by Tessa Candle
But do it she must. It was the right thing to do, after all, even putting willow-the-wisp considerations aside.
Chapter 50
Rutherford sat in the gloom of his uncle's chamber, listening to the shallow rattle of the old man's somnolent breathing.
He did not know how to deal with what was happening. His uncle was living his last days and slept all but a few hours of every day. It filled Rutherford with dread to lose him, and with deep sorrow and regret that he had waited too long to get to know such an excellent man.
This was a miserable form of distraction from the horrifying thought of losing not just Tilly's hand, but also her heart to another, as seemed now inevitable.
Beyond this he was surrounded by people whose behaviours and motivations seemed odd and entirely petty, given the context.
Smythe made himself a source of irritation by hovering around until he was ordered away. Rutherford knew that he was concerned for his master's wellbeing, but found the constant attention intolerable. And worse, it seemed that Smythe had taken a disliking to Sandes, the butler who was to continue as a fixture of Blackwood Manor.
Smythe had begun preying upon the butler's patience, by going about with white gloves and checking for dust, or shaking his head and sighing at some element or other of the household management. Smythe even carried a little notebook around with him for the purpose of scribbling a quick notation with a disapproving look, whenever Sandes might be in view.
No doubt Smythe was smarting under the idea that he should not be butler as well as valet in every household that Rutherford occupied. Or perhaps, less forgivably, Smythe had not yet apprehended that Sandes was not going anywhere, and the valet was merely whiling away the idle hours in tormenting the man he meant to depose.
Whatever the case, Rutherford could not take amusement in this bad behaviour. He had enough to stew over without worrying about a civil war breaking out between the servants.
And then there was Mrs. Colling. Right after Rutherford arrived, she had given him an accusing look of recrimination before dropping her veil and slipping away. She only sneaked into the manor again secretly to see Bartholmer early the next morning, but rushed off, almost rudely, when Rutherford and Frobisher disturbed her. He noticed that, as soon as Frobisher took his leave to go to his own nearby estate, Mrs. Colling was back, sitting almost ceaselessly at Bartholmer's bedside.
This behaviour was puzzling, but Rutherford could not attend, and only relegated it to the list of stupid irritations that he thought he should not have to support in this sad hour of his life. And so he hid in the sickroom, sharing the last hours of his uncle’s life the only way he could.
Tears threatened him constantly. His eyes fell, propelled by some evil genie, to one of the medicine bottles at his uncle's bedside.
Rutherford rubbed his hands roughly over his face. What was wrong with him, thinking of filching his uncle's laudanum while he slept, like a common thief? He reached a faintly trembling hand into his pocket to retrieve the silver flask and took a drink. The mere gesture calmed him, but his heart still ached.
He rubbed his shoulder in the place of his old wound. It had healed under the tender ministrations of Tilly, reading him dirty poetry and beguiling him with her beautiful eyes and impish little ways.
But she was a fairy, it seemed. Unbeknownst to Rutherford, some of her mischief had embedded itself in the wound, sealed away under the scar tissue, from this position to whisper delights and torments to his heart ever after.
And now he must endure loss. So much loss.
He left his uncle’s room and walked to the nursery, merely holding up a hand to dismiss the hovering Smythe. He petted Molly, selected two sleeping puppies, and tucked them into his jacket. They were growing fast. Very soon they would be too big and active for this, but for now, he needed their warmth and purity and unconditional love.
He recalled, as he returned to Bartholmer’s dim chamber and seated himself once again at the bedside, that he had once heard of a French king who believed that illness could be cured by sleeping surrounded by puppies. Perhaps this was part of some now-lost magical practice, or perhaps it was madness. But situated here in the darkness, with his only sources of comfort cuddled into his chest, Rutherford came to believe that the king, however mad, was right.
Rutherford had observed that madmen often saw the truth with a clarity that the concealments and hypocritical pretences of the world would not permit. The fatal flaw of the mad was being unable to keep their visions to themselves.
