The brief moment of merriment faded and Lady Quarterbury’s eyes turned bleak. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if he dies. He’s like a son to me.”
He cocked his head. “But he’s not your son.”
“Not of my body, perhaps, but from my heart. One need not give birth to a child to feel love, Harry.”
A frown. “I hadn’t ever considered it that way.”
Without another word, she nodded and disappeared into her room. Deep in thought, Harry walked to his own room, wishing he could have said something more hopeful to assuage her fears. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single thing that wouldn’t have been a lie.
Several doctors and nurses were gathered outside Moordale’s room when Harry and Lady Quarterbury arrived the following morning. The hospital staff were paying rapt attention as Doctor Lister spoke to them about the proper use of disinfectants. The surgeon excused himself as soon as Harry and the countess appeared, beckoning to them. “Come with me.”
Inside the room, Lady Quarterbury immediately went to Moordale’s bedside. Harry’s nostrils registered a peculiar odor reminiscent of leather or perhaps tar, and he presumed it had something to do with Lister’s bottle of carbolic acid.
The viscount was waxy white underneath the bruising, and appeared to be completely unconscious. The countess rested her bare hand on his forehead.
“His temperature is still elevated.” She gave Lister a worried glance. “How did the surgery go?”
“He woke up halfway through and we gave him morphine for the pain. I cleaned out as much of the infection as I could, but I’ve no way to know how far it spread.”
Consumed with gratitude, Sir Harry withdrew his billfold and pressed money and his card into the man’s hands. “This is for your expenses, but I owe you far more. Send me your bill and I’ll pay it immediately.”
“Actually, perhaps there’s something else you could do for me. I’ve family in London, and a great deal of important work to do there teaching antiseptic surgery. Have you any connections I might call upon?”
“I hold some sway with the board of King’s College Hospital, but there will be politics to consider. Your transition there won’t be an easy one.”
“Undoubtedly, the promise of an endowment—should you be given a professorship—will smooth the way,” the countess said. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you, Lady Quarterbury.” Lister packed up his case. “I’ve left instructions with the nurse on how best to change Lord Moordale’s dressing, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do. He’s in God’s hands now.”
When Moordale came to consciousness, he felt cooler than he had in a long while. He’d been dreaming earlier of wandering in a desert. The heat shimmering up from the white sand enveloped his body, and the sun overhead blistered his skin, yet he kept walking, searching for an oasis. His shoulder was seemingly on fire, and he cried out for relief that never arrived. Suddenly, a red devil had exploded from a dune and stabbed him in the shoulder with a glowing-hot poker.
The memory made Moordale shudder, which brought his attention to the monstrous soreness in his chest. His groan brought someone to his bedside. As he stared up into Lady Quarterbury’s exhausted face, he struggled to make sense of her presence.
“Lady Quarterbury…it is you after all. I dreamed about you and Sir Harry and thought perhaps I’d been imagining things.”
“No, we’re both here and have been by your side for two days.” The countess felt his forehead and gasped. “Your fever is much better!” She turned her head. “Harry, Iggy’s awake!”
The older man awoke with a start, jumped to his feet, and peered at Moordale with such intensity as to give the viscount alarm. “How are you feeling, lad?”
“Dreadful, really, but I suppose I’m a little better.” He paused. “I’m afraid I made a frightful mess of the business with Miss Braithwaite. If you’ve come to get your money back, I’m afraid it’s all been stolen.”
“No, lad, I’m not here about money. In fact, when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll talk about your future.”
Moordale frowned. “I haven’t got one.”
“Yes you do, and it’s quite bright.”
Moisture rimmed Sir Harry’s eyes, but Moordale was convinced it must be his imagination again. His stomach gurgled and his throat was parched. “Would someone be kind enough to get me a glass of water…and perhaps something to eat?”
The countess clasped her hands together. “You’re hungry?”
Inexplicably, she and Sir Harry began to laugh as if Moordale had told a good joke.
He sighed. “Either everyone’s gone daft or I must still be dreaming.”
Chapter Eighteen
A Gift for Fiona
Two months later…
THE BLYTHE VILLAGE TOWN SQUARE had been transformed for the Harvest Festival, with creative displays of bound cornstalks, dried gourds, bales of hay, and a marvelous exhibition of the winners of a scarecrow contest. Booths had popped up like mushrooms, featuring all manner of carnival games, food, and toys. Donated treasures and secondhand goods filled the St. James charity bazaar, which had been set up inside a colorful tent. More games and a hayride drew festival-goers into an adjacent field, and giddy children swarmed everywhere like locusts.
People from far and wide had poured into town for the festival, and each passing train brought more attendees. Lara and Fiona had worked at the church bazaar from its opening, but several other members of the congregation showed up to relieve them of their duties mid-morning. As the sisters waded into the crowds, Lara breathed a happy sigh.
“I’m so glad we’re finally free to enjoy the festivities. Miles and Rory are supervising the hayride, but they’ll be off at eleven.”
“Until then, let’s have a look around!”
As they crossed though the square, Mrs. Wren hastened over. “My dears, the bazaar is the talk of the festival, and it’s all due to your superb efforts!”
