A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  Belle caught the smell of chamomile and mint with a touch of lemon balm and perhaps a hint of catnip – nothing harmful, just relaxing. There was another scent as well. “Did the tea help him?” she asked.

  “Somethings it would hold off the sickness, other times it wouldn’t and then he’d be in bed for a week of two,” Mrs. Babcock answered.

  Belle poured more of the tea into her hand and studied the dried leaves. It wasn’t uncommon for families to make their own blends of herbal teas to treat their offspring. Many such concoctions helped and some did no good whatsoever, though you could never convince a worried mother that was the case. Few teas did any actual harm. She recognized the herbs that she’d identified by smell, but there were also some darker, waxy looking pieces that she couldn’t identify. Although the other herbs would do no harm, and in fact might help, common sense dictated that Belle refrain from giving him this particular blend until she’d identified the other component. She placed a small piece of the unknown herb in her mouth. It wasn’t bitter, nor was its taste particularly strong.

  “I think I’ll keep to the teas I blend myself, Mrs. Babcock. Tell Cook not to worry. If either the countess, or the earl questions the matter simply refer them to me.” The other woman nodded with satisfaction, clearly pleased to have made the right decision in consulting Belle. “If you don’t mind, I’ll hang on to this, Mrs. Babcock.”

  “Of course, Miss Winslow.” The housekeeper turned to go but stopped at the doorway. Her manner was hesitant as if she were unsure about the reception of what she was about to say. “One of the maids said she heard you cry out in your sleep the other day, Miss.”

  Belle smiled in what she hoped was an easy manner. The last thing she wanted was for her nightmares to become the subject of downstairs gossip. She didn’t have them often anymore, but being here, seeing Drew and Michael again had brought them back. Thankfully, she’d not suffered any of the worst ones. “Just some odd dream or another, I expect,” she remarked as casually as she could. “I hope I didn’t disturb anyone.”

  Mrs. Babcock gave her a gentle smile filled with kindness and concern. “Don’t you be worrying about that now, Miss. We’ll wake you if necessary and no one will ever be the wiser. I promise.” Belle nodded her gratitude, unwilling to trust her voice. She was not used to such consideration from near strangers. Mrs. Babcock nodded in response and left the stillroom.

  A sudden, hot smell from the stove warned Belle that the double boiler had gone dry. She tossed the pouch into one the drawers in the work table and hurried to add more water to the pan. Researching the herb would have to wait as she had her own mixtures to make. Perhaps she could send the tea to Mary Seacole, because if anyone could identify the mystery component, Mary could.

  Later that night, as the sickroom lay in quiet shadows, Belle sat at the small writing desk that occupied a corner in Drew’s room. The fire had long since burned to embers allowing a chill to permeate the air. She pulled her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders as she carefully recorded every detail of Drew's care in her patient journal. An oil lamp illuminated her pages, but did little else to dispel the deeper shadows around the room. In concession to the darkness Belle had placed a small, spirit lamp by her patient’s bedside. She tapped the end of her stylus against her jaw in thought. The journal was a habit ingrained by Miss Nightingale’s scrupulous training and in it Belle recorded every variance in her patient’s condition, no matter how small, or seemingly insignificant. She preferred working in the wee hours before dawn. It gave her the opportunity for peaceful reflection. Besides, nightmares lived in the shadows of sleep, not in the shadows of the sickroom. This was familiar terrain for her, one that held her ghosts at bay, well, most of them at any rate.

  Belle stretched and rubbed the back of her neck as she listened to the sounds of Paddy’s rhythmic snoring coming from the dressing room where he slept. She drew comfort from the steady pattern. Belle’s eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but her own rest must wait until late morning. She glanced over at her sleeping charge.

