The Worst Duke in the World

by Berne, Lisa

  “Yes, but what if she gets in a horrible carriage accident on the way here?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Or what if the carriage is attacked by highwaymen?”

  “Even more unlikely.”

  “What if she does get here, but Aunt Margaret won’t let her come upstairs?”

  This actually seemed remotely possible to Anthony, but he answered calmly:

  “Bunch would come and let us know that Jane is here.”

  Wakefield nodded. “That’s true.” Pale and wan, he lay in his bed propped up on pillows, with the faithful Snuffles at his side, and Anthony, propped up next to him and stretched out on top of the covers, reached over to ruffle his light-brown hair just a little.

  “Father, what if I scream?”

  “Scream as much as you need to.”

  “Can I? Aunt Margaret said I must be a good little marquis and not make a peep.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “Really? Father, have you ever screamed?”

  “Oh yes, quite a bit. After I fell out of that tree, you know, and when they had to move me to bring me inside.”

  “Did somebody tell you to stop?”

  “Yes, my father did, and my mother, too. So did my brother and your aunt Margaret. Entirely unhelpful commentary, I might add. But Wake, you’ll have laudanum, remember, and that will help a lot with the pain.”

  “I hope so. Will Snuffles be scared if I scream?”

  “That’s a very good thought. Do you want Jane to hold him?”

  “No, I want Jane to hold me. Could Bunch take care of Snuffles?”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Let’s do that then. I wouldn’t want Snuffles to be scared. He’s very sinsotive, you know.”

  “Do you mean sensitive?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. I say, Father, someone’s coming. Is it Jane?” Wakefield looked eagerly to the doorway, and Anthony did too, and a few moments later Margaret—dismal in her standard black and her expression reminding him of the nasty glowering lemon-sucking face of old Myles Farr the fourth (fifth?) duke—was ushering Jane into Wakefield’s bedchamber.

  “Jane, you’re here!” exclaimed Wakefield joyfully.

  Clad in the same soft, pink woolen gown she had worn that unforgettable day when she had come over to Hastings with Wakefield after lessons and they all had had such a merry time at luncheon together, and also walking through the topiary and playing billiards, after which he had driven her home and given her chocolates and blithered like anything and kissed her (and been kissed), Jane smiled warmly at Wakefield, and came to stand at the side of the bed. “Of course I’m here.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t be.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Snuffles came staggering amidst the bedclothes to greet Jane, his funny little curly tail wagging vigorously, and Jane bent down to pet him fondly.

  “Jane,” said Wakefield, “I might scream.”

  “No, you won’t,” put in Margaret. “You’re going to be a proper patient and be quiet.”

  “You be quiet! You’re not the one getting a tooth pulled! Father, make her go away!” Wakefield’s voice was suddenly shrill and he had gone dead-white.

  “How dare you talk to me that way.” Margaret, on the other hand, was a bright furious red.

  “Meg, you’d better go,” Anthony said, doing his best to keep his voice calm even though he wanted to take Margaret by the scruff of her neck and shove her out the door. “You’re upsetting Wake, and it’s the last thing he needs.”

  “It’s my right to be here!” she retorted angrily. “I’m family. Not this—this stranger!” She pronounced “stranger” as one might utter a filthy expletive, and Wakefield said shrilly:

  “Jane’s not a stranger! Jane’s my friend! Go away, go away!” And he burst into noisy tears, just as Mr. Rowland came into the room. He looked with concern at Wakefield, who had buried his face in Anthony’s shoulder, and said:

  “My Lord, what’s wrong? Are you in very great pain?”

  Before Wakefield could answer, Margaret snapped:

  “Never mind. I can see when I’m not wanted. You can send for me if I’m needed. Though I’m sure you’ll all be happy to exclude me.” She shot a deeply venomous glance at Jane and stalked out of the room.

  There was a silence.

  As Anthony stroked Wakefield’s hair and tried not to hate Margaret, Snuffles valiantly came climbing up his chest to reach Wakefield and lick his ear, which made Wakefield giggle, instantly lightening the mood in the room, and Anthony said:

  “Jane, may I introduce you to Mr. Rowland, our dentist? Mr. Rowland, this is our friend Miss Kent, who’s going to stay during the procedure.”