Lara smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Wren. We just hope it raises a lot of money.”
“By the way, I purchased the set of poetry books Sir Harry donated,” Fiona said. “I felt as if they had sentimental value.”
The older woman gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ll have something to remember us by.”
“Did Sir Harry and Lady Wren embark on their honeymoon trip all right?” Fiona asked.
“Indeed they did. I’ve no wish to see America, of course, but Delly seemed to think it might be a lark.” She paused. “I like her well enough, I suppose, but she has a disconcerting habit of sprinkling French into every conversation. It wouldn’t be so bad, except that I don’t speak French.”
Fiona and Lara exchanged an amused glance.
“I’m sorry you’re all alone at Sheepfold Abbey,” Lara said. “It will be very lonely for you until Sir Harry and Lady Wren return.”
“Not at all. After the wedding in London this past week, I brought a very special guest home with me. He’s to reside at Sheepfold Abbey as a permanent houseguest. As a matter of fact, I see him now.” She waved to someone in the crowd. “Hullo! We’re over here!”
When Moordale appeared, Fiona was taken aback. Although his clothes were as dapper as ever, he was a trifle slender and his nose had acquired a distinctive ridge. Instead of detracting from his looks, however, the slightly crooked profile lent him a more masculine appearance. Many a passing lady, young and old, were giving him admiring glances.
He bowed. “Good morning, ladies!”
“I believe you all know one another?” Mrs. Wren beamed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Have fun today, and perhaps I’ll see you at the bonfire later on!” She bustled off.
“She has more energy than anyone I’ve ever met.” Lara’s perceptive gaze flickered from Fiona to Moordale and back again. “If you’ll excuse me, I must step into the Emporium to speak with the clerk about an order.”
Without waiting for a response, Lara hastened away. After an awkward p
ause, Moordale gave Fiona a sad smile. “I heard about your engagement to Mr. Braithwaite. He’s a very kind man, and I’m very happy for you.” He paused. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive me someday for that business with Miss Braithwaite. I understand my actions caused you and Mr. Braithwaite a great deal of difficulty, and I’m very sorry for it.”
“Since you nearly paid for your transgression with your life, I think we may put it behind us. I’m just glad you’re fit again. Did you know Miss Braithwaite has gone to reside in America?”
“Yes, I’d heard.” The lines around his mouth tightened. “I wish her the best, truly. I never meant to hurt her, either.”
“Rory assures me she’s come through it all a better person.”
“No thanks to me, I’m sure.” His expression seemed somewhat shy. “I’m quite grateful these days for friends. May I count you among them?”
“Of course you may.” She gave him a puzzled glance. “I don’t mean to pry, but why are you staying at Sheepfold Abbey?”
“Sir Harry means to take me under his wing, if you can believe it. He’ll teach me about business and such, as my mentor.” He paused. “My own father was never around much, you know, so it’s rather nice to have someone take an interest in me that way.”
“I don’t mean to be quarrelsome, but I wouldn’t trust his motives if I were you.”
A crease formed between Moordale’s eyebrows. “Considering everything that has transpired, I can well understand why you might feel that way. I don’t blame you a bit, but I can only tell you that he seems very changed from before.” He shrugged. “Something was responsible for his transformation, and I daresay it has something to do with Lady Wren. They’re very well matched.”
“Perhaps that’s it.” The thought of Rory always gave Fiona an inner glow. “True love has a transformative quality, I believe.”
A pretty young woman approached. “Good morning, Miss Fiona!”
Although the girl directed her greeting to Fiona, she couldn’t keep her sparkling eyes off Moordale. Her interest was so transparent, Fiona bit back a giggle.
“Good morning, Miss Hamish. May I introduce my friend, Lord Moordale?”
Miss Hamish curtsied. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Moordale bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”
“You must be in town for the festival?”
“Not entirely. I’m actually a new resident.”
Miss Hamish beamed. “I’m so happy to hear that.”
“As am I. I do believe Blythe Village rivals London for its uncommonly beautiful ladies.”
The woman blushed. “You’re teasing me.”
“Not at all.”
“I should tell you, Lord Moordale, that Miss Hamish is the vicar’s daughter,” Fiona said.
“Is that so? I simply adore vicar’s daughters!” He winked.
Miss Hamish giggled, but she was clearly pleased.
“I understand there’s a hayride around here somewhere?” he asked.
“Why, yes. It’s in the field behind the stables.”
“It sounds like great fun.” Moordale offered his arm to the young woman. “Perhaps you’d like to show me?”
Her hand slid into the crook of his elbow. “I’d be delighted.”
As the couple disappeared into the crowd together, Lara joined Fiona once more. She stared after them, wide-eyed. “Did I just see Lord Moordale arm-in-arm with Miss Hamish?”
“You did.” Fiona laughed. “The viscount and the vicar’s daughter. It sounds like the title of a romance novel!”
December, 1876
Lara burst into Fiona’s room, her face aglow. She had a bit of festive tinsel twisted into her hair and a Christmas angel brooch pinned to her lapel.
