The Rake's Handbook

by Sally Orr

  A pink ear—not gray—she clung to that hopeful sign.

  With tears now trailing down her cheeks, she asked Berdy to examine Ross’s chest to discern if he was breathing, but the gig jerked too much for him to tell. Then she found blood oozing from a wound on his shoulder. She pulled back his torn coat, and fresh blood appeared. “He’s bleeding!”

  Using one hand, Berdy managed to unwind Ross’s simple neckcloth, bunched it into a ball, and pressed it against his wound to stop the flow of blood.

  Twenty minutes passed before they reached Pinnacles, and they waited another two hours before Dr. Potts appeared. The entire time, from the gig to the sofa, Berdy had kept pressure upon the wound with Ross’s cravat.

  She didn’t dare peek to see if the bleeding had stopped, for fear it would start again.

  When Dr. Potts pulled the balled neckcloth away to examine the wound, fear drove her backward until she stood against the wall. Her breathing became irregular, and she struggled for air, but she forced herself to remain silent until Dr. Potts completed his examination. With her hands behind her back, she pressed her wet palms on the cool wood paneling to steady herself.

  Meanwhile, Berdy sat patiently in a high-backed chair and sympathetically glanced either at her or at Ross.

  After completing his inspection, Dr. Potts lifted his head. “He has a possible fractured skull and this large puncture wound. Normally, I would be concerned over his lack of consciousness, but perhaps this is a blessing, considering the severity of the gash on his shoulder.” The doctor pulled several tools from his leather chest and quickly sewed up the wound. Berdy and Dr. Potts then carried Ross to a servant’s bed on the ground floor.

  Months ago when she had punctured her finger, she remembered her medical books suggested a wound should be cleaned before the application of any bandage or poultice. Why didn’t Dr. Potts clean the wound first? She withheld her question, since he was the expert—she wasn’t. Perhaps desperate measures were required to save Ross’s life. Besides, any interference from her might interrupt his immediate care.

  Berdy helped remove the remainder of Ross’s clothing, and the muddy, blood-soaked clothes were soon carried from the room.

  She dropped her chin on her chest and concentrated on inhaling slowly.

  Dr. Potts wiped his brow and rolled down his sleeves. “He lost a fair amount of blood, so no leeches or lettings. Bleedings might be danger…” Dr. Potts paused, then turned to face her.

  A guilty blush warmed her cheeks. He’d probably stopped midway in his diagnosis to save her from distress. Dr. Potts must have discovered her affection for Ross by now.

  The doctor pulled her gently away from the wall. “You must prepare yourself. There is little hope of recovery unless his brain injury heals, and he wakes. Has his mother been informed?”

  Berdy nodded. “I received a note that Lady Helen was out calling upon friends when Mr. Douglas arrived at Blackwell. She should be informed of her son’s accident by morning, at the latest. No doubt she will rush to Pinnacles as soon as possible.”

  Dr. Potts nodded. “She will more than likely insist he be removed to Blackwell tomorrow. I will volunteer to stay with our patient until her arrival.”

  Elinor took tentative steps toward the bedside. “Thank you. May I bathe him to remove the mud?”

  The doctor paused. “It is not necessary for you to do so.”

  “I must.” She instructed her servants to bring hot water, soap, and an upholstered chair for Dr. Potts’s comfort during the long night ahead. With Berdy’s help, she washed Ross’s head, chest, and arms. Then Berdy left the room, and she and Dr. Potts sat quietly, each absorbed in their own thoughts. The only sounds heard in the room were from the large fire in the grate and the chimes from the clock in the hallway outside the door.

  Close to midnight, Dr. Potts stood and came to her side. “I suggest you retire for the evening, for your own good. Don’t worry about Mr. Thornbury. I will have a servant notify you if there is any change.”

  She glanced at his weary face, lines of concern written across his shadowed brow. “Thank you, but I will remain. I want to be present when he wakes.”

