by Jane Toombs
"Monsieur?” A short, mustached man in a blue waistcoat fastened with large gold buttons, looked inquiringly up at Clive. “May I be of service?"
"Is Lieutenant Timmons here?” Clive asked.
"Timmons? Timmons? Ah, yes, but of course.” The Frenchman nodded across the room to two men, one obviously an instructor—he was demonstrating a lunging attack—the other his student. Though both were masked, the student had the lean look of Timmons. The two men fenced and, watching, Clive saw that Timmons, if indeed it was he, was proving to be an apt pupil.
Clive crossed the room, heard the instructor say, “...to the heart,” before both men became aware of his approach. They swung around to face him.
"I say! Captain Chadbourne!” The voice was the voice of Timmons. “Clive Chadbourne."
Timmons yanked off his mask to reveal his thin, long-nosed face and his sandy hair. Holding the mask in his left hand, his glistening sword in his right, he limped slowly, deliberately, toward Clive who, not knowing what to expect, held his ground, as a tingle of excitement—not fear—coursed through him.
Timmons swung his sword hand to one side, the hand holding the mask to the other, as he advanced. Clive watched the sword warily, ready to leap from harm's way if Timmons attacked. Timmons, however, did not attack, instead he flung his arms around Clive, embracing him.
"I say,” Timmons said, stepping back and smiling. “I am glad to find you at last."
"You found me?” Clive asked. “I never realized you were looking for me."
"I caught a glimpse of you the other night near White's, or thought I did, in that damned fog, but then I lost sight of you. When I inquired at your home, I was told you had taken lodgings in Bloomsbury. When I went there, a lady wearing spectacles, a motherly sort, said you were visiting relatives in Brighton."
"When I saw you in the fog, you were brandishing a sword. At least I thought you were."
Timmons shook his head. “They say London is a dangerous city at night, but surely not dangerous enough to warrant my carrying a sword. What could you have seen?” All at once he smiled. “I say, I have it, in the fog you must have mistaken my cane for a sword."
What a fool I was, Clive told himself. “And then you sought me out?"
"I never expected to see you again, not alive, not after Vittoria.” He glanced at Clive's forehead. “I assumed you were dead; I should have known it would take more than Bony to kill you, Captain."
Clive ran his finger along the length of the scar. “I recall riding toward you, I remember hearing an explosion, nothing more."
"Before you came riding to me to pull onto your horse, I was hit,” Timmons said, “once in the arm and once in the leg. I came here to the Academy to hone my fencing skills to regain what I lost. Or try to.” He smiled. “The Frenchies did this to me, their bloody academy can damn well help me recover."
He led Clive to the window. “Look down there,” he said, nodding at the bustling street where clattering carriages hastened past, two horsemen rode side by side, urchins scuttled away from a vegetable stand, an organ-grinder strolled past followed by a monkey on a chain—all the ordinary comings and goings of a busy London street at midday. “How marvelous,” Timmons said, “and I can enjoy it because of you."
"Because of me?"
"You remember nothing?"
Clive shook his head. “Nothing until I opened my eyes to see a surgeon staring down at me with a rather doleful expression on his face."
"After you went down, one of the French bastards rode at me, his sword raised, shouting bloody murder. You somehow managed to scramble to your feet and shoot him. Then you picked me up, hefted me over your shoulder like I was a sack of meal, and carried me a mile or more toward our lines looking for help. Carried me until you collapsed. I crawled on only to have the damn Frenchies swoop down and take me prisoner. They must have left you for dead or else they failed to spot you."
Clive gave a sigh of relief, now knowing he had not betrayed Timmons, had not been a coward, had not fled in panic rather than face the enemy. “Thank God,” he murmured.
"I should be the one to thank God,” Timmons said. “And you, Captain, if there's any justice in this world, should have a medal."
"Hearing your tale,” Clive assured him, “is reward enough."
