“What are we going to do? He will prosecute Bill. I’m scared, Maggie, so scared. No one will believe me! He has fooled everyone into believing him a decent man.”
Maggie brushed her hand against Anne’s bruised cheek. “I think the Major suffered a fall when he left the house today. Hit his head on one of the gateposts, maybe. Bill has friends who’ll help get the cur to the barracks.” She stood back, her expression grave and worry in her eyes. “We’ve made a bad enemy, Miss Anne. He won’t forget this. We must get away before he recovers. Go and change, child, and put some things together. Mr. Fenton will go to the docks as soon as we are done here and find a ship.”
Anne watched as her dream-self ascended the stairs, just as she had done that day, clinging to the banister, so nauseated she scarcely was in her bedchamber before being ill. Every part of her felt bruised, her breasts throbbed and the cut on her mouth stung from the salt tears running over her cheeks. How could this happen? She had not led the Major on.
Anne curled up on the floor, not wanting to move, until the sense of time passing prodded her to her feet. There were things she had to do. The dress first—she would have nothing he’d touched near her. Stripped down to her corset and petticoats, Anne rinsed out her mouth and scrubbed her face and arms until not a hint of his scent remained. Hair next, brushed ruthlessly, and swiftly braided.
A traveling gown of dark blue was the closest thing she had to mourning clothes, and she pulled it over her head. The laces were in front, as with many of her gowns, to allow her some independence in dressing. She fastened them, changed into a pair of half boots, and then dragged a small trunk from under the bed. Sensible dark colours and sturdy fabrics were needed, but her hand lingered on a favorite morning gown of white India muslin, embroidered with flower sprays in brightly coloured woolen threads, a birthday gift from her father, and his favorite. Not at all practical, but nevertheless, Anne folded it and placed it in the trunk with a shawl he had also brought her from India. The small space was quickly filled with clothing, shoes, her Bible and a book of Shakespeare’s plays. The lid closed and locked, Anne pushed the trunk onto the landing for Bill to collect and crept down the stairs. The house felt empty but….
It was empty, the Fentons not yet returned, and Anne steeled herself to enter the parlour, only the knowledge that she had to gather up her father’s papers; marriage lines, her baptismal certificate, the direction of his man of business, and the like, driving her forward.
“We will need money for the passage, Miss Anne.”
Startled, Anne whirled around. “Oh, Bill. I did not hear you come in. Where is Maggie? Did you get…?”
“Major Reynard is resting comfortably after his fall,” Bill said. “One of his officers went for the company doctor and not a question asked. There is no love lost there, I’d say.” He looked toward the desk. “Your father has a strongbox in one of the drawers. Do you know of it?”
“Yes, he showed it to me, and also the papers I need to prove my inheritance. He arranged a small annuity for me, but of course it is in England.”
“I need money for the passage, Miss Anne. I don’t know of any ship sailing for England, but we’ll get something. Maggie is in the kitchen. Get some tea or broth in you, lass. It will help, I promise you,” he added, when she winced at the mention of food. “I’ll bring down your trunk when I get back from the docks.”
Anne unlocked the strongbox, counted out what Bill felt was needed, and he hurried out. Perhaps he was right and tea might settle her stomach. The kitchen then, as soon as she finished sorting through her sheet music to choose a few of her favorite pieces. Her flutes had their own case; which she carried personally. She was not leaving them, nor the guitar still upstairs.
The stairs spiraled, up and up, fragmenting around her, heavy hands dragging at her skirts. Back and back, until she was falling, falling….
“No!” Anne jerked awake, her heart racing. “A dream, Anne, just a dream.” She sat up and folded her arms across her stomach, rocking back and forth until the nausea passed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Knowing that any dream of that terrible day in Gibraltar meant further sleep was out of the question, Anne slid from the bed, tossed a robe over her shoulders and found her slippers. Before dressing, she wanted to see Nicholas. Quietly, not wishing to disturb him, she opened the connecting door. A larger screen now stood by the bed, shielding the light from Maggie’s candle. Bill was nowhere to be seen, and Anne tiptoed across the room.