  At first Drew had been her fiercest adversary at Barrack Hospital. She’d been determined he would survive to return home and he’d been just as determined he would not. Many men under his command had died at Inkerman and his guilt for surviving ate away at him. He’d professed to hate Belle more times than she could count, calling her names and making crude suggestions to her that would have horrified their former acquaintances. Though he’d lost his anger with her over time, he’d never lost his anger with Michael. Drew was an astute man. He’d pressed her relentlessly for details about her failed engagement and her reasons for becoming a nurse. He poked and prodded, digging at her without mercy until he found his answers and then nothing Belle could say would change his anger towards his brother.

  Belle slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the silver button she kept strung on a length of purple ribbon. They’d made a pact in the hospital – all nine of them who’d form bonds of friendship. They’d pledged to stand together no matter how dark the days became. No one would be left behind. Drew, in his misery and hopelessness, had forgotten his promise. He’d cut himself from off from the very people who could have helped him and simply waited to die. Belle shivered as much from her memories as from the room’s chill.

  Michael Lassiter's unexpected kindness this afternoon nagged at her. Belle didn’t trust it, or him. Although she didn’t hold him responsible for what happened to her after Iredale cried off from their engagement, she certainly blamed him for the shameful events beforehand. He was cold and ruthless to anyone who crossed him and if he were provided an opportunity, Belle had little doubt he’d make her suffer for Drew’s injuries in even more horrible and humiliating ways. Five years ago his revenge had killed what few illusions she’d had left about love. Knights didn't ride out to protect their lady fair and true love never conquered all because, love, true or otherwise, didn’t exist. Passion? Now that was something else entirely. She had very sharp memories of Michael’s scent, his taste, his touch, but then, that’s what he’d promised her hadn’t he? Promised, or cursed – she wasn’t sure which he’d done.

  She slapped her stylus down on the desk and stood up. Memories, like regrets, were nothing more than traps. They prevented you from moving forward in life and for her, moving forward was all that mattered now. Drew murmured in his sleep and she crossed the room to check on him. She didn’t hear the bedroom door open and close behind her.

  ***

  Michael stood near the door watching as Belle bent over his bother. His thoughts drifted back to his youth, to Drew, barely five years old and following him to the stream at the far end of the park. Michael had helped him catch his first fish that day. Drew had grasped the trout tightly in his little fist and in his excitement, squeezed the thing in half. He’d cried then because he wouldn’t have a present for their Mama. Michael had comforted him and carried him piggyback to the house, Drew laughing and digging his little heels into Michael’s side all the way. It had been a good day – one of the few. A sigh escaped him and Belle turned sharply at the sound.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. “I saw the light under the door. He’s no worse, is he?” Try as he might, Michael couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice. He was angry at himself for displaying a weakness to her. She’d turn it against him in a heartbeat.

  Belle shook her head and moved quietly, motioning him to follow her to the fireplace. “Actually, he’s much improved,” she answered softly. “Drew’s more comfortable now. He’s gained a little color and his appetite has returned. It’s amazing what decent food will do.” She smiled.

  “Good,” Michael said, keeping his voice clipped and distant.

  “He ate a good supper tonight,” Belle continued. “Cook made him a tart and he was quite put out when I let him have only half a piece. He couldn’t finish it all, but that’s to be expected.” Belle’s off hand manner made the perpetual knot of fear Michael carried for his brothe
r ease just a little.

  “He’s resting well, then?” He tried to keep all expression other than polite interest from his face.

  “He is on a very light dose of laudanum at night. We’re changing his position him every two hours, you see, and we don’t want to disturb his sleep more than necessary.” Michael looked at her blankly, waiting for her to explain. “The bedsores. Rotating the patient every two hours is the prescribed treatment for bedsores, my lord.”

  “How bad are they?” He knew people could die from bedsores if they became septic.

  “They have progressed past the surface,” she replied, her tone, steady. “They are in what physicians call the subcutaneous layer of skin,” she continued. “I’ve seen worse and Drew’s are improving. It will just take time.” Her eyes, her voice, her very demeanor soothed his fears.

