by Lavinia Kent
Chapter Three
The silence grew as the doctor’s words sank in. How could such a small and delicate creature have suffered what the doctor suggested? Arthur shrugged loose his shoulders, suppressing the urge to stroke his own scar, relive his own pain.
“Could you be mistaken? I described how she was wandering, disoriented and aimless. Could she not have fallen and bruised herself that way?”
Dr. Smithson hesitated. Arthur sensed his desire to give an agreeable answer fighting against his desire to speak the truth.
“I am afraid not, your grace.” Dr. Smithson’s large Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Explain.”
“If it were merely the bruise, I might wonder if it were possible - if by some strange coincidence Lady Elizabeth had not been injured in some other manner, and the marks only happened to resemble a boot print, with a well defined heel. But, in combination with her welts, I find that highly unlikely. Even the marks on her legs might have been excused as you suggested. The many marks across her back, though, speak for themselves. Somebody took a crop to her, I would guess, and not gently.”
Arthur pursed his lips. He knew how a whip could sting. It was his duty to find out what had happened: he had found her on his land. Did he have a tenant who would so misuse a lady? Perhaps some ruffian passing through, or . . . . Could her own family have done this to her if they had discovered her pregnant and unwed? He knew a father could be severe, but this?
The doctor interrupted Arthur’s contemplation. “I am not sure whether it means anything or not, but I was also struck by the fact that her face was unmarked. I saw some slight bruising, but that I would put down to her wanderings. Those marks lacked the brutality of the others.”
Arthur turned, his attention fixed on the doctor’s words. “What are you saying?”
“I think whoever beat her didn’t want it to show.”
“Why . . . ?” Arthur paused without completing the thought. He drummed his fingers along the desk.
“I don’t know, your grace. I am a man of science. I can only report the facts.” The doctor hesitated a moment before continuing. “I have on a few occasions heard of similar marks, although not quite so severe. Sometimes, a family member, a husband, a father, feels the need to correct a woman for misbehavior. In these circumstances, a woman great with child, more often a father. Husbands tend to be careful with expectant wives, unless of course there’s a question of paternity . . . .” He trailed off before picking up steam again. “In those instances husbands are often careful not to leave noticeable marks. They don’t wish to draw attention or scandal.”
Arthur watched the doctor's carefully held expression. His very lack of emotion betrayed the sensitivity of the subject. Still, it seemed cruel and cold-blooded for a family member. But families could be cruel.
“This is common?”
The doctor settled on more comfortable ground now. “Not common, no, particularly with injuries of this severity. But, we all know it lies within a man’s rights to discipline his womenfolk.”
“Yes, it does.” Arthur let the comment hang.
Ignoring the doctor still perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, Arthur turned and gazed out the window, without seeing. How had his simple longing for adventure turned into this?
He had enough matters to worry about in running his estates. His father had been determined to make him into the perfect heir, a man of decision and sang froid, who knew the exact thing to do and exactly how to do it, his father’s way, the family way, the honorable way. His fingers reflexively stroked his marred cheek, and carefully he drew them back down, giving no hint of his tangled reaction. Yet he wondered how the delicate creature lying upstairs could have endured the punishment Dr. Smithson had described and still retain that angelic aspect? Anybody who had gone through such hardship should not appear so unmarked. He knew he didn’t.
The doctor’s cautiously modulated cough drew his attention.
Arthur spoke with great precision. “Do you have anything else to tell me? How long should her recovery require? Is any special care required for the infant?”
The doctor hesitated only briefly. “No, there is nothing else I can speak to with any assurance.”
Arthur was discomfited by the sensation of being beholden to someone else for information. He could not escape the impression that something still remained shrouded in mystery. He knew that if he could concentrate on more practical matters, the feeling would pass. “I need to know where she came from. Is there any harm in pressing her for answers?”
It was clear that Dr. Smithson knew the answer Arthur wanted, and equally clear that it was not the one he wanted to give. “How crucial is it to know immediately, your grace?” he asked. “Women can react rather strangely to trauma. You wouldn’t want her to end up in hysterics.”
“Certainly not.” The thought horrified Arthur. He flipped his quizzing glass in his pocket once, and then moving to the desk let his hands rest still. “Thank you again for doing me the favor of examining her.”
“I am at your disposal, your grace. I look forward to continuing our philosophical and political debates at a later date. You must let me know when you receive further correspondence from your Uncle Ramsey.”
Dr. Smithson rose and hastened to the door.
“You will return tomorrow to check on my charges?”
“I hardly think . . . .”
Arthur lifted that arched brow.
“Of course. I’ll be back in the early afternoon.”
Left alone, Arthur found the confines of the study too restrictive. His thoughts kept straying to the pallid girl upstairs, and the questions he should wait to ask.
With a silent curse, he went upstairs to change. Another breakneck ride should clear his head, and this time, he told himself, he would be mindful to restrain any foolish longing for adventure. When he returned, he would dispatch men to ask questions in the surrounding countryside. Someone would be looking for her.
###
Lily roused as she felt her son being lifted gently from her breast. She wanted to protest, but felt too tired. The past day had stripped her of both physical and emotional strength.
