly coughed from the door.

  They slept, after a fashion, in the darkness of the closed coach, each to dream of the restless young man with the moody eyes and the charming smile. Helen and Rose held hands and by morning had achieved a new dimension of their love. It was not, however, until well into the afternoon that the wheels of the carriage at last stopped spinning and the three disembarked to enter a house as still as death itself.

  Chapter 18

  Despite the Keep’s air of sepulchral gloom, Colin Phillips still clung to life. He had been in a state of fevered delirium, Jasper informed them, and the doctor was again due to call at any time. The earl was at Colin’s bedside when the three entered the room, having aged shockingly in the space of two days. Each line on
his ancient face stood out with startling clarity. His figure bent with the weight of his woe. He glanced once at the visitors, then turned his eyes back to the still form lying beneath the satin coverlet.

  Rose’s eyes swept the room and anger brought some color back to her pallid face. None of the summer day had been allowed into the chamber as heavy drapes covered each window. A few candles cut into the darkness, but most of the room was encased in funereal shadows. Her ringing voice cut through the muted mood. “It is little wonder he is near death when you have shut out all signs of life!”

  Shocked faces turned upon her as she ran to rip open curtains, flooding the room with brilliant sunlight. “Open these windows, if you please,” she commanded. “Fresh air is what is needed, not the stifled air of death.”

  The footmen standing in attendance looked to the earl, who was staring intently at Rose. “Do as she says, you fools,” he ordered harshly.

  She paid him no mind, but moved through the room snuffing candles. When she had thrown off her bonnet and stripped off her gloves, she moved at last to the bed where she bent to lightly touch Stratford’s brow. The dry heat caused her fingers to tremble, but her voice was steady as she remarked, “We need to bring his fever down. I shall require towels and lavender water.” She looked to the group of people surrounding her in wide-eyed wonderment. “Well?” she inquired in a tone of icy hauteur that sent the servants scurrying to do her bidding.

  The earl’s eyes met hers across the vast bed. “Do you think to save him?”

  “I do not know,” she answered, “but I do not intend to sit idly back to watch him die.”

  The old man flinched from the sting of the words. Helen came to his side. “Come, sir, there is nothing worse than a crowd in a sick room, you know. And Rose is a marvelous hand a nursing.”

  For a moment, it appeared he would resist her coaxing, but he glanced at his grandson stirring restlessly and rose with an air of decision.

  “Please inform when the doctor arrives,” Rose said as they left. “I wish to speak with him.”

  For the next hour she was undisturbed, for once the servants had deposited a stack of fresh towels and a silver bowl filled with lavender water, she had dismissed them. One last tap upon the door had brought her a tray with ratafia and macaroons, sent by the earl.

  The refreshments lay untouched, for she was fully occupied in trying to place a towel damped in lavender water upon the viscount’s brow. Each time she laid it gently upon his forehead, Stratford tossed his head.

  “Lord Stratford, please do not fight me,” she requested with gentle urgency.

  His eyes flickered open, but there was no recognition in the glassy stare. Rose’s heart seemed to stop in the seconds they rested, unseeing, upon her. It was with relief that was interrupted with the message that Dr. Martin awaited her downstairs.

  He watched her enter with an air of interest, for he had by now discovered that she was not, as he had at first supposed, the viscount’s fiancée, but his future sister-in-law. He was wondering just what to say without bringing on any womanish hysteria when Miss Lawrence addressed him firmly.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Martin. I desire to know precisely what you consideration of Lord Stratford’s condition is.”

  “Well, Miss, it is a physician’s frailty that he can never be too precise,” he answered in a fatherly tone. “The viscount’s progress is not, perhaps, as rapid as we should like, but—”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Rose cut in, “but as I have been thrust into the role of nurse, I have a need to know what Lord Stratford’s chances of recovery are. I can scarcely place my sensibilities above his needs, and I get that you will not do so either.”

  Martin seemed taken aback by her frank speech, but after a few moments he cleared his throat and said more matter-of-factly, “Very well, Miss Lawrence. Though I could wish this had been a good, clean sword wound and not the messy, tearing—humph!—well, the short of it is that though his lordship has lost a great deal of blood and sustained a very high fever, there has been no injury from which he could not recover had he the will to do so. But I very much fear that Lord Stratford does not wish to recover. In short, Miss, there is very little that I can do to save the viscount.”

  As the doctor paused for breath, Rose thanked him in her usual calm manner and promptly returned to Stratford’s room where she stood holding her sides and swaying against the door for a full half-minute. Then she dropped her hands and, drawing a deep breath, took her place by his bedside once more.