  He nodded. Not trusting his voice. He should leave this room before his presence disturbed his brother. Her sherry-colored eyes held kindness as she regarded him. Kindness was not a trait he'd often associated with Arabella Winston, and certainly he would never expect her to offer it to him. Still, Hodges insisted that kindness came naturally to the nurse, Belle Winslow. Michael remembered the little flower seller whom she'd helped and found himself wanting to ask her more about his brother, about the Crimea and the day Drew came into her care. For some inexplicable reason he wanted her to know that his mother was wrong, that Drew was wrong and that Michael had loved his family. Everything he’d done, he’d done for them – even destroying a debutant’s life. His guilt, his sorrow and fear for his brother clawed at him and despite everything he’d done to her, Arabella Winston, or Belle Winslow, whoever the hell she was, continued looking at him with such kind eyes. Michael couldn’t turn away from her.

  “I left him,” he blurted out. “I brought him home and then I left him.” Her face took on some of his sadness, but she said nothing. “He was so angry at me – angry about you and angry for reasons I can’t even begin to understand. I thought he’d do better if I wasn’t here to remind him of things. I let this happen.” Then Belle Winslow did a remarkable thing. She touched his arm, gently, compassionately.

  “This is not your fault,” she said. “You left systems in place to care for your brother. How were you to know that your mother would eliminate them in favor of her own strange ideas?”

  “I should have known. I know how she obsesses over Drew. When he was a child she....”

  Her hand moved on his arm, a gentle and reassuring squeeze that stopped his words. “Michael, this is not your fault. A Russian soldier did this to Drew – not you, not your mother, not even me.” His muscles stiffened as she included herself in the exemptions of those responsible for Drew’s injuries. She didn’t appear notice and kept her hand on his arm. He thought about railing at her that she bore more guilt than any of them, but he was tired of blaming, tired of worrying – just plain tired. Tonight he’d take any words that offered him freedom from the nagging thoughts in his head – even hers. He said nothing and simply listened.

  “Yes, your mother wore him down, just as that doctor, if you can call him that, nearly killed him with vile treatments. In the end, though, Drew must shoulder some of the responsibility. He could have sent for Duncan, or me, at any time. He knew that. He just didn’t want to. This is Drew’s life and he’s got to remember how to fight for it.”

  Michael considered her previous words in a new light. Belle didn’t have to openly proclaim her portion of responsibility for Drew’s fate, because she did so every day in a hundred different ways. First in the Crimea and now here, in Drew’s own home where she'd been hated and reviled by almost the entire household for driving their beloved Mr. Andrew off to war. She stood here with infinite understanding, touching Michael’s arm, offering him compassion when he’d never shown her a single bit. She released his arm and pulled her shawl around her. He missed the warmth of her touch and he suddenly remembered with stunning intensity how much he’d liked it, craved it, five years ago.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “I’ll build up the fire.” He moved to pick up some coal from the scuttle by the fireplace.

  “No, please. It’s better for Drew if the room is a little cool.” He spied an afghan laying across one of the chairs. He motioned her to sit and when she complied, he placed it around her shoulders, then took a seat opposite her. She gave him a curious look.

  He shrugged. “I can’t have you taking sick. I’ll assign a footman and a tweenie to assist you and Paddy with the lifting and hauling. I didn’t really expect you to work day and night like you do.”

  Belle smiled, “Yes, you did, but as I told you, this is simply what nursing entails. Nevertheless, I thank you, my lord. The help will be greatly appreciated. I am stronger than I look, all evidence to the contrary.” She smiled tentatively at him, clearly in mind of the spilled laundry and her virulent use of profanity. He found himself grinning in return.

  “Your speech has definitely become a little more...picturesque than I remember.”

  “Soldiers aren’t known for artful delicacy when putting their point across. A rather bad habit I’ve picked up along the way, I’m afraid.”