* * * *
It was just as well that she, her mother, and stepfather were traveling to Sussex today, Phoebe told herself, for she certainly had no desire to see Edward again after he had acted so abominably in the gazebo. Not that she believed for a minute that Alcida was as dangerously ill as Deirdre seemed to believe. Her younger sister did have an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate every minor ailment. But with Clive still in Brighton—she expected him to return at any time—and Edward having placed himself beyond the pale with his behavior after he had, in effect, lured her from the party and practically forced her to accompany him to the gazebo where he had—
No! She would banish Edward from her thoughts and from her life forevermore. His actions had been completely inexcusable. And after she had always considered him to be a true gentleman!
There was a tapping on her chamber door and, when she opened it, Phoebe saw the new maid—JoAnn? Joanna? Annabelle? How could she be expected to remember the name of every last servant?—standing in the hall with a frightened look on her face. The young girl started to speak only to begin stuttering unintelligibly.
Phoebe sighed in exasperation. “Has someone come to visit me?"
The maid nodded eagerly.
"Clive? Captain Chadbourne?"
Again the maid nodded. “In the-the drawing room,” she managed to say.
Phoebe flicked her hand in dismissal and the girl hurried away. There was little need, Phoebe decided as she primped in front of the glass, to learn the girl's name since the new maid would most likely be gone before the first of the year. If Phoebe had any say in the matter.
When Phoebe entered the drawing room, Clive bowed over her hand and then led her to sit on the couch in front of the fire. How somber he looked! He never seemed to smile since being wounded.
She expected him to sit beside her, but instead he chose an overstuffed chair some distance away. A glance at him—she looked quickly away at the sight of that ghastly scar—gave her the impression of a greater self-assurance than he had displayed at any time since his return to England.
"Your mother told me,” Clive said, “that you all are leaving within the hour to go to Alcida in Sussex.” When she nodded, he went on, “Therefore I intend to be as succinct as possible.” He drew in a deep breath. “We have been betrothed for more than six months, Phoebe, but whenever I propose setting a date for our wedding, you, for some reason or other, find it unacceptable."
She lowered her head, staring at her folded hands.
"I promised to marry you,” he said when she made no reply, “and I fully intend to be faithful to that promise. However, I consider it reasonable to ask you to agree on a date so plans for the ceremony will be able to go forward."
"Unfortunately,” Phoebe said, “your illness precludes an early wedding."
Clive rose from his chair. “Not at all.” He ran his forefinger along the length of his scar, the wound now white with a faint tinge of pink, as Phoebe quickly glanced away. “As you can see, my wound has healed much faster than anyone, Vincent included, expected."
"That is wonderful news,” she said with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
Clive nodded, slowly paced back and forth in front of her. Watching him walk away from her, Phoebe saw his scar reflected in the looking glass between the windows. When he walked in the other direction, she saw the scar in the glass next to the hunting prints.
"More important,” Clive said, coming to stand in front of her, “only this morning I solved a troubling mystery when I discovered what happened to me after I was injured, found that I behaved honorably in battle."
Forcing herself to look directly at him, Phoebe bit her lip at the sight of the heal
ed gash on his forehead. Could anyone blame her because her sensitivity happened to be greater than that of others? Phoebe asked herself. She felt tears spring to her eyes.
"I have made a reasonable request, Phoebe,” Clive told her, “and I deserve an answer."
Phoebe sprang to her feet and walked to the window where, with tears blurring her vision, she looked unseeing at a carriage waiting on the opposite side of the street. She could never, she realized, bring herself to marry Clive, but in light of Edward's recent unpardonable behavior, if she told Clive the truth she would be left with no one. She would be alone, all of twenty years of age and totally without prospects.
She was doomed to be a spinster, she told herself. No, she would be a martyr, much like Mary, Queen of Scots, much like Joan of Arc.
Dabbing at her eyes, she turned to Clive, determined to be brave while realizing what she must do. If only she had a choice!
"Dearest Clive,” she said, taking his hand in hers while avoiding looking directly at him, “soon after I accepted your proposal of marriage I made a heart-rending discovery. I realized my feelings for you were much less fervent than yours for me. In fact, I came to the conclusion I had been unduly swayed by the your earnest and ardent pleas of everlasting love."