The door opened and Mrs. Colling slipped quietly into the room. She seated herself without a word, her face the gloomy mirror of Rutherford's own torment.
He looked at her a moment. Saying nothing, he reached into his jacket and handed her one of the puppies.
He could not say how long they sat like that. The puppy awoke and peed on Rutherford, but he did not mind it. His sadness made him insensible to anything as frivolous as dignity. He moved the furry little beast to the other side of his chest and continued to sit in silence.
Bartholmer awoke just as the puppies were starting to stir. “Ah Rutherford, Mrs. Colling.” The old man's voice was gravelly. “And the puppies.” Even in his severely weakened state, delight glimmered in his rheumy eyes. “What a lovely assembly to wake up to.” He coughed, and Mrs. Colling rushed to pour him a drink. She held it to his lips, and he took several sips before his head fell back into the pillows.
“Do not be selfish, lad. Bring me a puppy.”
Rutherford set his own puppy beside Bartholmer, as it had already relieved itself.
The old man raised a feeble arm and, with effort, petted the pup. “Mrs. Colling, would you be so good as to read for me?”
She picked the very large book up and, finding the page, began to read.
“No, no! You have already read that. Do not keep me in suspense. You were coming right to the point, last time.” He drew in a ragged breath and croaked, “I will have my due.”
With desperate reluctance, Mrs. Colling advanced several chapters in the book, and began to read afresh. Rutherford was gripped by a superstitious dread.
He drew his chair closer to the duke, and entertained the puppy so it would not wander away from his uncle's side. Forcing back the tears forming in his eyes, Rutherford used his free hand to clasp Bartholmer's.
As the puppy chewed on his other finger, Rutherford listened to the story and watched a smile forming on Bartholmer's lips.
“Ah-hah!” said the man at a crucial point in the narrative. “I knew that was how it would be. I knew all that trouble could not be for nothing. You see, it all worked out as it should.” His voice grew more quiet, and his eyes drooped sleepily. “As it should.”
Just then the puppies, first one, then the other, began to whine.
The old man roused himself. “You must take the wee darlings back to their mother. They are hungry.”
Mrs. Colling, though it obviously pained her to leave Bartholmer's side, picked up the two squirming masses of fur and carried them out.
As soon as she left the room, Bartholmer grasped Rutherford's hand with an alarming ferocity. “I love you like a son. If I had had a son of my own, I would have wanted him to be just like you.”
Rutherford’s heart caught in his throat as he spoke. “I can think of no higher honour than being loved as your son. Think of me thus. Command me as your own child. What can I do?”
He sighed. “For me, nothing, my beloved boy. But in my name, and upon your honour, I ask you to watch over Mrs. Colling. She is not what she seems, but she is something far better. Do not force her to tell you anything. Only help her however you can, and protect her.”
“For you, father of my heart, I will. I swear it.”
“I do not ask you to marry her.” His tired face animated suddenly with a weak but wicked smile. “For I do not suppose she would have you.”
Rutherford laughed sadly. “I appear to have that effect on young women.”
&
nbsp; “Though I admit,” his uncle’s voice grew quiet, “it would make me very happy if you did wed. If that Miss Ravelsham will not have you, try to keep an open mind.”
Rutherford chuckled, but wondered how the duke had ascertained that Miss Ravelsham was the object of Rutherford's affections. By the time he had reflected enough to realize that it hardly took a sage to puzzle that out, Mrs. Colling had returned.
“My dear, come,” said the old man, feebly stretching out his hand to gesture. “In that top drawer over there, you will find a leather purse. Go fetch it to me.” When she hesitated Bartholmer said, gently, “Would you refuse a man's dying wish?”
This produced a flood of tears and a look of tormented contrition, but she hastened to obey.