  “Well, that’s splendid,” said Mr. Rowland. “And that’s what you want, My Lord?”

  “Oh yes,” answered Wakefield, lifting his head from Anthony’s shoulder. “I told Jane I might scream. Jane, you won’t mind, will you?”

  “Of course I won’t,” she said stoutly, and Anthony, looking at her across the expanse of the bed, felt so much gratitude and admiration that he would have sworn that around her strong beautiful self was an actual nimbus of grace, glowingly full of life.

  Jane didn’t need smelling salts, or feel as if she had to leave the room during Wakefield’s extraction, but it was extremely distressing to see Wakefield’s suffering.

  Fortunately Mr. Rowland was quick and kind and deft, and the Duke himself was nothing less than a reassuring tower of strength, holding Wakefield’s hand and talking calmly and lovingly throughout, and Wakefield, who kept his eyes squeezed shut, never saw that his father’s face was white as snow and that he was sweating heavily.

  As for herself, she was, as Wakefield had requested, snuggled up next to him on the bed with one arm curved beneath his back and the hand of her other arm clasping his smaller one. She kept herself soft and easy, and added her own reassuring murmurs during the intervals when the Duke briefly fell silent to draw a deep breath or to wipe his face on the shoulder of his jacket.

  When it was all over, and the tooth had been removed intact, and Wakefield’s cheek was stuffed with soft cotton, Mr. Rowland said heartily:

  “Well done, My Lord, well done. You did beautifully.”

  Wakefield opened his eyes to half-slits and weakly said around the cotton: “Yes, but I screamed.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you, My Lord, or hurt your feelings, but you didn’t even get close to the volume of several of my adult patients. Indeed, there was that one gentleman in Bath who made so much noise that part of the ceiling fell down.”

  Wakefield gave a ghost of a laugh, and Mr. Rowland took a bit of clean cotton and very gently wiped away the tears on Wakefield’s face.

  “Now, My Lord, I’m going to give you a little more laudanum so that you can rest and sleep. Shall we have Snuffles brought back in?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll go get him,” said Jane, but Wakefield whispered:

  “Don’t go, Jane. Father, can you get Snuffles?”

  “Of course, my boy.” The Duke gave Wakefield’s hand a little squeeze, released it, and got up. He ran both his hands through his hair, which made him look more disheveled and handsome than ever, and gave Jane such a long look of both exhaustion and thankfulness that she seemed to feel it directly in the region of her heart. She gave him an encouraging little nod in return, and he went loping away to find Bunch, who earlier had solemnly received Snuffles from Wakefield, mentioned a nice little marrow-bone he had set aside for Snuffles in his pantry, and promised to look after him most carefully.

  Mr. Rowland got up and began to prepare a dose of laudanum, and a few moments later a short, plump, elderly lady, dressed plainly in gray with a capacious ruffled cap atop her white hair, bustled into the room.

  “Master Wakefield!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to the bedside. “How are we feeling? Oh my, our cheek is big and fat, isn’t it? Your naug
hty, naughty father wouldn’t let me come before, but I’m here now. How do you do, miss,” she said, coldly, to Jane, then went on, beaming down at Wakefield, “A little castor oil is just the thing to set you aright, I’ve the bottle right here in my apron—”

  “Nurse, go ’way,” said Wakefield, feebly but angrily. “I don’t want you.”

  “Not want me?” the old lady said, bridling. “Upon my soul! Of course you do, Master Wakefield. I’m sure you don’t mean it. Nurse always knows best, doesn’t she? Now, we’ll just have a nice spoonful of castor oil, and—”

  “Jane, make her go ’way,” Wakefield said, pleading, and Jane, knowing she lacked the authority to order Nurse around, looked with equal pleading at Mr. Rowland. He promptly said:

  “Yes, yes, it’s very kind of you, Mrs.—Niddy, isn’t it?—but castor oil isn’t quite what I would suggest at this moment. Now, as I’m sure you would agree, His Lordship needs absolute quiet in order to rest and recover, and I’m also sure, knowing you have only his best interests in mind, the last thing in the world you want would be to see him deprived of it. Thank you very much for stopping by.”