"You should have told me,” Clive said.
"How, in good conscience, could I?” she asked plaintively. “When you returned from the Peninsula, your health, as you recall, was most precarious and so I refrained from saying or doing anything that might cause you to sink even further into your slough of despair. Perhaps I was mistaken and behaved in much too tender-hearted a way; probably I should have spoken at once, but I held my tongue to help you in your time of trial and tribulation. If I acted wrongly, dear Clive, I beg your forgiveness. My only excuse is that I did it for you."
Clive gave a small bow of acknowledgment.
"Now,” Phoebe said, “with your health fully restored, I must speak candidly and trust that time will heal the wound my words will surely cause you.” She looked up into his eyes, endeavoring to avoid seeing the scar. “Dear Clive, I wish to be released from my vow to marry you. Pray say you will release me, Clive."
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Dear Phoebe, I do release you, I do, I do."
* * * *
Phoebe watched from the window as Clive left the Darrington house and climbed into his traveling chaise. Had he seemed the tiniest bit relieved?
Almost immediately she shook her head. No, of course not, how foolish of her to imagine such a thing. He was a cavalry officer returned from the war; she had mistaken his soldierly ability to conceal pain for relief. How courageously he had accepted what must be the greatest disappointment of his life with a show of bravado.
She sighed, but managed to smile wanly, telling herself she had done the right thing. Time would heal the wound she had inflicted. Moments after Clive drove away, she saw the driver of the carriage that had been waiting on the other side of the street flick his whip. The carriage clattered off, almost as though following Clive's chaise. Phoebe was surprised to see the initials “H-H” on the carriage door. Harmon Hall? she wondered. There were no passengers and, though he seemed vaguely familiar, she failed to recognize the driver, a lean young man with a black patch over one eye.
How very strange, she thought, and then immediately forgot the mysterious carriage as she hurried to find her mother to tell her the news of the breaking of her engagement to Clive Chadbourne.
CHAPTER 19
Deirdre sat in a straight-backed chair at Alcida's bedside alternately nodding, opening her eyes only to nod again. Coming completely awake with a start, she rose and leaned over the bed. Alcida was asleep, her face flushed, her skin hot and dry to the touch. To Deirdre, her condition seemed little changed from the night before when a clearly worried Dr. Bledsoe, after prescribing several cups of hot tea and a hot bath followed by a thorough sponging with vinegar, had administered a dose of laudanum and promised to return in the morning.
Deirdre walked to the window and looked out at the stables and the greenhouse and beyond, the path leading up the hill to the heath and the forest. Thinking of Clive, remembering Clive holding her in his arms and kissing her, warmed Deirdre and then caused her to sigh in hopeless despair. She must put Clive from her mind, now and forever.
Hearing an insistent tapping at the door, Deirdre turned in time to see Vincent stride into the room carrying a black satchel. After a glance and nod at her, he strode to the bed and knelt at Alcida's side, placing his palm on her fevered forehead. Frowning, he took her wrist between his fingers to feel her pulse.
"What did your doctor prescribe?” he asked Deirdre without taking his gaze from the sleeping Alcida.
After Deirdre told him, Vincent nodded. Unclasping his satchel, he removed and uncapped a green bottle, shaking two large pills into his hand. “Water, please."
Deirdre hurried to the night stand to pour a glassful from the pitcher.
As she returned with the water, she saw Alcida's eyelids flutter open. Alcida gasped as she stared up at Vincent. “Vincent,” she whispered, “I dreamed."
"Here,” he said, gently putting the pills into her mouth, “you must take these and then you can tell me about your dream.” Holding the glass of water to her lips, he urged her to drink and she did, coughing after she swallowed. “A diaphoretic,” Vincent told her, “to induce you to perspire."
"In my dream,” Alcida said weakly, “I stood on the shore, my long cape billowing in the wind as I waved good-bye to you until you were lost to sight. I cried. I tried not to cry, but I fear I did."
