“No. As I said, they will discover him soon enough. And I must use the time to figure out a course of action, although what it may be escapes me.” Simon poured himself a whisky, steadying himself on the sideboard, quickly draining the glass before then pouring another in its wake.
“But where is Eleanor?” Both men turned to the sound of the front door opening. Eleanor entered, wrapped in a blanket, dazed, and disoriented as she swayed. Gaelan captured the faintest gleam of life in her eyes, holding to it like a beacon. She took a small step toward him, but faltered, swooning into his arms.
“Bell, if the police should come by and see the two of you covered in blood—”
He nodded. “I shall bathe and dispose of these clothes; then I—”
“Allow me this one occupation, I beg you; I shall attend Eleanor.”
Simon raised an eyebrow before nodding slightly. “You will find towels and blankets in the linen closet upstairs. Clothing, you will find in the armoire in her dressing room.” He mounted the first stair before turning back toward Gaelan. “Erceldoune. Should any of the servants inquire—anyone at all inquire—Eleanor suffers from the bloody flux . . . and they must stay far, far from her!”
With difficulty, Gaelan removed his coat and draped it across the drawing room settee. He carefully laid Eleanor upon it. It should do for the moment. He was grieved to leave her even for the few moments needed to locate clean clothing and blankets.
Yes. Dysentery. It was as good an explanation of the blood and the state of the woman as any—for the moment. A keen eye, however, would recognize the lie in an instant.
Even in her sleep, Eleanor twitched and stirred restively, her whimpers cutting to Gaelan’s core. He smoothed back her hair, trying to calm her as he cleaned her face and hands. The dress was a ruin, and must be burned. His left hand still useless, he struggled removing the gown one-handed. Finally, it was off her, and he smiled at the small victory. The heavy fabric of her gown had managed to absorb nearly all the carnage. Her petticoats could be left in place at least.
By the time Simon came into the drawing room, Eleanor was wrapped comfortably on the settee, a pillow beneath her head, still asleep. Together, the two men kept vigil, waiting in silence, watchful. Gaelan stood finally, going to the garden doors, looking out into the incongruous peacefulness of summer, its colors incomprehensible in the dull gray lifelessness of the room. He massaged the painful remains of his left hand, no longer bandaged, the scars healed, replaced by smooth skin, as if there had never been three fingers there at all. Even healed, it was now a pointless appendage. “I should have been the one, Bell. It should not have been Eleanor. I . . . I should have done it.”
“What are you saying?”
Gaelan shook his head, ignoring Simon. “I should have—” He pounded his fist against the doorframe over and over in frustration, welcoming the blood as it trickled down his wrist, more with every blow. Had he only known of Simon’s pistols, he would have done it. No, that wasn’t it at all; he’d been petrified to see Braithwaite standing not fifty yards away in the foyer. He’d not the courage to confront his tormentor, so Eleanor did it. He knew she’d done it for her own reasons, but she’d taken control of her misery and delivered Braithwaite into the hands of justice that the scoundrel otherwise would never know. And now, unless he acted, she would hang for it.
“They’ll suspect me anyway—the police, will they not?” Gaelan had not intended to say it aloud.
“What? What the devil are you saying?”
“Eleanor would not be a suspect, at least not at first. Why would she be? I am so much more likely, and in residence here? Given my history with the man? It is perfect. I stole your weapon, confronted him in his own castle, and slew the sadistic monster.”
“That is insane!”
“Would that I’d had her courage, it would have been my bullet in his head, not hers, for what I suffered at his hands.” He hoped Simon would see the sense in it—it was the only way out of this calamity.
“It is madness, what you suggest. Eleanor can easily plead self-defense—driven mad by a brutal husband. No court will convict her, and she will be put safely away in a private asylum for a period of time. . . . God knows she will be a wreck in any event! She is not the first, nor the last, gentlewoman to have killed a husband or lover for—”
“Are you mad, Bell?” Infuriated, Gaelan hurled a goblet into the fireplace, watching it shatter on the stones. “You cannot seriously desire her to be committed to an asylum, private or not. Of course, she would not be committed to Bedlam, yet any asylum would mean at the very least the death of her vibrant spirit. I will not see this befall her for executing a monster. No! I’ve a much better plan.”