“You will find inside a sum of money. There are several large bank notes, in case you should need to make an impression, and there are an assortment of smaller coins, in case you should need not to make one. In all the sum is five hundred pounds. I would give you more, but I do not wish to make you a target for unscrupulous opportunists. In the sight of my heir, and with him as witness, I wish to make a living gift of this. And in your hearing, Mrs. Colling, I wish to instruct my heir to otherwise supply you as is necessary.”
She made to object, but the duke raised his hand, panting now with the effort it took after such a long speech. She was silenced. “I have directed William to assist, protect and watch over you. You can trust him, Mrs. Colling.”
She looked miserable, and the look she flashed at Rutherford was, he thought, resentful. It seemed very hard that he should be compelled by a dying man to assist her, and have his last hours with his uncle thus interrupted by a woman unknown to him and whom he still did not trust, only to have her treat him to her bitter looks.
Rutherford tried, however, not to return her resentment. He spoke in earnest. “I shall do all I can to protect and assist you, Mrs. Colling. I will not compel you to tell me your story. You have my word. And better, you have my pledge to my uncle.”
But when he turned to look at his uncle's face, hoping to have the pleasure of seeing him smile with gratification, the glassy-eyed mask of death was all that remained. Bartholmer's hand was limp in his own. And a panic-stricken No! echoed through every chamber of Rutherford’s heart and ran screaming down the hallways of his veins.
Mrs. Colling pressed her face to Bartholmer's other hand and wept. Rutherford saw this with a numbness that made him feel he only hovered above this tableau of grief and finality. His gaze turned to the bottle of laudanum, and he almost spat in disgust at himself.
What made this worse was the sudden, mortifying realization that some creeping part of his mind had been thinking about that bottle all along. It had been just waiting, as though later the little flask would surely find its way into his hand. The evil worm had been lurking like a vulture until his uncle's death. Then, it had said, it will no longer be theft, for everything here will belong to you. And anyway, then you will really need it.
Without a thought beyond escaping this evil, Rutherford grabbed the book, the last story heard by his uncle, and dashed from the room.
He almost got as far as the staircase, when Mrs. Colling caught up and threw herself in front of him, yelling, “Is it not enough that you have forced yourself upon my last few hours with him? Must you take my only memento of our time together, too?”
Even as distraught as she was, her face was still lovely. There was an energy and genuine sensibility in her eyes that made him feel, for a moment, the wrong in his having taken the book. But then a selfish, angry voice inside of him asked, what about my grief? What about all the time that he could have had with his uncle? Why did a complete stranger like Mrs. Colling get this time with him, instead of Rutherford?
Rutherford let the worst version of himself come to the surface and speak for him. “You got your memento, Mrs. Colling. Why do you not go fetch your purse and leave me to mourn the loss of my uncle?”
He held the book away from her grasp when she reached for it, for he was much taller than her. He was surprised to find how much pleasure he took in withholding it.
A fierce anger crossed her features. “So this is how you keep your word to your uncle. You withhold comfort from me at the first opportunity, before that dear man’s mortal shell is even cold.”
Rutherford would not admit the justice of this comment. “If I were persuaded that this book could in any way advantage your safety or material wellbeing, I should consider myself honour-bound to relinquish it. But as it is, I see no reason why I should give over this last little piece of him, this object of our last hours together to the very interloper who, by inserting herself into my uncle’s company, prevented him from summoning me to his side sooner. How much more time might I have had with that excellent man?”
The features of her still lovely face contorted themselves into a look of murder and accusation. “I? A woman who, as you pointed out, is a complete stranger to you, I prevented you from coming to see your uncle? You tell yourself pretty stories, but the truth is that you only came to see your uncle when you knew there was something to get out of it. The fact that you never valued him is your own shortcoming. And you only value this book because holding onto it will deprive me of its comfort, you dog in the manger!”
She leapt in the air suddenly, meaning to reach high enough to grasp the volume. This jostled him, and he took a few steps back, but still held the book out of her grasp. He could not see why she should have it.
