When she was done, the maid offered to stay with Elizabeth. "Someone should return from the dance in the next few hours, my lord. I can stay with her until then."
Gideon nodded, but he did not rise to leave.
"My lord?"
"I will stay, too," he said, and there must have been determination in his voice, for the maid gave him a curious look, then retreated to a chair of her own.
He stayed where he was, all night, all through the worst of Elizabeth's fever, even though by midnight there were other females who could have taken his place. He allowed them to change Elizabeth's clothing and bedding while he waited in the hall, but then he returned to the bedside, to watch and to wait.
Hours later, Gideon glanced at the maid on the other side of Elizabeth's bed. What was this girl's name? Janet? Meg had long since been replaced. Whatever this girl's name, she had finally succumbed to the lateness of the early morning hour and fallen asleep in her chair. Let the girl sleep, especially since Gideon could not. He had passed beyond exhaustion into that wakeful state that makes for either terribly muddled or else terribly clear thoughts.
He remembered her, the laundry maid, if not her name. She had been starving on the streets of Bristol until he had seen her plight and brought her back here to his home.
Daughter to a cruel man, a farmer on a small holding who beat her most days of her life, this young woman had run away, seeking some kindness in the world. She had found only more cruelty and indifference, and with no references, also no chances for employment. She had finally taken to prostitution to feed herself, but the horror of her new, degraded station in life had been too much.
She had tried to cut her wrists with a stolen barber's knife, but had not realized how deep and terrible such a wound must be to accomplish its goal. Gideon had found her on the High Street in Bristol, where dozens of other passersby had already stepped gingerly around the prone figure and its small pool of blood. He had calmly told her she was not dying, or at least not physically, but he had known her soul was in terrible jeopardy of expiring upon that street in Bristol.
He had listened to her story and had found what he always looked for in a waif or a drunkard or a pauper's eyes—vestiges of hope. Gideon had searched for the same in his own reflection and not found it, but he knew what hope looked like. He had brought the girl to Greyleigh Manor and had given her the decent employment she had sought. As usually happened, there had not been a murmur of trouble about or from her since.
Looking at the girl now, Gideon saw rosy cheeks and meat on bones that had been stick-thin only this past winter. He flattered himself the girl was content enough, that he had done some small good in this grim world. Surely that counted for something, even if his heart was empty of true compassion— even if he longed with every fiber of his being to leave Janet and all her ilk behind, tending only to his own needs?
He could not save the world, Gideon knew that. One man could only do so much. Until last night, he'd had a far deeper fear: that he could not save himself.
From Janet, Gideon's attention drifted to the figure on the bed. At last, about an hour before, Elizabeth's fever had broken. Now she slept a true sleep, not the terrible stupor of fever. Gideon did not need the surgeon to tell him the infection had run the worst of its course, that its quick and sharp strike was far less dangerous than the long, slow onset of gangrene. Barring further complications, such as pneumonia, Elizabeth would live. He knew more of her now, for she had cried out in her delirium.
He knew she was afraid, fearing the future—just as he did. However, her future sounded more directly devastating; whereas he feared the starvation of his soul, she feared the more immediate starvation of the body. In that, she was not unlike Janet the laundry maid.
And, like Janet, apparently Elizabeth had known a reason to fear pregnancy.
"Baby? How will I. . . ? Go home!" Elizabeth had cried out disjointed phrases, her imploring hand on Gideon's arm and her gaze fixed on his, but her mind lost to the realm of fever. And later she had said, with tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, "Papa. . . ! No baby! God, thank you, God. God... baby ..."
Now, how could it be that a young woman feared having a child since she had sworn she was not married? The "wedding ring" she had worn on her left hand was now on her right, moved, presumably, by her. A woman did not move a ring from the left hand to the right if she wished to appear married, so Elizabeth's claim she had no husband seemed borne out by her own actions.
The answers were all obvious enough, especially to a man who took in members of downtrodden humanity as a regular course: Elizabeth had been with a man, had lain in his bed. She feared she was ruined. She may have eloped with him. or otherwise secretly or quietly wed. She may have run off without benefit of clergy. This man of hers may have died, or he may have abandoned her. He may have belatedly discovered his new wife was of an infirm mind. This last seemed likely, as someone had surely placed Elizabeth in the asylum.
The specifics did not matter so much as the news that she had plainly left the protection of her family to be with her lover. Whoever he had been, her family would not have approved, that much was clear from the rambling comments she had made from her sickbed.
The only pan Gideon did not understand was why. Elizabeth hated this man, whose name she never uttered in her delirium. What she did mumble were words of contempt and rejection, laid firmly upon this unnamed man's shoulders. It was near impossible to believe she had ever cared for the man's company, let alone could have loved him.
Then why run off with him? Gideon wondered. This question required a higher level of conjecture, but it was easy enough to imagine. Perhaps, again like Janet, Elizabeth's home life had been unbearable. Marriage could have been used as an escape.
Or perhaps Elizabeth was older than she appeared, and had begun to fear the status of old maid? Gideon looked at her now calmly sleeping face and rejected that thought. Elizabeth did not seem like the type of woman who feared such labels.