  The doctor returned to his chair, only to fidget endlessly. Ten minutes later, he mentioned instruments he might need from home—if Ross should wake—so he took his leave. He assuaged her panic upon his farewell by promising to return in the morning, before Lady Helen had a chance to remove Ross to Blackwell.

  She returned to her chair, pulled a blanket around her shoulders, and began her long watch through the night.

  She loved Ross.

  Whether rake or gentleman, Ross had claimed her heart, without her loving William less. Now she stood gifted with a second chance at happiness. Over a year ago she could never imagine feeling romantic love. Now she faced the reality. A reality forced upon her by Ross’s possible loss. She realized, rather ruefully, at least now she wouldn’t be obsessively thinking about William all of the time.

  Her attention returned to the man she loved stretched out on the small bed. She rose and added fuel to the fire, so the room would remain warm. Then she waited, her distress growing with each hour. Finally, unable to continue sitting in her chair, she moved to the bedside, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, a sharp pain near her heart.

  Ross lay on his back; no trace of mud in his hair or body remained. Other than a pale face and a few small cuts, he appeared perfectly normal. His dark lashes rested upon his pale cheeks, and his chest rose ever so slightly with each steady breath.

  She pulled the blanket away from his shoulder and examined the white linen wrapped from his upper arm to his neck. The cloth looked clean, but a small patch of darkness appeared under the linen, indicating the presence of blood.

  Reaching up to smooth his dark hair from his brow, as she had observed him do so many times before, she secretly hoped he would wake with her touch, but he did not. Her tears began, and she needed to confirm he lived by a caress of his warm skin.

  Finally exhausted and heart weary, she lay beside him on the small bed and arranged the covering so he would remain warm. She slid her arm across his and settled in to watch him through the remainder of the night. Watch his chest rise and fall with each whisper of life, knowing that tomorrow, when his mother claimed him, she might never watch him again. With each hourly chime from the hallway clock, she went through the futile motion of stroking his hair back from his brow.

  He never moved or registered her touch in any way.

  Close to dawn, in a moment of careening desperation, she tried to wake him with words. She told him of her love and teased him with the scandalous banter he enjoyed. Rhyming jests were never Ross’s humor, but he was a master of the sly, outrageous remark. These retorts came naturally to him and always brought out his stunning smile. She had been delighted every time she’d cast out a seemingly innocent word into conversation, only to find him rise to the bait with the most brazen innuendo. If only he would do that now. “Ready to read volume two of The Rake’s Handbook? I cannot imagine what it suggests.”

  No response. No smile. No serene countenance expostulating the naughtiest retort ever. He failed to move.

  “I need you awake for chapter ten, dearest, your favorite chapter. Do you think you might like to read it more than once?”

  No reply.

  With her strength gone and spirit defeated, she stroked his brow. After each soft caress, she whispered, “Please wake, love.”

  ***

  Searing pain ripped Ross apart. He did not recognize the day or the place. Pain ruled, and he must escape its fire-like grip.

  Was he dying or dead?

  Gradually, he became aware of his circumstances. He lay on his back upon a high plateau big enough only for him. If he rolled two feet, he would plunge into the watery blackness surrounding him. In the distance appeared several tall ships on fire, and bey
ond them, the horizon stretched out in every direction, creating a uniform line. Dawn began to break; the morning light forced the black clouds upward.

  He felt a familiar presence surrounding him: John, his younger brother. John, the auburn-haired boy with an infectious smile. Ross welcomed the presence of the brother who remained foremost in his thoughts. Here and now, in this place, his memories became real. He saw John at five years old, twig in hand, protecting Mama from a dragon the knights had failed to kill. Then John at eighteen, fresh from school, joy skipping across his face when Ross agreed he could join him on the Grand Tour.

