Red, Red Rose

by Marjorie Farrell

  Val was moved despite himself. Damn it, he didn’t want to be moved. He didn’t want his father’s money. He wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted or why he was here. He stood up suddenly, jarring the small table between them with his knee so the glasses rang as they shattered, sending bright shards all over the carpet.

  “Damn. I am sorry, sir,” he said, leaning down and starting to pick up the pieces.

  “Just leave it, Valentine. Baynes will be in shortly.”

  Val straightened up and looked down at his father. He wanted to despise him as he always had, but he couldn’t.

  “It would have been better if I had never known about you at all.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. “I always dreamed that maybe the army had made a mistake, that maybe Sergeant Aston would come marching home. And then my mother died and I had nothing. I had a lead soldier I made believe was my father,” he said bitterly. “I melted him down in George Burton’s forge….”

  “I am very sorry, Valentine. It doesn’t make up for anything, but—”

  “Don’t. I am ashamed to have said anything. I don’t know why I came, but I must leave or I’ll be late,” he said, ignoring his father’s hand on his arm and his plea to stay.

  * * * *

  After Val left, Charles Faringdon sat there, trying to imagine the boy Val had been. It wasn’t too difficult, for he had been given a glimpse of him just now.

  “You were wrong, Sarah,” he whispered. “You let your pride get in the way. I don’t blame you, my dear, for God knows what I would have done in your situation. But perhaps there is a chance for our son and me. He came here for something, even if he doesn’t know what it is.”

  Chapter 37

  Val felt his cheeks burning as he strode toward Whitehall. No one knew about that soldier. No one. And after all these years, he told the story to his father! It was all James’s fault, damn it. He’d thought he had known James and it turned out he hadn’t known him at all. Shouldn’t he have guessed? Shouldn’t there have been something about James that would have alerted him? Although, to be honest, there wasn’t anything about the two men he remembered from years ago. If he hadn’t known about them from the village gossip, he probably wouldn’t have guessed. Not that he understood the vagaries of human desire then, he thought with a smile. It wasn’t until school that he had confronted the…variations. And in the army, of course, one saw everything: men who were drawn to men, men who were only satisfied when they hurt women, even one man whom they had found hanging in a barn unconscious; Evidently that was yet another way to heighten pleasure. I am the simpleton, the fool in all this, he thought. For all my experience in the world, Charlie knew more than I.

  He had reached Whitehall just five minutes before Stanton was expected and he hurried up the stairs. Devereaux was sitting at his desk and when Val entered he looked up fearfully, his face white. “Lord…uh, the man you have come to see will be here any moment. Do you want to wait in the minister’s office?”

  Val nodded. He had been so upset by James’s confession that he hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond getting here in time.

  “You can leave the door open a bit and hear everything. In fact, perhaps that is all you really need to do,” Devereaux suggested nervously. “Just find out who he is. There is no need for a confrontation, is there?”

  Val only slipped into the office. Devereaux was right, he supposed. He merely needed to confirm that Lucas Stanton was the traitor and then inform Captain Grant. The army would decide what to do with him. Then he heard the outer door open and he stood quietly, holding his breath.

  “You wanted to see me, Devereaux?”

  Val let his breath out softly. It was Stanton’s voice.

  “Er, yes, Lord Stanton,” the younger man replied, barely able to keep his voice from shaking.

  “Well, are you going to tell me why?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t really that important, Lucas. I just wanted to reassure you that Wimborne’s is the only name I’ve given.”

  “But we had already agreed that you would keep my identity a secret. You gave me your word.”

  “I gave you my word that I would never reveal your name.”

  “And what of your conversation with Aston?”

  “Only social, I assure you.”

  “That had better be so, or I would have to do something I would rather not.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Devereaux protested, his voice high with fear, “There is no need to threaten me like that, Stanton. I give you my word of honor as a gentleman that your name never arose in my conversation with Lieutenant Aston.” His chair scraped against the floor as though he were trying to get as far away from Stanton as he could and Val heard the sound of a pistol being cocked and the pleasure in Stanton’s voice as he said, “You do understand me, my lord?”

  It was really time someone made Stanton suffer, thought Val, as he opened the door and stepped out.

  “He’s telling the truth, Stanton, so take your gun from his head.” Val stood there, his own pistol drawn and cocked. “I couldn’t get your name from Devereaux, could I? So I forced him to invite you here. But you have no more power here, Lucas, so you may as well leave. Devereaux will not be prosecuted.”

  “Ah, but what of the Marquess of Wimborne, Devereaux? You did tell the lieutenant his name, so now everyone will know, won’t they?” Stanton said with a smile.

  “Know what, Stanton? That James passed information to the French? Or that you were blackmailing him?”

  “That he is a damned catamite, of course.”

  “I don’t think that needs to come out,” Val replied thoughtfully. “On the other hand, the fact that you were behind the whole scheme—that might be made public,” he added.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Aston,” Lucas said silkily. “The government does not want a political scandal or they would be prosecuting young Devereaux here. But they wouldn’t mind charging James with being a molly. And they will take my word over Faringdon’s bastard any day.”