  Michael’s gaze drifted back to his brother, lying on his side, braced by pillows. “When he was very small Drew followed me everywhere. He couldn't keep up with me, but he didn't want to be left behind so I made up the game of knights and dragons. He was the knight and I was his noble steed. We roamed all over the fields and vales, chasing villains and fighting glorious battles. I was his legs, you see, when he wasn't big enough, or strong enough to use his own. I wish I could do that for him now.”

  “I know you do,” she whispered, “but he has his own legs and he must learn how to use them again. I’ll be with Drew at night for another week or so, until I’m certain he’s rounded the corner. That's when the real battle begins.” He turned back to Belle, noting that she watched him with the same reassuring expression she’d worn when he’d first come into the room and Michael knew what she was really telling him.Don’t worry. I won’t leave him.

  “How did you find him that day?” he asked suddenly. The darkness in the room made confidences easier. God knows he’d given his share. Now it was her turn.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Drew was just one of the many soldiers brought to the admittance tent with the rest of the wounded from Inkerman.”

  “I’m certain he was very grateful to you for helping him.” Michael kept his tone even. Despite her kindness, he needed to know just how grateful Drew had been to her and how deep a hold she had on him.

  “Not particularly,” Belle mused. She looked away as if picturing the hospital. It must have been a horrific scene for any man to witness, let alone a gently bred girl. “I didn’t recognize him at first,” she said, with little emotion, only relaying a fact. “He was covered in mud and blood. God knows what else. I’ll never forget what he said to me before he passed out.”

  Michael leaned forward in his chair. “What?”

  “Take your hands off me, you witch.” Michael stared at her and then Belle grinned. “Not really. He grabbed my hand and said, ‘help me.’ He didn’t recognize me either at the time, so he didn’t start calling me names until later. And what names that man can hurl about. Now, my lord, It’s time for me to wake Paddy and move Drew,” she said in a quiet, but brisk tone as she rose from her seat. “I don’t think you should be here for that. Go to sleep and you can see him in the morning.” There might not have been any disturbing history between them at all, Michael reflected, given her professional tone and actions. She was all cool efficiency, her only thoughts for her patient. Michael was the Earl of Stowebridge, whose reputation made grown men tremble and a young woman who now called herself Belle Winslow was sending him off to bed as if he were a tired child. He wondered how many other high ranking, self important men she’d treated in a similar fashion. He’d guess quite a few.

  He stood. “Miss Winslow, Belle, thank you,” he said stiffly.


  She walked him to the door and opened it for him. “My, my. How did those words taste?”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “Bitter as gall,” he answered. She gave a light laugh. It was a pleasing sound.

  “Best not to dwell on it then, my lord. You’re welcome and good night.” She closed the door after him and Michael headed for his rooms. Tonight he would sleep well for the first time since his return and he owed it all to a woman he had no reason to like and much less reason to trust.

  ***

  London

  He lifted the edge of his muffler up over his nose and tugged the brim of his hat lower on his forehead. Down the alleyway, dumped behind some old crates and refuse, lay the body of the hackney driver whose place Seaton had taken. He told himself to have patience as he waited outside of the club for his mark to say goodnight to his friends. The pale light tingeing the predawn sky would soon infiltrate the streets and increase his risk of discovery. He still had much to accomplish.

  Seaton twisted the reins nervously in his hands as he waited for the men to part company. He’d remembered enough about them from the old days to know their habits. They were men of note, peers who played deeply and the pot of winnings frequently rose into the thousands. Barkley won more often than most. Even if he hadn’t won tonight his pockets would still be flush. A plump partridge ripe for the plucking tonight. Seaton’s lip curled as he remembered how these men had refused him not only entrance into their game, but to even sit with them at their club. He remembered every sneer, every remark as each of them publicly humiliated him with their thinly veiled accusations of cheating and of not paying his markers. He’d had Araby though, and her success should have been more than enough for them all. He curved his lips with a sneer of his own. Barkley’s pockets would provide enough blunt to see his endeavors through – to help him find her. Then everything would be as it should have been years ago before Araby had let that bastard Stowebridge ruin his plans. Ruin her.