“You will go blind, sewing in this light,” she whispered. “How is he?”
“Sleeping, as he has most of the night. Mr. Fenton gave him a little more brandy and he has slept ever since.” She looked critically at Anne. “You don’t appear to have gotten much rest and you’ll need it if you still plan to watch over the man today.” She set aside her handiwork and got stiffly to her feet.
“I do,” Anne said firmly.
“Then go and dress. Mr. Fenton will be here soon to help his lordship take care of his needs. I want to change the bandage before I go to bed myself. Mostly you need to keep him company, help him sit up later so he can get some food in him, and keep him in bed, which I daresay is the biggest challenge.”
“Get up?” Anne repeated, shocked at the idea. “Westcott is in no condition to be up and about.”
“He won’t agree, and he’d be a fool to do so, but then most men are fools a good bit of the time.” Maggie put her hands on Anne’s shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a little push. “Go. I’m having a meal sent up. You can take yours in here.”
Reluctantly, Anne did as she was told. Always wise to mind Maggie and besides, she wanted to see for herself how Nicholas was when he awoke. Westcott, Anne. Better not to think of him as Nicholas if you mean to keep a distance. Which she did not, but he clearly did, and besides, she had to tell him about the Major, although in the light of day, her surmise seemed far-fetched. What the Fentons thought about this shooting was something she meant to discuss with them sometime today. If they had a similar notion…..Nonsense, you are imagining things, and hardly surprising, given yesterday’s scare and almost no sleep. Impatient with her wandering thoughts, Anne threw the robe onto a chair and rang for her maid. No time for a bath; but clean clothes and a good wash, yes.
“Are the children up, Clara?”
“Yes, my lady. Cook said Janie called for their breakfast a few minutes ago.”
“Umm,” Anne said around her toothbrush. She rinsed her mouth, then dried her face and hands. “Ask Miss Caxton to come to his lordship’s chamber in an hour. I’ll know by then when Miss Sarah can visit her father.”
“Lord Westcott must be doing better,” Clara said.
“So far. He is asleep still, but Mrs. Fenton felt confident his lordship would heal and be up and around in a few days.”
“Shocking, it is, my lady. Downstairs never heard of such doings as long as anyone can remember.” Clara chattered as she laid clean petticoats and a morning gown of yellow muslin across the bed, looking to Anne for approval.
“Yes, that will do. Help me dress, and then you can see to the room.” Anne exchanged her slippers for soft shoes, stepped into her petticoats and waited impatiently for Clara to lower the dress over her head. “A shawl, please, the wool, I think.” After seeing her reflection, Anne curbed her impatience and sat at the dressing table while Clara brushed out her hair, wound it into a loose knot, and pinned it to the back of her head. “Thank you.” Anne rose. She was dreadfully pale, but there was not much to be done about it. Nevertheless, she rubbed hard at her cheeks as she hurried from the room.
Westcott slept still, she saw, surprised and alarmed, until a glance at the window reminded her it was just a little after dawn. Bill had returned, and Maggie was clearing the small table that stood by the bed. Perhaps this would be a good time to speak to them about her wild notion that the Major was responsible for the attempt on Westcott’s life; if that is what it really was. It might be that St. Cl
air would return with an explanation this morning.
“Maggie,” Anne whispered, and gestured to the couple to follow her into Westcott’s dressing room. Harman was there, and she sent him off to bed. “For you will be called upon to sit with his lordship tonight.”
“Very well, Madam. You will wake me if Lord Westcott needs me?”
“Of course.” Anne waited until he closed the door behind him.
“I know you are going home for some well-earned rest, but I want to hear what you think about this shooting. Who you feel might be responsible, I mean.”
“They’re saying outside it might be a poacher, or more probably, a lad sneaking off with his father’s gun and firing at shadows,” Bill said after a quick glance at Maggie.
“I know what is being said.” Anne’s gaze went from Maggie’s set face, to Bill’s nonchalant expression. “I want to know what you think.”