  “James has agreed to resign his commission and settle indefinitely on the Continent. So you have no more power over him, Stanton. I, on the other hand, have a little over you and I will see that you are cashiered. I am sure that Captain Grant and I can come up with some reason between us,” he added with a smile.

  Stanton turned his pistol on Devereaux again. “You little whoremonger! ‘Word of a gentleman’! If I kill him, Aston, then there is no evidence against me.”

  “But if you kill him, then I will have to kill you,” Val replied calmly, trying to reassure Devereaux with his eyes, praying the young fool wouldn’t move.

  Lucas’s shot was only a second ahead of Val’s, but it was enough. Val felt the pain in his side just as his finger pulled the trigger. His own aim was better, he thought from far away as he watched Stanton fall. After all, he was still standing, he thought ironically as he reached out to support himself on the desk.’

  “My God, you got him right through the heart,” Devereaux gasped.

  “Oh, I am sure not,” whispered Val as he sank to his knees. “The man had no heart.”

  “He meant to kill me.”

  “Yes, I do believe so.” Val was slumped against the side of the desk, his hand holding his side. “He’s succeeded with me, I fear,” he whispered as he slumped to the floor.

  * * * *

  They brought him to Faringdon House. The earl was still in the library and when Baynes opened the door without knocking, he looked up, a faintly annoyed expression on his face. “What is it?”

  “Your son, my lord, the lieutenant. He’s been shot.”

  The earl was disoriented, frozen in his seat. “I know that Charles is dead, Baynes,” he said quietly.

  “No, no, I mean Valentine, my lord.”

  The earl moved so quickly that his chair fell behind him.

  “Get him upstairs to the guest room,” he ordered the two Home Guard officers who were carrying Val. “Has
anyone sent for a doctor?”

  “I did, my lord,” said Devereaux. “He saved my life,” he added brokenly.

  “I will be upstairs in a minute. Now tell me what happened, sir.”

  “The lieutenant was in London on mission for Wellington and Captain Grant. I had been forwarding information to the enemy, you see, and was found out. The lieutenant was here to confirm that Wimborne was my confederate.”

  The earl’s head was spinning. “Never mind that. Who shot him?”

  “Lucas Stanton, my lord. He was the other party involved. Stanton had a pistol to my head. Then he turned so suddenly…I could not stop him in time.”

  “All right, lad,” said the earl.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You did the right thing by calling the doctor right away. And bringing him here.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go, my lord.”

  “Mrs. Aston needs to be told. Are you up to calling on her and bringing her here? I will have my chaise sent ‘round. William,” the earl called to one of his footmen, “get His Lordship a glass of brandy and settle him in the library.”

  * * * *

  By the time the earl reached the guest room, Val had been laid on the bed and the two soldiers were standing by helplessly.

  “William, get me some washing cloths,” barked the earl to the footman who had followed him up. “Here, you two, pull his boots off. Gently, mind you.”

  Val’s uniform was soaked through with blood and the earl’s fingers were shaking as he unbuttoned his tunic. “Damnable buttons,” he muttered as another one seemed to fight being pushed through the buttonhole. When the tunic was open, the earl gestured to one of the guards. “Hold him up while I slip this off.”

  Now he could see the wound and his heart sank. It seemed to be low and left of the heart, thank God, but it was so close to the lung and it was bleeding so damn much.

  “Here, my lord,” said William, handing the earl some linen cloths.

  “Good man, William.” Faringdon ripped open Val’s shirt and, placing the cloth over the wound, pressed down with his hand. Val groaned and tried to move away from the pressure, but his father held him. “There, there, I know it must hurt like the very devil, but I must stop the bleeding.”

  The doctor arrived only fifteen minutes later, though it seemed like hours to the earl. “You can relax for a moment while I examine him, my lord,” the doctor said kindly. “You did well, for I can see that the worst of the bleeding is over.”

  The earl moved away and watched as the doctor probed the wound. “Here, help me lift him,” he told the footman.

  “No, let me,” said the earl. “I’ve got blood on me already.”

  “Ah, good, a clean exit, so I shall not have to poke and probe him. The bullet went right through, you see. That’s why he’s bleeding like a stuck pig.” They lowered Val back down. “He is a lucky man, my lord. The bullet missed both his heart and lung.”

  “So he will live?” the earl whispered.

  “There is always the danger of infection,” the doctor warned.

  “He will get the best care.”

  “I have no doubt about that, my lord. You know him well?”

  “No,” said the earl with a sad smile. “But he is my son.”

  “The first forty-eight hours are critical. If no infection develops, he’ll heal quickly after that.”

  * * * *

  Elspeth arrived just as the doctor was leaving.

  “This is Mrs. Aston, Doctor,” the earl told him.

  “How is he?” asked Elspeth, barely able to control her voice.

  “Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. Aston. I was just telling His Lordship that your husband should heal quickly.”

  “Where is he, Charles?”

  “Come, my dear, I will take you up.” The earl nodded a good-bye to the doctor and, taking Elspeth’s hand, led her up the stairs.