They struggled on in silence, her grasping, him dashing out of the way with the book, until she stepped dangerously close to the staircase, and he grabbed her waist to pull her back. This only further evoked her ire. She slapped his face, but he did not let go of her.
Then she deftly placed a leg behind his knee and, so quickly that he could not puzzle out how she did it, toppled him backward. He dropped the book and pulled her down with him. She landed on top of him on the ground. When she made to sit up and take a proper swing at him, he grabbed her arms and pulled her back to him, rolling over to pin her on the floor beneath him.
At that moment the ridiculousness of the situation struck him. He began to laugh, though tears were still streaming from his eyes. What on earth was wrong with him?
Chapter 51
Tilly and Mrs. Carlton were received at Blackwood Manor by Sandes, who was looking harrowed. But Tilly was not of a mind to pay attention to the moods of the domestics. She needed to speak with Rutherford.
"I am afraid his lordship has had some bad news just now." Sande’s voice was grieved. Tilly could now see far enough past her own self-absorption to apprehend that the man was deeply attached to the duke and was suffering.
"So..." Tilly hesitated, not wishing to speak abruptly lest she cause the butler further pain. "The duke has passed then?"
"Yes." It came out as a sigh of resignation. "The old master has left us for a better home. However the new master is here. It is a great comfort that the dukedom never dies so long as a descendent of the Bartholmer line takes his seat at Blackwood Manor."
This uncharacteristic amount of talk from the usually reserved Sandes surprised Tilly. But his loyalty and dedication touched her heart.
So Rutherford was a duke now. But she would not let that frighten her away.
"Sandes, I know I am coming just at a bad time, but I really do need to speak to Mr. Rutherford—I mean Lord Drake, even if briefly.”
It seemed like Sandes’ station was too heavy for him at the moment. He must be grieving as much as any member of the old duke's family might do. He gestured weakly to the stairs. “He is upstairs in the chamber. I will show you the way."
As Tilly stepped up to the top of the stairs, her jaw dropped. She was treated to a view of Rutherford and Mrs. Colling, as she called herself, rolling around on the floor. A gasp escaped her before she turned and hastily re-descended the stairs.
So that was how things were. She had trusted the pretty young widow to keep her word and not to pur
sue Rutherford as she had said she would not. And Tilly had believed that Rutherford's heart could not so quickly be turned from herself to another, no matter how pretty the face.
But she had been a fool. She was beginning to believe that credulous optimism was just an indelible defect in her character. What a simpleton she had been.
They probably had found that they had a lot in common. They were both attached to the old duke, both grieving at his loss, both had complicated lives in many ways. Tilly had been an arrogant idiot to believe that Rutherford would remain unattached, that he would preserve his heart to her forever, regardless of how she mistreated it.
And what woman would not melt at any attention from such a beautiful man, with such a noble heart and mind—even without his being a duke?
Tilly shook her head in disgust. Well, perhaps taking Mrs. Colling on the floor outside of the room where his uncle’s still-warm body lay was not precisely noble. But he was mad with grief. And no doubt that little minx threw herself at him while he was vulnerable.
Her eyes burned with tears as she headed for the door.
Sandes rushed to open it for her. "My apologies, Miss Ravelsham. You find this house in something of a disarray. But it is a house of grief, so I hope you will make some allowances." The man seemed to be desperate to make a defence, some defence, any defence for what Tilly had just witnessed.
But then, no defence was really necessary. This was nature taking its course. This was the retribution that Tilly deserved, and the happiness that Rutherford deserved. And it was what she wanted for him, after all, was it not?
Then why did she feel like the bottom had fallen out of her soggy, tear-soaked heart? Oh, yes, that was right: because doing the right thing costs you something. She could hear the glibly philosophical voice of the pre-Rutherford Tilly saying, “That is why it is called doing the right thing, and not doing the advantageous thing.”
She wanted very much to punch that Tilly in the face.