Miss Lottie's Christmas Protector (Secrets 0f A Victorian Household Book 1)

by Sophia James

  Would they break down his door? Could they?

  One minute became two and then became five and as the stillness settled he simply let go of it all, the brandy bottle falling to the floor beside him, the shards of glass catching light even as he fell down beside them, a lifeless weight of heat and agony. And finally of darkness.

  * * *

  ‘Could you tell your master that I shall be back early this evening to try again?’

  The servant before her at Jasper’s town house looked vaguely frightened, his hands shaking as he opened the door to let her out.

  ‘I should not imagine the master will be back until the morrow, Miss Fairclough.’

  A blatant lie. She had heard Jasper’s voice shouting, she was sure of it.

  ‘Nevertheless what I have to say is important, so I shall return just after five.’

  She did not wait for an answer as she walked away with purpose. She would find a hackney cab as making her own way home today was just too far and she still felt...odd.

  She was dislocated by her momentous decisions and by Jasper’s strange reactions. He would not just abandon her like this, surely? The horror of everything brought tears to her eyes and she wiped them away.

  She would not cry. Not here or now when none of this was her fault and when all she had given him was a gift. This was his problem and his shame. A small coffee shop a street away caught her attention and on a whim she stopped to sit and to buy a hot drink.

  She felt exhausted, shaky and sick. She didn’t want to go back home and be scolded again by Claire, her maid’s anger having worsened this afternoon by her inadvertent perusal of the markings on Lottie’s neck as she had brought in soup after her long nap.

  It was three o’clock already and she had told the King servant she would be back at five which was only a few hours away. This time she would insist on seeing his master no matter what he said because she knew he was there. Jasper was hiding out in his bedchamber for some reason, away from everyone.

  A glimmer of memory surfaced and she sought to uncover this concealment. He’d sworn at some time in the night when his leg had jarred against hers and from what Lottie remembered it was far more than a small pain. He’d lain there for a moment quietly, the sweat rising and his hand shaking as he had reached for her and drawn her close.

  Could he have hurt it badly somehow, so badly that he was now secreting himself away from anyone who might ask after him? Reaching for the cup of coffee she’d purchased, she knew that she was on to something. It would explain things. He was a private and hidden man. Would he imagine himself lessened somehow by such a wound? So lessened that he would lock the door and let no one in?

  The coffee helped her, gave her clarity, allowed an intuition that she had lost hold of to gather itself and reconnect. It was the only solution that made sense, the only answer to a conundrum so confusing she had held it to be her fault, her burden, when so clearly it was not.

  Well, she would allow it no longer.

  With resolve she replaced the empty cup in the saucer and stood, thanking the man in the shop as she left and making towards Arlington Street again.

  The same servant as before answered the door and this time she pushed through beside him, standing in the grand entranceway with resolution.

  ‘I think you and I are at an impasse, Larkin.’ She remembered his name from the previous evening and used it. ‘I know your master in in his room and I wish to see him.’

  ‘He is indisposed, Miss Fairclough.’

  Now this was different.

  ‘Indisposed?’

  The horror on the servant’s face might have made her smile if the situation was not quite so dire, but she was not going to leave here until she understood the truth.

  ‘Mr King does not wish to see anyone at all. He wishes to be left alone.’

  ‘Because of his leg?’

  The man before her frowned heavily. ‘You know about his leg?’

  ‘I do.’ She placed as much directness into her answer as she could. ‘Has a doctor been called?’

  Lottie could see the will of the servant disintegrating even as she watched him.

  ‘Mr King will not allow it. He insists that any pain will pass.’

  She gave him no more time, moving quickly by him and running up the wide staircase as fast as she could go. Then his bedchamber was in sight, the door firmly closed.

  * * *

  Jasper lay there inert, a shadow in his vision and a lethargy that he had never felt before. This time was the worst his leg had been, the pain more dreadful than he could remember it. Next time he would die, he was sure he would, for he could not imagine surviving such trauma again.

  Just when he was getting his life to a point where he might finally be happy, Charlotte’s joy and faith translating itself to him in a way that gave him hope, it was all to be snatched away again?