  She stood very still for a long time, just looking down at Val, and then the earl pulled a chair over.

  “Sit down, my dear.” Elspeth sat and, reaching out to where Val’s hand lay on the coverlet, covered it with her own. “My dearest,” she whispered, with such love and pain in her voice that the earl’s eyes filled with tears.

  “What happened?” she asked, without turning her head from her husband.

  “Well, that is what I don’t know. Devereaux told me that Lucas Stanton was responsible for this.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Elspeth whispered passionately.

  “From what the young man told me, he is already dead.”

  “Good.”

  A quick smile flitted across the earl’s face at her vehemence. “Devereaux also mentioned James. Do you know anything about this, Elspeth?”

  “It is a long story, Charles, and I don’t know all of it. But from what Val discovered, Lucas Stanton was blackmailing James and forcing him to pass information on to the French. Val has had a hard time believing that James would do anything like that. He tends to see things as black and white. Perhaps if his mother hadn’t died when he was so young…. He has always seen her as perfect and you the villain, from what I gather.”

  “And what of you? How does he see you, my dear?” the earl asked gently.

  “We were friends first, Charles. But he felt he had to marry me. I have hoped that love would develop over time…but now we may not have the time,” she said with a little sob.

  “Nonsense, my dear. The doctor seemed very optimistic.”

  * * * *

  The fever developed the next day, and when the doctor was called, he only shook his head. “He may yet pull through this, Mrs. Aston. He is a healthy young man.”

  “He was worn out when we left Portugal, Charles,” said Elspeth, wringing her hands after the doctor left. “With the strain of Charlie’s death and James…what resistance will he have?”

  “You will have none at all if you don’t get some sleep, my dear,” the earl told her. “I will sit with him for a while.”

  But although she tried, Elspeth could not sleep and returned to join the earl in his vigil.

  It was so hard to watch Val toss and turn. So hard to feel his forehead get hotter and hotter, to hold his hand in hers, dry and lifeless. If he died…no, she would not let him. But if he did, she would never have had the chance to tell him she loved him.

  It was even harder when after a day of tossing and muttering incomprehensible phrases in English and Spanish and Portuguese, he then lay still, his breathing forced and so shallow his chest barely lifted the covers.

  “The fever must break soon, Charles,” said Elspeth, looking up and seeing the agony in the earl’s eyes, which she was sure mirrored her own. Dear God, surely to lose two sons in a few months of each other was too much.

  “You look utterly exhausted, Charles. Why don’t you rest.”

  The earl ran his hand over his eyes and nodded. “You will call me if anything changes?”

  “Immediately,” Elspeth assured him.

  * * * *

  Charles Faringdon entered his bedroom, looked at his bed, and gave a short laugh. He could not lie down, much less sleep, not with Val so close to death. He opened the curtains and gazed out over the garden. It was an hour before dawn, that time of early morning when it seems that daylight will never return, the time when death holds sway over life.

  “Oh, Sarah,” he whispered brokenly. “If you are anywhere you can hear me, help our son.”

  It was ridiculous, of course, to be talking to her as if she could hear him, though he’d been doing it for years. He bowed his head in despair. They had loved each other, but so had many others. She had died and their love had died with her. And in the morning, the only living proof of their love, their son, would be gone, he was sure of it.

  Chapter 38

  Val was being drawn down into the dark. He was alone, although once in a while he thought he could hear someone calling him. Elspeth. But Elspeth was not here with him. He kept moving forward; he
had no choice, for he was being pulled, inexorably, through dark and mist. Then, suddenly, as though someone had lifted a veil in front of him, he could see. Charlie was walking toward him, tall and healthy, smiling a welcome. Val wanted to stop, to clasp Charlie in his arms, but in this borderline country he had to keep moving.

  Then he saw her. There was a blinding light behind her, and at first he thought he might be mistaken. But as she walked toward him, he saw that it was his mother. She was dressed simply, in the old dress she used for gardening. She looked so familiar and so dear. And small. Val smiled as he realized she was looking up at him.

  “Mama?” he whispered.

  She did not speak. It seemed that wherever they were, words were not necessary. She gazed at him with both pride and love. The tears ran down Val’s cheeks as he took in what she conveyed wordlessly. He knew, in that moment, that his whole life he had been wanting her to see him and bless him for who he had become.

  “Where are we?” he wondered, looking around and half-expecting to see an angel winging by.

  She smiled, as if to say, “No angels and no golden choirs; there is only the Light.”

  “It is blinding,” he told her, trying but unable to look directly at the Light from which she had emerged, of which she seemed a part.

  “Only for those who are not ready.”

  “But I can’t lose you again,” he protested.

  “No one is ever lost when there is love, Val.”

  She spoke without words, directly to his heart, telling him all he needed to know: that she had done what she thought best for both of them, out of love. That she had let his father go, out of love. That she had made mistakes out of love, for human love was flawed and partial.

  “ ‘When I was a child….’ ”

  He could almost hear her voice, reading to him when he was a boy. He had enjoyed the adventurous stories from the Bible, but although he had heard these words both from her and from the pulpit many times, he had never understood them.