  Jane watched with deep appreciation as throughout this short, tactful speech, Mr. Rowland managed to nimbly shepherd Nurse out of the room and close the door in her face in such a way that it seemed as if she was doing him a good turn.

  “Jane,” whispered Wakefield, “he’s a good ’un, isn’t he?”

  She smiled down at him. “Yes, he is. How are you feeling, dear Wakefield?”

  “Tired. And rather awful.”

  “Do you have a lot of pain?”

  “It’s not so bad. It’s just that blood tastes terrible.”

  She nodded. “Once, when I was a girl, I was running along the high street in Nantwich, and I tripped and fell and banged my cheek against a rock. My gum was bleeding quite a lot, and I’ll always remember the taste of it.”

  “Did you scream, Jane?”

  “Oh my goodness, yes. And I cried, too.”

  “Well,” Wakefield said, “if you and Father screamed when you were little, I suppose it’s all right that I did.”

  “You were splendid, dear Wakefield.”

  “Was I really?”

  “Oh yes. I’m very, very proud of you.” She dropped a light kiss on top of his head, and he smiled, just a little.

  “That felt nice, Jane.”

  Mr. Rowland came back to the bed and gave Wakefield some laudanum on a spoon, and then the Duke returned with Snuffles in the crook of his arm, and Snuffles was so incredibly glad to see Wakefield that Jane had to blink back tears watching their happy reunion.

  “Father, Nurse came,” said Wakefield, over Snuffles’ joyful whimpers.

  “Yes, I saw her in the corridor,” answered the Duke, a little grimly, as he sat down next to Wakefield, “with the telltale bulge of a bottle in her apron. She nipped in, didn’t she? And against my direct orders. I’m afraid I wasn’t very friendly toward her just now.”

  “Did you scream at her, Father?”

  “No, of course not. But I was rather severe.”

  “I wish I’d seen it.”

  “You will,” returned the Duke, “if she tries to come in again.”

  Wakefield nodded. “Father,” he said drowsily, “Jane kissed me.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes, and I liked it. It was very kimfitting.”

  “Do you mean comforting?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Jane, you’re not going to go ’way, are you, while I’m sleeping?”

  Jane looked inquiringly at the Duke, and he nodded at once. She said, “No, I’ll stay as long as you like.”

  “Good,” murmured Wakefield, and very shortly was fast asleep, with Snuffles settled into a furry ball at his side, gently and serenely snoring.

  Chapter 13

  From his chair next to Wakefield’s bed, Anthony glanced across the room to the three big windows facing out onto the back gardens and topiary.

  After a few hours of intermittent snow-flurries, the great gray canopy of the sky had gradually cleared to muted sunshine, and now afternoon had just begun to fade into the soft pewter, blue, and violet shades of early winter twilight.

  Soon, he thought, the stars would start to show themselves.

  And he also thought for a few moments about a book he had recently been reading, on the invention and development of the modern telescope.

  How fascinating—indeed, how wondrous—to get a better glimpse at the infinite mysteries of the cosmos.

  Then Anthony looked back to the bed, where Wakefield lay sleeping. Snuffles was next to him, and next to Snuffles was Jane, napping.

  She lay on her side facing Wakefield, resting her cheek on one hand and the other hand stretched out toward Wakefield as if to make sure he was still there.

  Her pale flaxen hair had come loose from its casual knot low at the back of the head, and two or three long wavy tendrils splayed across the shoulder of her pink gown and onto her breast.

  In repose she looked a little younger, a little less resolute than she usually did, and somebody who didn’t know her, gazing at her from a chair only four or five feet away, would be entirely unaware that when she smiled, the most enchanting dimples appeared on either cheek, as if by magic, and that her big dark-lashed gray eyes would dance in a very appealing way.

  But he did.

  He did, and it made him glad to know it.

  It made him glad, and happy, and full of a mysterious yearning which surprised him in its intensity.