The late afternoon sun shining behind Nanny illumined and gilded her gray hair and, suddenly, Lily was engulfed in memories. This was not the first time she had awakened to that kindly face and those gentle, but work-roughened hands. She could smell the beeswax that had permeated the upper nursery. For a moment she was the young girl with a new world to explore, a world grander and more full of adventure than even her seven year-old imagination.
Nanny shifted out of the sun, and the image faded, leaving Lily bereft. It had been so wonderful to revisit, for even the briefest moment, the girl she had been, to remember being full of strength and hope. Coming out of her reverie, she caught Nanny staring at her, lips pressed.
Nanny finished wrapping the baby and carefully lay him in the cradle, giving it a mild rock with her foot. Then she moved nearer and brushed one hand across Lily’s tightly drawn brow. The gesture spoke volumes, and Lily felt tears well up and overflow.
“I never used to cry. No matter what, I never cried.”
“Now, now. I know you’ve been brave, but Nanny’s here to help both you and the little one now. New mothers are often watering pails. You’ve got nothing to worry you.”
Nanny sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Lily into her arms, stroking her like the lost child Lily hid within herself. The fragrant scent of vanilla wafted up from Nanny’s bosom, another reminder of happy times.
Nanny held and stroked her until the sobs began to slow. Then, easing away, she went and fetched water and a cool cloth, and began to bathe Lily’s face. Lily gave herself up to these ministrations. If only everything could be so simple.
“That’s right, my chickie. Just calm your soul and everything will work itself out. You’re back where you belong and we’ll take good care of you and the small mister.”
“No, they w
on’t. They never do.” The words were barely audible; her exhaustion from the crying fit had left her limp.
Nanny didn’t answer, but settled Lily back on the pillows. The baby would be waking again, and Lily needed more rest.
She closed her eyes and her mind drifted. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry. Somehow she would get away and keep herself and the baby safe. He needed a name soon. She couldn’t keep thinking of him merely as “the baby” forever. If she wasn’t careful she’d start calling him her chickie like Nanny . . . .
Back where you belong. Lily’s eyes flew open to meet the tender gaze of the older woman who still puttered about the bed.
“You know,” Lily said.
Nanny continued to smile as she straightened the bed. She didn’t say a word as Lily watched her warily. She fluffed the pillows and gave a smile to make angels jealous.
“How could you think I’d forget?” Nanny said. “You may have been a mischievous little thing, who spent more time sneaking out of the nursery than in it, but you were mine, if only for a while. Your Mum wasn’t a bad one, but she had her own worries.” Nanny gave Lily a long, thoughtful stare. “Your departure was rather memorable.”
Lily resisted the urge to shudder at the memory. She could still see the livid sneer spread across the old duke’s face. In less than half an hour she had driven her mother from safety and comfort and back out into the unknown. She’d stood up to the dragon and rescued the prince – but the prince had not been properly grateful.
Nanny caressed Lily’s cheek, smoothing away the frown. “Maybe not everybody can put together a big toothed pixie with the beauty you’ve become, but I never forget one of my chickies.”
“I never forgot you, either. I felt so safe here.”
“Life with Lady Julia cannot have been easy.”
“She was a good mother.” Lily thrust herself upright to sitting.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to say that she wasn’t. She loved you quite plainly, now, didn’t she? But, she had other worries.”
Lily was silent for a moment. She’d sought for so long to reconcile her childish perceptions with her understanding as a woman.
“I know life could not have been easy for her.”
Nanny sat back beside Lily on the bed. “I know only from rumor and gossip, but she gave up everything for your father. She was never intended for the younger son of a viscount.”
“No, and they made her pay for it.”
“Perhaps if he hadn’t died so soon it all would have ended much differently.”
“But he did die, before I was even born. He deserted us both, left us to rely on strangers.”
“Oh chickie, you sound so bitter.”
Lily closed her eyes and lay back against the pillows. These were unwelcome memories.
“Not bitter, but matter-of-fact. I know what to expect of men.” Lily fought back tears and the profound isolation that encompassed her even in the arms of this woman who had once mothered her. She could not afford to soften. She had a son to protect.
Lily heard Nanny draw in a deep breath and release it slowly. “Not all men are like that. His grace is not.”
“Once I might have believed you, but life has taught me otherwise.”
“Nonsense, child. Regardless of the past, he is a good and strong man, you may rely on it.” Nanny rose from the bed and, gathering the dirty linens, headed for the door. As she reached the doorframe she turned back. “I can see that you are worn out. Go to sleep now, and everything will be brighter in the morning.”
“Please don’t tell him.” Lily whispered the words, but Nanny was already gone.
The next day, Lily felt as if the large, fluffy bed had finally swallowed her up. With her returning strength came an increase in anxiety and a desperate craving to run. What if Nanny told Westlake? Any inquiry would bring the searchers, bring her nightmare.
But, how could she manage to get away, if she wasn’t even allowed out of bed? She couldn’t walk more than a step or two without some maid asking if it was wise, and telling her not to venture too much too soon. How would she ever escape if she couldn’t even stand without drawing a flood of attention?