It was possible she had no dowry, and had leaped at the first man who did not care about the lack. That was a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps she had acted with a complete deficiency of forethought, as was to be expected in someone who was addlepated.
Her reasons were still her own, however, for she had said nothing to answer this part of the riddle, nothing beyond calling for someone named "Lorraine," of whom it was patently obvious she was fond.
She had not called for a man, other than to heap coals on the head of the deceiver, the one who had left her with naught but a ring with a B on it. Gideon knew a moment's satisfaction that no other man's name had come from Elizabeth's fevered lips, willing to believe his satisfaction came from supposing this meant she had not given herself to a series of men. There was something in the way she carried herself, or perhaps in the depths of her brown eyes, that stated she could not have prostituted herself. He guessed she would rather choose the asylum than she would the bordello.
Perhaps she had chosen to go there, to the asylum.. . perhaps he now knew the reason why she had been of a "nervous disposition." She would not be the first female whose stability of mind had been overturned by a miscalculated love affair.
There had been a dozen times she'd seemed so aware, so present in the moment, so sane. Those moments far overshadowed the few that had given Gideon pause. Perhaps she really had been helped by her stay in the asylum, and the trauma of the fire that night had caused her to slip back into old ways temporarily?
In her lucid moments—and he knew she had many—she no doubt intended to use the ring on her hand as a shield, most probably as a symbol of a past marriage, no matter if real or imagined. With the war with France still waging, many an abruptly appearing "widow" had a tale that was easily believed in some far, tiny corner of the nation, or at least accepted without too many questions. It was the way of war to disrupt lives, and the way of the world to swallow a plausibly told tale.
Gideon sighed, saddened at the thought that Elizabet
h was yet another wounded soul, wounded by a man's deed as well as her own unfortunate constitution. She did not look fragile, but looks had nothing to do with the unrest of the mind. If he knew nothing else from his mother's illness, he knew that mental instability was never invited, never welcomed. Elizabeth could not help if she was "nervous" or given to "womanly vapors," as some doctors so kindly phrased it.
Mostly Gideon sighed because now she was no longer a nameless, faceless problem—she was Elizabeth. This woman, who had touched him, who had a certain charm and, in her rational moments, an undeniable intelligence. She was not a nobody, as she had once called herself. She had become visible to his world-weary heart as well as his eyes.
Elizabeth. Never mind her surname. Some rare occasions took virtual strangers rapidly beyond surnames, and this was one of them. Despite all his prior intentions, he knew he must do something to help her.
That was when Gideon decided she must have some new gowns before she left his home. The gowns would be his parting gift to her, even if he could not think of any good reason why she should accept a gift of any kind from him, other than the intimate connection she had made while lying in his arms, a connection he could hardly explain to her.
He would ask her if she wished the gowns to be made up in half-mourning colors, to help her perpetuate whatever tale she needed to be supported. A dead husband, a father lost at sea— whatever tale she told would surely be better believed if she could wear somberly cut dresses in mourning colors. So, she would have dresses, howsoever she wished them, because it was all he could do for her, the only way he could extend a circle of protection around her once she was quit of his home.
The idea of her leaving made him flinch, but the truth was only the truth and could not be denied. Of course she would leave. What else was there for her to do? Stay and marry him? That was not even laughable. Elizabeth could not marry a hollow man; it would be a crime against all that was good in this world. And only ponder, he thought with his mouth crooking sarcastically to one side, what manner of mooncalf children would such a union produce? No, marriage was beyond impossible.
Slowly he realized his gaze had turned inward, that he had been staring at Elizabeth's face without seeing it, and that she was now staring back at him.
"You are awake!" he said. His outcry was loud enough to wake the maid, who startled and blinked, then stretched with a yawn.
"Your hair," Elizabeth said on a hoarse whisper.
"My hair?" he repeated, standing to reach for the ewer of water on the nearby table. She would be thirsty.
"I dreamt about your hair. That it was unbound, as it is now."
He poured her a glass of water, then turned back to her, tingling quietly at the sight of Elizabeth with coherent, open eyes. "Unbound?" he echoed.
"I dreamt I had become your valet, and you wanted me to cut your hair," she said, licking dry lips.
"That is an odd sort of dream," he said with a small, encouraging smile. He sat down on the bed, sliding an arm under her to help her sit up as he had done once before. A shock ran up his arm, reminding him of another time he had held her very close like this.
The maid tried to assist from the other side, but it was too far a stretch. Gideon mildly shook his head. "Tell Cook we will be wanting beef broth soon," he told the girl, who curtsied and left at once.
He helped Elizabeth take several sips of water from the glass, then she licked her lips again.
"I think . . . you helped take care of me," Elizabeth said, the words more question than statement.
"I did."
She frowned, perhaps from trying to remember. "Did Jeannie have her baby, or did I dream that?"
"She did. A girl. Alice is the name."
"Ah. After Jeannie's mother."
He could move away now, to put down the glass because it was clear she did not want more water at present, but Gideon stayed where he was. Elizabeth's back was warm where she lay cradled upon his arm, no longer from fever but from the normal heat of a body at rest. He hated to disturb her when she seemed content; he hated to move away from touching her.