  “Lord Stratford—Colin,” she whispered fervently, “you must listen to me. This is Rose, dearest, and I want you to stop this nonsense now, do you hear me? You can get better, you must! Oh, Colin, please!” she cried softly, burying her head into the covers at his side.

  The hand lying beside her bent head moved. She saw this dimly through her tears. When it moved again, she raised her head and stared into Stratford’s eyes. They were focused on her and this time a lucid light shone behind the feverish gloss.

  “Rose?” he hoarsely wondered.

  “Yes, Colin, yes! I am here, dearest, and I shall not leave, I promise you.”

  The light had already faded and Stratford was again tossing, but his hand rested in hers and Rose felt insensibly cheered.

  Through the long hours which followed, Rose refused to be spelled from her vigil at the viscount’s side, and as she waited and watched, she had plenty of time to once again review the utter stupidity of her unhappy decision to wed Daniel Baldwin. That he still loved Amelia had been patently obvious to Rose during his brief visit to Willowley. Mama and Nell had, of course, been vastly surprised, but expressed themselves thrilled with the news of her betrothal—Nell even admitting that she’d never thought such good fortune would come to pass. But with each fresh summer day, Rose had regretted more intensely her impulsive action—she had been mad, there was no other explanation—and yet she felt trapped into continuing with her madness.

  Now, looking at the beloved figure lying so unnaturally still, Rose knew she could never go through with such a match. Far better, instead, to return home to remain a spinster as soon as the present crisis passed.

  If it passed.

  Her first elation upon learning she had, indeed, arrived in time had turned to despair upon seeing the fevered glaze of Stratford’s eyes and now had subsided to a numbness touched by an occasional surge of hope or sting of dread.

  She eventually nibbled at the supper sent up to her and drank at last a glass of ratafia, but her attention remained fixed upon his lordship. She was rewarded when his breathing no longer sounded like a shallow rattle and his body no longer threshed beneath the covers. Twice he actually took a sip of water and Rose finally began to relax her first fears that he would not live through the night. At last, she fell asleep curled up in her chair, her head laid against her outstretched arm, her hand still clasping his.

  A faint pressure upon her hand roused her. She opened her eyes to see Stratford, his lank hair sticking to his damp forehead, staring in amazement.

  “My God, I thought I’d dreamed you here,” he rasped weakly.

  She drew an audible breath, then released it slowly. “Colin,” she murmured, “thank God, thank God.”

  His eyes followed her as she rose, covering her joy with a series of nursely ministrations. She put her hand to his brow, which, though clammy, was wonderfully cool. “It appears, my lord, that you have broken your fever,” she said happily.

  He attempted to catch her hand when she removed it, but she was faster than he.

  “My dear—” he began.

  “I’ll swear you are ready for some food,” she broke in briskly.

  “The sight of you is food enough,” he whispered.

  A slow smile lit up her pinched face. “I believe, however, that gruel would be more sustaining. For now, my lord, I prescribe a bit more sleep. And later, you will wish to see the earl and Helen.”

  “Helen is here?”

  �
��Yes, and Mr. Maret as well, little though you deserve it. You silly boy,” she scolded gently, “you frightened us all with your schoolboy tricks!” She paused, lowering her gaze to where his hands lay still upon the satin coverlet. “Promise me, Lord Stratford, that you shall never again do such a foolish thing.”

  She raised her eyes to see his head turned into the pillow, a heavy frown pulling at his lips. Picking up his hand, she said in her nursely tones, “There! I mustn’t be worrying you just yet, but I warn you, sir, I shan’t be leaving without your promise.”

  At that, he looked directly at her. “Then you shall never have it. I should much rather keep you here.”

  She answered him with a shake of her head, which loosened two of the pins in her hair and sent one lock cascading over her ear. She left the room and he closed his eyes to picture again the delight of that captivating vision.

  *****

  The news that the viscount had overcome his fever at last and was quite lucid, if still weak, worked like a restorative upon the household. Servants no longer tiptoed through rooms, laughter replaced whispering and everyone down to the least scullery maid pronounced himself certain all along that Master Colin would pull through. The old early seemed inclined to credit Miss Lawrence with having saved his grandson and remarked acidly that she could show that old fool Martin a thing or two, but the lady shook her head and begged he would not be so foolish.

  “I only used common sense, sir, nothing more. It was Lord Stratford’s strong constitution that did the trick.” She then retired to her room for the first real rest she had been granted in the last forty-eight hours.

  The only member of the house who still seemed distressed was, perhaps, the one thought most likely to be joyous. Helen sat on a rosewood and satin settee in one of the lesser drawing rooms, her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands, frowning at an ornately worked pole-screen standing across the room. She did not stir from her deep brown study when the door opened behind her and only raised her head with a start upon hearing herself addressed in a cool tone.