CHAPTER 40
“This is beyond insane,” Eleanor exclaimed, finally awake, sitting on the sofa in a nest of blankets. “I will not have you do this, Mr. Erceldoune. Not for me nor for yourself. Please leave it be! I have made my peace, and I regret it not a whit! I would murder—yes, murder—him again in a trice. To have . . . have him walk free . . . to do as he pleases with impunity? I cannot fathom it. Could not fathom it. Surely he would have killed me himself and . . .”
Finally, she broke down into shuddering sobs—wave upon wave. First Simon, then Gaelan approached, but she waved them both away, forcing their helpless retreat.
The authorities could be at the door any moment; it was only a matter of time. Simon implored her to listen to reason. “We have been through this, Eleanor. Please go upstairs to your rooms. You should not be down here when the police arrive.”
“If I might have a moment with your sister alone, Bell?” Gaelan knew he would need to tell her all of it, the whole bloody truth, if there was hope she might agree to the plot. But would she believe him, or instead think him noble, willing to sacrifice his life for her? He waited until Simon closed the drawing room doors behind him.
He knelt at Eleanor’s feet, taking her hands in his, self-conscious when she ran her thumb along the crest of his mutilated hand. “Your husband was correct about one thing, Eleanor,” he began haltingly. He’d never told anyone besides Simon, and it was more difficult telling her than he imagined. “There is a reason I offer myself in your stead—a practical reason.”
How to say this and make her believe it? “Four and a half years, try as they might: vivisection, rats, rabid bats, fire, the flail, the blade, bullets . . . they could not kill me. Your brother, a physician, knows it to be true.” He stopped. Gaelan saw no need to expose Simon as well. “Knows it to be true of me.”
Gaelan had wondered time to time about the guillotine. What then? Would his head come loose from his body and stay alive? Or would it writhe on the planks, refusing to wither and die, like Irving’s headless horseman? It was something Handley, for all his devilry, had not endeavored to demonstrate.
Eleanor tried to stand, but fell back to the cushions. “Do you think me a fool, Mr. Erceldoune?” she said. “I know what you are up to. You think your life is worthless after the horror you experienced . . . and at his hands. And you wish to end your life, and Richard’s murder makes for a convenient vehicle. Suicide by execution!”
Gaelan struggled not to be stung by the implication.
“No . . . I know that isn’t true, my dear Mr. Erceldoune.” She touched her warm hand to his cheek, lifting his gaze to hers. “But I cannot let you die in my place; I could never live with myself. I—”
They had no time to go to and fro like this. “Hear me, Lady Braithwaite . . . my darling Eleanor. The police shall soon be knocking at the door. You must believe me. Yes, this is a chance for me, but not what you think. Never before, Eleanor, have I thought to use my . . . my condition . . . to exploit it to such excellent advantage. How can I not, now when your own innocent life is at stake? What use is it, this curse under which I have lived for two and a half centuries—so many, many lifetimes I have been granted . . . endured? Can I not surrender even one for this? And know it is not for you solely I do this, bu
t for my own self as well.”
His face grew hot as she searched every inch of his countenance, which he laid open for her to see into his heart and soul.
“Even should I believe your incredible story, how can you know this potion, this ‘bit of magic’ as you call it, won’t kill you . . . really kill you?”
“Please. I ask you to trust me, as I have trusted you with this most profound secret of mine. There is none who knows it for certain but your brother . . . and now you. After this is over, and I walk back into this house quite alive, you will have at your disposal the means to ruin me should you ever desire it. Discovery is the one thing in this life I fear most. My sanity will not withstand another ordeal as I have only just been through—”
Eleanor chewed on her lower lip. She was considering it. Good. She leaned into Gaelan, pressing her forehead onto his.
He waited, feeling the frisson of her assent transmit through to him. “Yes,” she whispered.