"Dear Alcida,” he said, leaning down and kissing her cheek, “you must forget your dream. I came to be with you and I shall never leave you, never."
"You came because they told you I was ill."
He shook his head. “No, dear Alcida, I discovered life without you was unbearable, so I drove all through the night to be at your side.” He raised her hand to his lips. “And now you must get well. For my sake as well as your own. And I promise you I shall do all in my power to see that you do."
He rose from beside the bed and turned to Deirdre. “I fear the air in this sick chamber has become unhealthy. It is a medical fact that the surrounding air must be pure to promote healthy action in the body. A healthy young lady must breathe approximately fifty-seven hogsheads of air every day to maintain the incessant play of affinities between the atmosphere and her organs.
"That is twenty distinct and separate inhalations and exhalations in one minute, twelve hundred in one hour, and twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred each and every twenty-four hours.
"Therefore, if foul or confined air is breathed instead of pure air, health cannot be maintained and fever often follows. What must be done here is to wrap Alcida well in comforters and quilts and remove her temporarily to another room while this one is well aired by opening the windows and allowing an exchange to take place, pure air for confined air. After a few minutes the windows can be closed and, as soon as the room becomes tolerably warm once more, we shall return Alcida to her bed."
How learned Vincent was! Deirdre told herself as she helped him move Alcida, what good care Alcida would receive from him. When their patient was back in her bed again, Deirdre looked back from the doorway before slipping from the room and saw that Alcida, a blissful smile on her face, had closed her eyes and appeared about to drift off to sleep once more.
The rest of the day passed for Deirdre in a frantic, tiring jumble. Dr. Bledsoe returned, held a long discussion with Vincent in the privacy of the parlor, various friends and neighbors stopped by the house to offer sympathy and well-meaning advice, usually suggesting that fevers be starved, during the evening. Roger, Sybil and Phoebe arrived, also offering sympathy and similar advice. Servants bustled up and down the stairs, some carrying the luggage of the newly arrived guests while others brought trays to and from the sick room.
Phoebe, Deirdre noticed, seemed strang
ely distracted, saying little, but Deirdre was so busy tending to Alcida that she paid little attention to her stepsister's moodiness. As the house quieted for the night, Vincent ordered Deirdre to go to bed, announcing that he intended to sit by Alcida until dawn. Happily, by this time, his much improved patient was sleeping peacefully.
When Deirdre entered her own room she found a small tray containing a cup of hot cocoa on the stand beside her four-poster bed. Had she asked Agnes to bring cocoa? No, but perhaps Vincent or even Sybil had sent the drink to her to calm her and help her sleep.
After slipping into her white batiste nightgown and tying the green ribbons at her throat, she sat in bed enjoying the feel of the still warm cup of cocoa she held between her hands. Taking a sip, she grimaced, preferring a bit more sugar, but she paid the drink little heed for her thoughts were on Alcida, overjoyed by what appeared to be her recovery, a recovery, she was certain, hastened not so much by Vincent's medicine as by his presence.
She drank more of the cocoa, but found it too bitter to finish. Her eyes began to droop—how very tired she was—so she placed the half-full cup on the stand, leaned to one side and blew out the candle.
Settling back on the pillows and pulling the quilt up around her chin, Deirdre sighed as she closed her heavy-lidded eyes, telling herself she should be rejoicing for Alcida's happiness rather than wondering what Clive was doing at this moment, wondering whether his thoughts kept returning to her as hers did to him. So hopeless, she murmured to herself as she slipped into the abyss of sleep, all so very hopeless.
She struggled to come awake from a dream of fire, sensing that she was not alone in the room. Was she awake or still asleep? Was she dreaming or had an intruder actually entered her bed chamber? She started to cry out, but no sound came. Her vision was strangely blurred, her head abuzz, her thoughts sluggish and confused. She had the peculiar feeling that she was both on the bed and, at the same time, hovering outside herself, watching and listening, all the while uncertain whether her fleeting impressions were real or merely imaginary.