“My, but Blythe Manor is full of people! It’s a good thing Miles and Rory didn’t mind sharing, otherwise Rory’s father wouldn’t have had a room to himself. He and Papa seem to be getting along famously well, I must say.”
“I like him, too. He reminds me a great deal of Rory.” Fiona had measured out a length of ribbon and was tying it around a brightly wrapped package. “I’m glad Angelica and William were able to come with the children. Pearl is such a beautiful name for a baby.”
“William said she was so perfect and pink when she arrived, she practically named herself.” Lara’s eyes focused on the window and her lips formed an o. “Look, it’s snowing!”
Fiona followed her sister’s gaze. “How cozy! That’s two years in a row we’ll have had a white Christmas.”
“How things have changed in a year! We have a beautiful new niece, and—”
“And we’re both engaged to the most wonderful men on earth.” Fiona jumped up and threw her arms around her sister. “I’m terribly happy.”
Lara took her by the hand. “Come on, let’s go down. There’s a bowl of wassail in the drawing room, and Papa says he has an announcement.”
They hastened downstairs and into the drawing room, where the Robinson, Greystoke, and Braithwaite families had already assembled. A tall, fragrant Tannenbaum tree stood in the corner, decorated with colorful satin ribbons, festively wrapped candies, and dazzling blown-glass ornaments. Fiona and Lara went to the sideboard for two cups of hot mulled wine, and then joined the others. Although Fiona longed to nestle into the crook of Rory’s arm, she decided to be more circumspect in the presence of his father. She settled for giving her fiancé a tender smile instead.
“How was town?” she asked.
“Not as jolly without you. I’m grateful you invited my father to Blythe Manor, by the way. I would have hated to think of him alone on Christmas. The holidays already seem strange enough without Iris.”
She slipped him a sidelong glance. “Strange and yet somehow quite bearable.”
Rory chuckled. “I confess, I’m holding up under the separation unusually well. I received a letter from her yesterday, by the way. It seems she’s met a banker chap who comes from old money and she’s quite hopeful that something will come of it.”
“If she marries, will you and your father go to America for the wedding?”
“I expect we will. Father says steamship travel isn’t so very bad—except for those people who are prone to seasickness.”
“Which is nearly everyone, isn’t it?”
Mr. Robinson cleared his throat. “May I have your attention?
Conversation died down.
“In a moment we’ll go into dinner, but I have something to say before I change my mind. My investments have done so well this year, I’m inclined toward an act of uncharacteristic generosity. I’d like to invite each and every one of you on a grand tour of Europe next summer at my expense.”
Fiona gasped and exchanged a startled glance with Lara. Had their father had too much wassail? Mrs. Robinson was so unnerved by the announcement, she nearly dropped her cup.
“Oh, Wilfred, how perfectly marvelous!”
Mr. Robinson smiled. “Of course, the trip would be much easier to manage if my two youngest daughters were married.”
“I’ve no objection,” Rory said. “None whatsoever.”
Miles grinned. “Nor I. Shall we set a wedding date for directly after my graduation?”
Lara let out a little squeal. “Fiona and I can have a double ceremony!”
Fiona could scarcely draw breath with happiness. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all! In fact, I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.”
Mr. Robinson slipped one arm around his wife and raised his cup for a toast. “Merry Christmas.”
Echoes of “Merry Christmas” filled the room, followed by excited hubbub. Rory put down his cup and took Fiona by the hand. “Come with me. We’ve a few minutes before dinner, and there’s something in particular I want to show you.”
She put her cup down next to his and accompanied him toward the music room. Before they entered, however, he asked her to close her eyes. “And no peeking.”
Giggling, she complied and let hi
m lead her inside. After he came to a stop, she felt his warm breath near her ear as he whispered, “All right, you can open your eyes now.”
She was greeted by the sight of the sketch he’d done of her several months earlier, now surrounded by an elegant frame. The polished wood, set on an easel, complimented the artwork to perfection. “Oh, Rory, how exquisite!”
“One of the reasons I went back to London was to have this framed. When we’re married, your portrait will go with us into our house where everyone can see it. Until then, I want you to look at it every day and remember how beautiful you truly are and how much I love you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Consider it an early Christmas gift.”
“Rory, you’re my Christmas gift.”
She stood on her tiptoes to give him a long, lingering kiss…until Mr. Robinson harrumphed from the doorway.
The End
A Personal Request From the Author
I love to write, but I can’t do it without you. If you enjoyed A Gift for Fiona, would you consider leaving a review? Not only would I like to hear your thoughts, but your review is very helpful to other readers. Thank you in advance!
Suzanne G. Rogers
About the Author
Originally from Southern California, Suzanne G. Rogers currently resides in beautiful Savannah, Georgia. She writes paranormal, historical romance, fantasy, and romantic fantasy stories, is owned by two hairless cats, Houdini and Nikita, and lives on an island populated by exotic birds, deer, and the occasional gator. Tab is her beverage of choice, but when she imbibes, a cranberry vodka martini doesn’t go amiss. To follow author Suzanne G. Rogers:
Visit her blog at: http://suzannegrogers.com/
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Historical romance titles by Suzanne G. Rogers include:
A Gift for Lara (Love Letters series Book One)
A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2) Page 20