  And once in Italy, what example had he set for his brother? Instead of setting an example of a true gentleman, or behaving in a discreet manner that was usual for him, he openly acted like the worst of men—a rake. His actions unwittingly confirmed the exaggerated behavior contained in his satirical handbook, written in a drunken wager. Such books were commonly published for the amusement of London’s swells. Only John must have never fully understood the satirical part. Proud of his older brother, he likely believed the overblown seductions in the handbook were real, something to emulate. And Ross’s appalling actions in Venice were nothing more than a silent confirmation of that vile behavior.

  On the Grand Tour in Venice, while he “punted” in a gondola with a raven-haired contessa, what did he expect John to do? Wait alone in their rooms, sit in a café drinking himself into oblivion, or find a woman? A significant female conquest to impress his older brother.

  He remembered John missing for days. Then finding him given up for dead at a hospital, the victim of an irate husband’s knife attack. Then the memory of John’s fallen expression when Ross told him the knife had likely scored his heart and pierced his lung.

  He remembered his desperate promises to save John. Flee back to England and recover—together.

  In London, he held what remained of his brother’s once stout body steady while he was bled. Then the memory of John looking directly into his eyes, without recrimination, pleading for life as his blood flowed unrestrained. John smiled up at him, sighed, and died in his arms.

  Why? Because all John ever wanted was to be like his older brother.

  He could join John in his harbor from pain, and free himself from guilt. Hold him in his arms again. All he had to do was roll off the plateau into the blackness of hell’s own fire. “John!”

  Twenty-one

  At dawn, Elinor moved to a chair set close enough to the sickbed to hold Ross’s hand. She didn’t give a shilling if anyone caught her thus, for she had no intention of not touching him, not stroking the top of his fingers or caressing his cheek. He had spent a restless night, calling out his late brother’s name, but he never woke. Even with her caress and the new day erupting in violent birdsong and searing sunlight, he failed to regain consciousness.

  Berdy entered softly around seven o’clock. “Did he wake?”

  “Oh, love,” she managed, rubbing her sore eyes.

  He pulled a chair next to her, leaned over, and embraced her.

  The warmth coming from his body comforted her, and her head fell to his shoulder. She began to openly sob. “What if he never wakes?”

  “Shh.”

  Her agony grew with the passage of time, because the illness endured. Obviously breathing and alive, Ross appeared to be sleeping, so she expected him to open his eyes at any moment. Only this was a false expectation. Unlike William’s accident, death was not sudden. It lingered in the atmosphere, teased her with its presence, and fed her tears. She had no thoughts about how to save him and no thoughts about what she could do. No thoughts.

  They sat in silence until the sounds of a heavy carriage became apparent from the crunch of gravel outside. She pulled back from Berdy’s embrace, panic consuming her. Lady Helen would take Ross—take him—and she might never see him again. In desperation, she turned to Berdy for help.

  “Come now,” he said. “Dry your eyes. I’m sure his mother would never consider moving him in his current condition. The wound may open.”

  He’s right. She had not thought of that. Maybe she would have more time, after all.

  “Let’s go meet her together,” he said.

  The Thornburys’ large black carriage stood in the drive, framed by the glorious pinks and oranges of the new morning light. Perhaps the chilly air was the reason the older woman failed to exit the carriage. The window dropped, so Elinor and Berdy approached.

  A grim Lady Helen faced them, but she was unable to speak at first. A minute or two passed before Ross’s mother choked out a response to their perfunctory greetings. “Does my son live?”

  Lady Helen’s ashen face and trembling hand were visible from outside the carriage, and Elinor regretted the bad feelings the foundry had created between them. “At the moment he is alive, but not conscious. He also lost a fair amount of blood.”

  “Will he live? I must know. What did Dr. Potts say?” Lady Helen asked in a broken voice, a sound that indicated the questioner was not strong enough to bear the answer. Looking down, she bunched her cap and hair together on her forehead with a balled fist.

  Lady Helen’s distress affected her, and she too could no longer speak.

  “When brought here,” Berdy said, “the wound was covered in mud and filth. Dr. Potts sewed him up and indicated we should not disturb him. I’m sure Ross just needs rest to heal and will be pluck in no time. It’s a gash in the shoulder. People don’t die from that, do they?”