A knock came at the door, and suddenly Gideon wished he had moved, that they not be found in such an intimate posture, but to retire abruptly seemed churlish. Instead he transferred the glass to his other hand, that his innocent gesture of caretaking might be all the more obvious to whoever came in. "Enter," he said.
The maid had returned. "Mr. Clifton is here, my lord," she announced, stepping aside to admit the surgeon.
"Ah! Our patient is awake! This is excellent news, truly excellent," Mr. Clifton cried with genuine pleasure.
"She was having some water," Gideon said, not quite meeting the surgeon's gaze, afraid there was color rising in his face.
"Fine, fine!" Mr. Clifton beamed at Elizabeth. "I can see the fever has broken," he said, even before he put a hand to her forehead.
"I feel very weak," Elizabeth said.
"Well, you will. That's to be expected." The surgeon patted his vest pockets and frowned lightly. He set down the black bag he had brought with him, opened it, and cast about inside for some object or other. "Did you know you've had quite the sickroom nurse in Lord Greyleigh, my girl?" he asked as he finally found the pocket watch he had been searching for. "The fellow watched over you when things became a wee bit busy around here with babies arriving and all, or so the servants tell me."
"I dimly remember his help," Elizabeth said, returning the surgeon's smile with a tired one of her own. Gideon startled, but if Elizabeth noticed, she gave no sign.
Mr. Clifton picked up her wrist, settled his fingers over her pulse, and consulted the watch. "Well, you're better, but not well, eh? I can see you need more rest. But let us have a look at the wound first, shall we?"
Gideon took this as a cue, slipping his arm from beneath Elizabeth after he lowered her to the pillow. He stepped back, and the surgeon stepped forward, displacing him.
It seemed an abrupt ending to a long night. He wanted to say something, but what?
Gideon turned and strode to the maid, whom he thanked for her help. He gave her a handful of coins, and asked that she divide them with the other maid, Meg, who had helped. Janet blushed happily, and Gideon was reminded why he had once thought it the grandest plan in all the world to make this house a haven for those unwanted and friendless. Elizabeth had done that for him.
"My lord." Elizabeth's weakened voice still was strong enough to stop him at the door.
"Yes?" He turned back to face her, feeling oddly elated that she had called out to him.
"Were I your valet," she said on a tremulous smile, "I would not cut your hair. I would leave it just as it is."
He smiled and made a little blowing sound that implied light amusement, then nodded farewell. He slipped out the door, closing it quietly, and immediately leaned against the wall, aware his heart hammered hard inside his chest. It pounded as if he had run a mile, for no more reason than Elizabeth had implied she liked his hair.
Such a reaction was silly, adolescent even, and he felt a little dizzy with it. Worst of all, he liked the dizzy feeling and did not even try to do anything that might stop the giddiness that bubbled throughout his entire bloodstream.
Chapter 14
Are you a fain Elizabeth opened her eyes, instantly aware that a whole day of nothing but broth and sleep since the surgeon had last come had done much to restore a sensation of health. By the slanting of the light across her ceiling, it was clearly late afternoon.
She was also abruptly aware that someone stood near her bed. She turned her head, hoping to find it was Lord Greyieigh standing there, and was shocked when she saw instead the strange red-haired woman. In her arms, the woman held an infant swaddled in shawls.
"Are you a fairy?"" the woman asked again.
Elizabeth stared, and shook her head ever so slightly.
The woman sighed. "I need to find the fairies." she complained. "I need to give them this."' She opened her hand, revealing a ring t
hat lay upon her palm.
Elizabeth gasped when she glimpsed the distinctive mother-of-pearl and rubies arrangement, a ring brought back from India by Mama's brother. Uncle Frederick. "That is my ring."
The woman scowled, looking very young in her disapproval. She closed her hand around the ring, and shouted. "It is mine! For the fairies".
"Who are you?" Elizabeth demanded, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
The woman's flare of anger died down in an instant. "Lily." she answered with a soft, even shy, half smile.
What a strange, mercurial creature. Elizabeth thought. een as she realized she had sat up too suddenly, too soon: a wave of dizziness swept over her. Elizabeth gripped the bedclothes, trying not to teeter forward, trying to find her way out of the downward spiraling blackness before her eyes.
When Elizabeth could focus her gaze again, gasping at the effort, she was not surprised to find the red-haired woman was gone. Even in her distress, Elizabeth had heard the girl moving away, soft, padded steps that told of shoeless feet. A door had opened behind her; not the door to the hallway. It had to have been the door behind the tapestry.
Glancing down at her foot, Elizabeth decided she would not try her luck at standing. What would she learn, even should she be able to open the hidden door this time? Where it led, yes, but anything else of value?
She had already learned some important things, because she had at last seen the red-haired woman well. The woman went about barefoot, and that explained how a person could quietly slip in and out of rooms, unnoticed except when she wished to be. The woman—she had called herself Lily—had seemed to have a youthful manner. Lily acted more childlike than even her young face implied; she had all but thrown a tantrum over the ring.
The Misfit Marquess Page 15