He sat beside her on the settee; Simon would return any moment. Taking her hand in his, he lifted it to his lips. “Thank you. I promise, it will be all right.” She was so close. His hands tangled in the chaos of her hair as he drew her in, gently capturing her upper lip, then the fullness of her mouth. Fire roared within him despite the situation, but there was no time, and with regret, he left her, and joined Simon in his laboratory.
The plan was simple enough. A poison—one that would kill a normal man instantly, and well match the effect of a hanging: breathing stopped, heartbeat halted long enough, he hoped, for the scaffold doctor to confirm he was, indeed, dead. An injection through a vein in his wrist at just the right moment. Timing was everything.
“And after?” she asked once they’d returned to the drawing room. “Once you come back to us?”
He bowed his head, unable to meet her eyes. “I shall leave these shores, never to return. I will be off to America and reinvent myself as I have so many, many times before, and shall do again and again. And you shall be free of this albatross, to marry and grow old and fat with many grandchildren, my sweet Eleanor. Now, retire to your room, whilst your brother and I await the inevitable.”
“But, I want to stay!”
It would not do for her to be about when the police called. She was no actress; her guilt . . . and her attachment to Gaelan would be written too clearly upon her countenance. “No, my lady. You cannot be here.”
Her tears fell, and she seemed to comprehend. Gaelan swept his thumb across the arch of her cheek to wipe them away. “Now, go.”
The trial was swift, and Eleanor gripped Simon’s hand when the black cap was placed atop the judge’s wig. Gaelan looked up toward the gallery, a reassuring smile crossing his features. “My death,” he had told her in the letter he’d left for her, “shall transform to opportunity. I shall arise like the Phoenix, reborn and anonymous in a vast and glorious new land. But should all go well, I hope to see you one last time before I depart Britain forever.”
Five days later, at ten in the morning, Eleanor and Simon stood at the front of the gathered mob, joining with the crowd in tossing rotted vegetables and worse as the wagon bearing the condemned man drew close. Eleanor’s eyes never left him, and she couldn’t help but notice when Gaelan caught the tomato hurled at him by Simon, pocketing it quickly, a silent nod exchanged.
And when the knot was tied about his neck, Simon held her close. She cheered as was expected, but could not stand to see it, refusing to witness the strangulation of the brave man who stood upon the scaffold in her place.
“Courage, sis. You must watch the show, for that is only what it is—”
“You do not think he suffers? I do. I know he does. And I cannot bear to watch it.”
“Hush now. You must shout your hurrahs, heartily like the mob. You do not know who may be watching.”
Gaelan swung, struggling for breath, mouth agape as the crowd around her roared—bread and circuses. She wanted to vomit. Suppressing a sob that rose from deep within, she uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Gaelan, fervent and with desperate hope that she would be afforded the opportunity to throw her arms about him soon.
“There, d’you see, Eleanor?” Simon gestured very slightly with his head toward Gaelan’s hand, clenched in a fist as he injected the poison. Cheers went up throughout the prison courtyard as the limp body was taken down and thrown onto a barrow. A doctor hovered nearby, checked for a heartbeat. Finding none, he declared Gaelan Erceldoune deceased. “So much,” he shouted with glee, “for the man who cannot die!” The crowd roared; raucous laughter filled the courtyard.
Simon explained the second half of the plan to his sister as they rode home from the hanging. “Eleanor, my dear, I have arranged through the Royal Academy, and using a few well-placed connections, to procure Erceldoune’s rather unusual body for further study, something done to ‘honor’ your late husband’s heroic scientific efforts.”
“But what if he really is dead? He looked so lifeless lying there. So very still, Simon. I would not be able to bear it if—”
“Trust me, will you not? He will be right and fine in a few days at the most; this I know. This poison he concocted, yes, it is fatal, but only to an ordinary man, which Gaelan Erceldoune most assuredly is not. Shall you come back to my house, or will you go stay with Mama in Cheshire?”
“How can I face her now? I would likely blurt the entire thing out to her in a fit, and then we are all done for. No I shall stay with you until I know he is safely in your hands and well. Only then do I believe I can begin to place this nightmare behind me. Besides, I do want to see him, if only to thank him one last time before he vanishes from our lives.”