  Ross’s mother said nothing. With her head lowered, she looked like she was inspecting the carriage’s floor. After she recovered enough to speak, she addressed Elinor directly. “I insist my son is removed to Blackwell as soon as possible. I’ve also sent word to our family surgeon in London and requested that he attend my son. I have great confidence in his abilities, since he worked diligently to save John, my youngest. There is no medical man I trust more.”

  “Goes without saying you wish the best for your son,” Berdy said. “But if he is moved, the wound might open, and he’d start bleeding again.” He grabbed Elinor’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

  Lady Helen paused. “No. The decision is mine. I want him home.” She scowled at Elinor. “As his mother, I have his best interests at heart and shall attend him until… I must stay with him every minute until he is well.”

  She took a deep breath. “I hope in the future you will let Mr. Deane and myself call upon Mr. Thornbury to inquire about his progress?”

  The older woman’s jaw set. “No. I will not allow you in the sickroom. Your presence cannot assist his recovery in any way. I am the person who cares for him, so all decisions are mine.”

  Her breath caught, and Berdy tightened his grip on her hand. She believed a clinging mother’s desires for her children were often misguided. But the sight of Berdy, holding her hand and gently kicking the gravel with the toe of his boot, restored her to her senses. The older woman was a mother like her, and she would have acted the same. “Yes, it’s such a disappointment, you see. I’d like to see him, well, I’d just like to see him again, that’s all.”

  Berdy put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Dr. Potts promised to care for him wherever he was, remember? Lady Helen, I hope you do not object if I ride over tomorrow and receive an update on his condition? Ross has many friends, you understand.”

  Lady Helen gave a single nod.

  Elinor replied softly, “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The window squeaked shut, and the black carriage lurched forward on its return to Blackwell.

  In the sky above peeked one of the most radiant sunrises she had ever witnessed. The pink sky still claimed the horizon, but farther up it melted into the light blue sky of the new day. She glared upward and silently cursed. Bloody pink sunrise announces a lie; it does not promise to be a perfect day.

  Ross’s ear was pink, not pale like William’s. She clung
to that fact. Hours had passed after William’s fall from his horse, but she made no motion to leave him. Alone in the road, she held him, vowing never to move. After they were discovered, and Dr. Potts called, she feared never seeing William again. She clutched him tightly and stroked his cheek. Trying to remember every detail about a man of whom she already knew everything. Why? Because they would take him from her arms forever. The same fate befell her now. Ross would soon be lost too.

  Within the hour, Dr. Potts arrived, and several servants loaded Ross into his carriage for transport to Blackwell. A breath, a second, a heartbeat, and Ross was gone.

  She could think of only one action—wait at Dr. Potts’s house for him to return. It was the fastest way to receive the latest information concerning Ross’s condition. She grabbed a book and took a seat on a garden bench in front of the doctor’s home. Her wait proved a long one, and she failed to remember a single word of her novel. Darkness shrouded the house when Dr. Potts finally returned. She ran to meet him before he had the chance to enter his home. “How does Mr. Thornbury fare?”

  “Elinor!” He started, taking a full step backward. “Mrs. Colton, I beg your pardon. I must admit surprise in seeing you here.”

  His unknotted cravat and air of weariness—quite unlike him—worried her. “Does he live? Is he awake? How is the wound? Has it festered? Does his mother relent and allow visitors?”

  Dr. Potts held his palm high. “Please. The answers to your questions are no. His mother is not allowing visitors and remains by his side. I have done everything for him, believe me, but there is no change.”

  “What treatments have you given him?”

  “He was bled, of course. I also—” He stopped; a frown appeared on his long, aquiline face.

  Her heartbeat began to race. “Since his large loss of blood yesterday, you indicated it would be unwise to bleed him.”

  “Bleeding is the standard treatment for cases such as this,” he said in an icy tone, walking around her, heading for his front door.