Only Nanny looked immune from the bother. Whenever the baby started to bellow, Nanny would sweep silently into the room and take charge. With Nanny’s competent assistance, the boy was cleaned and fed, and then, once everything was settled, Nanny would disappear again. Lily needed to be assured that Nanny would not tell Westlake all. She schemed to make Nanny her confederate and confidante, to learn what was happening and, perhaps, ask for help, but the untimely appearance of one or another of the housemaids always frustrated her overtures.
Gertrude, the most irritating of this regiment, an amazingly cheerful girl, whom Lily would have liked in other circumstances, seemed never to leave. Gertrude’s incessant babble only interfered with Lily’s desperate calculations. She didn’t care that her hair was perfect for the new styles, or that she’d be able to disguise her not-yet-reedy waist with the latest fashion. She needed to find a way to leave.
Westlake’s assistance could not be hoped for. The cool precision of his manner gave no hint of the gentle young man she had once known. He had looked in again the previous evening, but, thankfully, had given no indication that Nanny had spoken to him, and refrained from asking further probing questions. Standing stiff and formal at the foot of the bed, he inquired after her health and that of her son, informed her that he had sent for a chaperone, and then departed. His remoteness left her chilled. It had taken all her courage not to burrow beneath the covers. The only bright side to his visit was the maids’ obvious intimidation; they disappeared the moment he arrived.
He’d returned this morning. Lily had hardly finished her breakfast tray when he strode into the room. The maids vanished at his appearance.
“How is your health? And that of your son? Is everything to your satisfaction?” Westlake uttered the words with such precision that Lily would not have been surprised to learn he had rehearsed them.
“Very well, thank you, your grace.”
Westlake looked at her and pursed his lips, but held his silence. Lily fought off a nervous urge to giggle or cry. Trying to cover her tension, she added, “Although, your grace, I prefer my eggs coddled, not fried. They’re so much more comforting that way.”
Her attempt at levity didn’t even cause that eyebrow to rise. He strode about the room, restless, a wolf on the prowl. He stopped by the cradle and peered down at the small face, watching it scrunch and relax in sleep. Lily clenched her hands, fighting the urge to place herself between the small being that had become the center of her universe and the cold hard man who could not be trusted.
“What are you going to call him?” he asked abruptly.
“Who . . . ? Oh, I really haven’t decided. I was thinking of naming him Simon, after my father.”
“Not after your husband, his own father?”
Lily felt her breath catch at the question. She had never even considered naming the baby after Worthington.
“No.”
Now Westlake raised that single brow. He studied her for a moment.
“You are married then.”
Lily gasped at his trickery, intended or not.
“No longer.”
Again he did not speak, his silence eloquent. Her stomach twisted.
“My husband is dead.”
“Within the year, I would imagine.” His eyes shifted to the sleeping baby. “Yet you do not wear black?”
“I’ve yet to see a black night dress.” Flippancy would cover her nerves and perhaps distract him from Simon. “Should I ask the servants for one?”
He straightened as if caught by an unexpected thought. His gaze swung back to meet hers, and he let out a long breath. “I realize my question was badly phrased. I am merely surprised that one so young as yourself should be . . . . How old are you?”
“I am eighteen, your grace.”
“Hardly more than a child.” He
spoke as if he were at least a hundred.
“I would not say that.” She looked up as he walked forward, edging away from him in the bed. She felt immensely weary and alone. She almost wished the maids would return. “I haven’t been a child for many years.”
Westlake’s eyes settle on her bosom. “No, not a child.” He stepped forward.
Lily stirred under his steady gaze and words deserted her. Westlake raised a hand. She forced herself not to retreat as his eyes locked with hers, and he lifted one of her loose curls off the pillow. Her breath caught.
She stared up, unsure. Her fingers were clenched so tight it felt the bones would break. He parted his lips to add something, but Nanny bustled in. She shot Westlake a look edged with extreme disapproval, as if to intimate how improper she thought his appearance alone in Lily’s chamber, door open or not. She said nothing. She laid a pile of fresh cloths beside the infant, and then bustled to the bedstead to rearrange Lily’s pillows. Her gaze froze on Lily’s hand and Lily slowly opened her fist.
Westlake stepped. He cleared his throat and sent Nanny an icy stare. She bustled about, simulating complete indifference. Deciding that whatever he wanted to say could wait, the duke took his leave.
Arthur tapped his fingers together with growing pressure as he walked from the room. Was it morbid curiosity or something more? Every time he entered Lady Elizabeth’s chamber he saw some hidden knowledge flashing in her eyes. When he asked why she wasn’t naming her child after his father, the blood had ebbed from her face. Whatever the story was with the baby’s father, it could not be a happy tale. He recalled the doctor’s words.
No, surely not. A single blow, yes, but not such brutality.
She must have been attacked while fleeing. But, why had she been in her nightdress?
Nightdress. A black nightdress. A vivid vision darted through his mind.
“Damn.” He could not dwell on this. He had a mounting pile of accounts to review.