“No sense guessing when we don’t know any more than you,” Maggie said shortly. “Don’t borrow trouble. You’ve enough of your own. See to his lordship now. He’ll be waking up and no one there.”
Clearly, the discussion was at an end, and Bill had already disappeared. No wiser than before and considerably more annoyed, Anne returned to Westcott’s bedchamber. She was not a child needing protection. They might at least share any suspicions.
Be honest, Anne. What you wanted was assurance that your imagination is running wild and suspecting the Major is nothing but a flight of fancy. She wanted it to be so, badly, but it was a fancy she found impossible to completely dismiss.
~* * *~
Westcott heard the door and the stealthy footsteps approaching, and feigning sleep, waited curiously to see what Anne would do. He knew it was she, her light step familiar by now, and the floral scent of her soap teased his nose. He felt her eyes on him and her soft breath warmed his cheek when she leaned over to touch her fingers to his forehead. They lingered a moment, her hand brushing against his hair, and with a little gasp, she moved away. Feeling foolishly bereft, Westcott opened his eyes, watched as she blew out the candles still burning on the table behind the screen, and went to partially open the heavy drapes. “Harman will tend to that,” he said quietly.
Startled, she whirled around to face him. “I woke you! I’m sorry.” Looking distressed, she hurried to him. “How do you feel? Are you in much pain?”
“No.” The denial was automatic. In fact, his shoulder hurt like hell. “Uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t manage. Especially once I get something to eat.” He began pushing himself into a sitting position. Dammed if he’d eat lying down.
“Let me help you.” Anne put her arm beneath his uninjured shoulder and raised him enough to put pillows behind his back. Cur that he was, he allowed it, enjoying the warmth of her breath on his neck. That bullet did more than put a hole in you, Westcott. It addled your brain as well. Annoyed with himself, the situation, and a weakness he despised, he snapped, “I’m fine. Don’t fuss,” and winced when she jerked away.
“As you wish.” Her cool tone at odds with the flush staining her cheeks, she slanted him a look of reproach that clearly showed her thoughts on his ill manner. “Since you don’t need me, I will see what has happened to the meal Maggie ordered.”
“Anne….”
Ignoring him, her head held high, she fled, giving St. Clair the briefest of greetings when she brushed by him at the door.
“Ah, you are your usual charming self again, I see.” The sarcasm and forbearing lift of St. Clair’s brows hit home, and Westcott grimaced. “She saved your life, you know.”
Stung by the quiet rebuke, Westcott looked away. “I know it,” he said sourly.
St. Clair stared at him and then shook his head. “Sometimes you are an ass, Nick.”
Frost icing his words, Westcott glared at him. “If you are done voicing your opinion, help me from this bed. I need to piss.” He did not need to be told his behavior was childish. He was well aware of it.
St. Clair grinned, damn him, a knowing look in his eye, and Westcott felt his neck grow hot. That was the problem with friends. They knew you too well. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and taking the earl’s outstretched hand, heaved himself to his feet. The wound did hurt, blast it, and he stood rigid for a few minutes until his head cleared and he felt confident he could reach the commode without falling on his face.
“What have you been able to determine about this insanity, Dev?” he asked, once he had shuffled back and collapsed onto the bed.
St. Clair leaned against one of the bedposts, all traces of amusement leaving his face. “Very little, I’m sorry to say. I’ve had your men, and mine, scouring the neighborhood on the look-out for strangers or rumours of who might have been responsible.” He frowned at Westcott. “Nick, that bullet came from a rifle and almost certainly one of military issue.”
“I suspected as much,” Westcott said heavily. “It was no accident, then, but I tell you, Dev, I cannot begin to guess who wants me dead. And I would have been, if I had not turned in the saddle at just that instant and Anne had not been so quick-witted. Damn it all. I don’t even know any soldiers well enough to have one as an enemy.”
“Anne did not feel Meraux…?”
Westcott snorted. “I’m sure the man hates my guts, but he’s too much of a coward to shoot at someone. I doubt if he’s ever so much as held a weapon.”