Late in the afternoon, Gaelan’s lifeless body, wrapped in rough brown hopsacking, was brought through the back of the house and up the stairs. Eleanor joined Simon in the laboratory as soon as she heard the porters leave, locking the door behind them.
Simon was already struggling to remove the coarse bag from Gaelan’s face. “Here, Eleanor, give me a hand, would you? We need to move him from the floor; it may be some hours before he revives, and I want him comfortable when he does. Between the effects of the hanging and the poison—I do not know; it could be hours or days . . . or . . . .”
“Was it necessary to take the poison injection if the hanging . . . ? He never explained—”
“He wasn’t certain the hanging would actually kill him, even if only temporarily, and he wished to take no chances. Imagine if his body refused to die? No. He needed an assurance—immediate and fatal—as you witnessed.”
“Would that I’d have had some of that! ’Twould have been far less a mess to rid myself of that monster of a husband, I daresay.”
Simon’s face registered surprise. “That is rather coldhearted.”
“The world is a far better place without Lord Richard Braithwaite.”
Eleanor sat beside Gaelan’s bed tirelessly, terrified he would never awaken. She ate nothing nor slept but for an hour or two, keeping her vigil. He was cold to the touch, his lips blue.
She entwined their fingers, fighting revulsion from contact with the lifeless body. Her tears fell hour upon hour, soaking the white muslin sheet—his shroud—as she prayed for his recovery, believing with all of her soul that he and Simon had been wrong—he would never awaken, not from this.
Two days, and suddenly, a rumble vibrated through her where she’d laid her head against Gaelan’s body. There was an intake of air deep from within his chest, and she leapt from her chair in surprise.
He blinked. “Eleanor,” he whispered, his voice parched and hoarse. “Water . . .” She held a cup to his lips as he propped his elbows on the mattress.
“Do not drink so fast,” she whispered in his ear, unable to suppress a smile.
He nodded weakly, gesturing for her to put aside the cup as he grasped her other hand, holding onto it as he brushed his lips across her fingers with his last ounce of energy before falling back to sleep.
CHICAGO’S NORTH
SHORE, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 41
Anne walked the several blocks from her hotel to Gaelan Erceldoune’s shop. Hammersmith’s e-mail was still on her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more adamant she became. She would reveal none of what she knew about the Miracle Man. Anyway, she was bound by the rules of patient confidentiality.
Mr. Erceldoune had agreed to have a peek at her book, and she wasn’t about to betray him, especially not to Transdiff Genomics, Ltd. and Lloyd Hammersmith.
She looked to the west, noticing that the late-afternoon sun had painted the glass and brick of the buildings a surreal amber-pink as the light reflected bright off the mirrored windowpanes. She was captivated by the fusion of art and architecture. Erceldoune’s shop, ancient and dwarfed by the glittering skyscrapers, was barely visible beneath the elevated tracks, and she wondered if it was an intentional choice for the reticent man. The street outside was quieter than it had been the day before; the miniature shrine she’d swept away had not yet been replaced. She smiled, satisfied that she’d done something nice for him.
“Dr. Shawe. Please come in.” Gaelan surprised her with the warmth of his greeting. The reading table at the center of the shop was set with fresh fruit: grapes and small tangerines. The kettle was steaming at the center, and the room smelled of oranges and ginger, not the mustiness of the night before.
“I see your fan club has finally abandoned you—”
“And the media vans as well. It seems my fifteen minutes of fame are at an end. Thank you, by the way, for clearing the flowers and candles. It helped, I’d venture, and had much to do with this welcome return to anonymity.”
His mood was much improved; maybe he’d finally gotten some sleep. He poured out two mugs of tea. “I love Constant Comment. Thank you,” she said.
“It’s not. I blend my own teas, something I’ve . . . I learned to do long ago, back home. But you’re close. It’s fresh orange peel and clove, a bit of ginger and cinnamon bark, and black tea. A touch of cayenne. I suppose it’s similar to traditional chai. Do you take milk and sugar?”
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