  Then Anthony leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and wearily let his head drop back against the padded top-rail.

  What a day it had been.

  As the hours had passed, Wakefield had drifted in and out of sleep, Mr. Rowland had flitted in and out to cast an appraising eye on things in between seeing to anybody else at Hastings who wanted to consult with him, both Margaret and Nurse had stayed away (whether wisely or petulantly remained unclear), and Bunch had come and gone with offers of refreshment and to himself bear Snuffles away and outside before promptly returning him to Wakefield.

  Breen, Joe, and Sam, he reported on one visit, had been begging most abjectly for admittance into the house, Wakefield had said that Snuffles would very much like having them near, and so now, on the hearthrug before the fire, the three big dogs lay sleeping in a blurry interconnected heap and positively radiating contentment.

  For a few moments it all seemed so natural and so normal—Wakefield, Jane, the dogs, and himself—that it suddenly was rather shocking.

  Anthony looked again at Jane, as if seeing her anew.

  He remembered how, last week, on the day of that ghastly tea, he had applied himself diligently to not wanting Jane here. To deliberately, arduously, and successfully shut himself off from her. He had spoken to her quite dukishly, he supposed—exactly as if she didn’t matter to him at all.

  Even so, and although she had rather snapped at him on the night of the dinner-party and dance, and gazed up at him with so much coldness that it seemed to freeze his very soul, when Wakefield had asked for her, ungrudgingly had she come.

  Which said something quite marvelous about Jane.

  Anthony knew he would have gotten through Wakefield’s ordeal on his own if he had had to. But Jane being here had made all the difference in the world—not just for him but, more importantly, for Wakefield also. How Wake had clung to her!

  And as the day wore on, Anthony had felt something within himself.

  He was . . .

  It took him a while to find the words. They didn’t come easily.

  He was . . . opening up to Jane again.

  Opening up to her like . . .

  Several analogies presented themselves, one after the other.

  Things that opened.

  Flower-buds, eyes, bottles, books . . .

  Doors and windows . . .

  Gates, drawbridges, sluices, oysters . . .

  Oysters? Anthony sl
id a little lower in his chair.

  Comparing himself to an oyster was rather undignified, but still apt.

  Because, dammit, they did open.

  He smiled a little, picturing himself as the world’s largest oyster.

  His Slipperiness the Duke of Oyster.

  Swanning about the ocean floor in a seaweed cape and a crown glittering with diamonds and pearls from a pirate’s treasure chest, loftily ordering all the mussels and eels and lobsters about.

  The image sprang vividly into his mind.

  Especially the bit about the pirate’s treasure chest.

  As a boy he had dreamed of diving deep into the sea . . .

  . . . Finding a glorious pirate shipwreck . . .

  . . . Swimming in and among the ghostly wreckage . . .

  Suddenly he really was an oyster, he could feel the pulse of the ocean’s cool tide against his face—shell?—and underneath his feet (did oysters have feet? He did, somehow) was the shifting surface of the sandy floor.

  A seahorse bobbed up to him, bowing low, and from atop a nearby rock an octopus—a friend of his?—cheerily waved all its tentacles. A large swirling crowd of tiny sardines shimmered up, dipping their little heads in unison, and spun themselves away, and with a great leap of his oyster heart he saw a beautiful gray dolphin, all sleek, supple grace and power, swimming near, smiling at him. He lifted a hand—yes, he had a hand, possibly two of them—in greeting. And then a shadow fell, a big black moving shadow, something large and ominous was swimming overhead—a shark?—blocking the light, and—

  Anthony started awake and his dream fell away.

  He brought himself upright in his armchair and saw that Bunch was standing in the doorway, holding a silver salver, and behind him, Anthony could see, were a couple of footmen. The dogs on the hearthrug stirred, and Wakefield did too, murmuring:

  “Jane?”

  “I’m here,” said Jane, awake again. She reached out to pat his shoulder, and then she sat up, smoothing her hair away from her face.

  Bunch came into the room with his salver, and behind him followed the footmen, each bearing a tall vase. One was filled with big white cheerful-looking daisies and the other with gorgeous pink roses de Provins.