St. Clair lowered his voice as the door opened behind him. “Then watch your back, my friend, until we find out more.” He straightened and turned. “I’d say the food you’ve been looking for has arrived.”
Anne, her face once more set in its cool expression of casual friendliness, led a small parade containing butler, maid, and Miss Caxton behind Sarah’s chair. Forcing aside his regret he had again driven his wife away with his boorish behavior, Westcott pasted on a smile for his daughter. However much he wanted to lie down and sleep—he was not so much the fool to deny his stubborn insistence on getting up had worn him out—Sarah needed assurance he was not seriously injured.
“Mother Anne said I may sit with you while you eat, Papa.” Sarah’s smile was tentative, her gaze going to his bandaged shoulder. “Does it hurt terribly?”
She knew how badly one could hurt. The memory of her own pain-ridden days was in her eyes and Westcott held out his hand to grasp hers. “Yes, it does hurt, but not terribly,” he said, sure if he denied having pain she would see through his lie and be doubly upset at his duplicity. “But with you here I can forget about it for a time.” She looked pleased at that and chattered away while Harman placed another pillow behind him.
Clara set out a teapot, cups and a plate of toast. Hardly what he wanted, but he should be happy it wasn’t gruel, he supposed, and in any case, the tea appealed more than food. Suddenly aware of a raging thirst, Westcott downed the contents of his first cup in several swallows and held it out for more.
“Eat something with your tea, sir.” Anne took the cup and handed him a slice of toast.
At least jam smothered the crunchy bread, Westcott noted, taking a few bites before drinking, more slowly this time, a second helping of tea. “Thank you.” He slumped back against the pillows, content to listen to Sarah’s story about a hedgehog she and Danielle had found in the garden. Apparently the sight of her father sitting up and eating had convinced her he was not at death’s door.
Vaguely aware of the voices around him fading, he drifted asleep, only rousing at the sound of footsteps some time later. Anne, and someone else—Mrs. Fenton, and she would not be paying a social call. Bracing for an uncomfortable session of bandage changing, Westcott opened his eyes, his gaze first searching out his wife, who showed no sign of wanting to check his temperature on this visit. He eyed the older woman warily as she opened a roll of lint and took a pair of scissors from her pocket.
“I’ll be as quick about it as I can, my lord,” Maggie said. “Mistress Anne, if you will please bring some water and candles.”
“Do what you must.” H
e started to shrug, and winced. “The sooner this heals the better.” He looked at Anne. “I’ve been asleep all the morning? What time is it?”
“Somewhat after two, I believe. You have been asleep a long time and look the better for it,” Anne said. “I’ve ordered some food for you. Something a bit more substantial this time.”
The viscount glanced toward the windows. The sky was dark with an impending storm. Not from nightfall, as he had first thought, and the hollow feeling in his stomach had implied. Amusement sparked in her eyes and he gathered she had noticed his distaste for the toast.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, and returned her attention to Mrs. Fenton while he concentrated on not disgracing himself during the arduous procedure. “No brandy this time?” he managed to joke through gritted teeth and was rewarded by Anne’s soft laughter.
“If you feel well enough to joke about it, you don’t need it,” she said, rinsing out a cloth in the basin. “Hold still for a few more minutes.”
Westcott submitted to having his face and hands washed, and then let out his pent-up breath.
“I feel like a child,” he grumbled, but without heat, and the women exchanged a smile.
“Nothing like illness to make a body feel like that,” Maggie said in as cheerful a voice as he’d yet to hear her use. She packed up her things, stuffed the soiled bandages into a sack, and sailed out with a brisk “you’ll do, my lord” trailing behind her.
“I’m beginning to believe her,” Anne said with a small smile, and then turned at a tap on the door. “I believe your meal has arrived, and here is Harman to assist you.”
She was leaving. He saw the intent in her eyes and caught the sleeve of her dress. “Stay and keep me company. Please.” A cool look then, and he thought she would refuse, but something on his face seemed to answer an unvoiced question and her expression softened.
An Inconvenient Wife Page 19