  He closed his eyes and tried to find calm, but it seemed so far away he could not claim it. The sudden start of a noise had him refocusing.

  ‘Jasper?’

  Her voice. Again. Shaking his head, he tried to understand if what he was hearing was real.

  ‘Jasper. Open the door. Let me in to help you.’

  Charlotte! He would not, with the hell of his leg confronting him in every way possible. Dragging himself over to the door, he sat down against it, breathing heavily.

  ‘Jasper?’

  Her voice again and close. Was she sitting down on the other side, too, now, merely an inch of wood separating them?

  He did not answer, biting down on fury and rage. Which of his servants had let her in? He would fire the culprit when he found out, he swore he would. He would send them packing without any references whatsoever.

  ‘Jasper, please?’

  ‘Leave...me...alone.’

  It hurt to talk even, the swollen heat of him cracking under pressure. Bringing his hand up to his eyes, he wiped away tears, a desperation so very palpable he could no longer hold it in. Spilling out. Released into his shame, falling down his cheeks, salt marks on his arm where the runnels dropped next. Just when he had found his heaven, hell had followed. Like before. Before with the laudanum and with Verity.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head hard. No, he would not allow that. Charlotte was kind and true and loyal and deserved so much better.

  What had the doctor said to him? This could go on for years or you could be dead tomorrow if the shard should pierce the blood lines. What sort of a man did this make him, what sort of a risk? Nobody wanted to live a life with odds like that.

  He remembered her soft beauty, her body lustred pearl in candlelight. Closing his eyes, he squeezed them against the recall. Don’t think, he said to himself. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.

  Let her go, let her walk out of his life one step at a time into independence. He could neither leave nor follow. And sure as hell he could not walk along beside her. That was the worst of it. All the dreams he had suddenly been filled with, impossible hopes and desires were crushed under the reality of truth.

  ‘Let me in, Jasper. Let me in to talk.’

  More words, rich in entreaty.

  Never.

  He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. His body sweated. An animal. Dying. Barely alive still. He could no longer bend his leg, the engorged distended limb so repulsive to him he wondered how he had not simply perished.

  ‘Let me in. Now.’

  Her tone had changed, the soft plea turned to desperation, and he could hear her talking to someone. Then there was the sound of footsteps and orders, orders given without a thought of refusal.

  She sounded entirely the Miss Charlotte Fairclough of the Fairclough Foundation on Howick Place, home of good deeds and integrity, the last bolthole of the unfortunate and the underdog and people who had nothing left to lose. The same Miss Fairclough w
ho had never taken no as an answer where suffering was concerned and whose charity was unending and incessant.

  He used every ounce of his strength left to bar the door, the pain of movement making him cry out, nausea assailing purpose, weakness replacing hope.

  But she had drummed up help and gathered his servants. He heard the small noise of their endeavour roaring in his ears as the door moved, its hinges creaking against the pressure of both the lock and his inert weight. One inch and then two, a crack of light that seared into his head, fresh air and cold. Then the sound of wood tearing, a final breakage.

  His hand came up, the self-inflicted bites weeping, crusted blood staining every nail.

  ‘Push again.’ Her voice. Sharper now. The dislodging of weight, a further movement, a quiet drag. He scrambled for the protection of a blanket on the floor, trying to lift the wool across him, trying to hide. And failing.

  And then she was there, kneeling, tears falling down her cheeks, the smell of lavender and lemon and compassion.

  He did not want it.

  ‘Go...away.’

  ‘My God.’

  From her such an expletive was surprising, a woman who had never taken the name of her Lord in vain.

  He could not look up. He could not find her whisky eyes.

  ‘My God, Jasper.’ She repeated this and her hand touched him, there, on the thigh, the cold of her shocking. Like ice scorching his skin.

  ‘You are burning up.’

  Ablaze with shame. He did look then and saw neither pity nor embarrassment, neither repulsion nor disgust nor panic.

  ‘I...am...sorry.’

  He could not say more as he simply shut his eyes and left her there, gazing down at him in gentleness on the very last moment of his life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Was he dead? Her fingers sought a pulse in his neck and found it, thready and shallow, but there.

  ‘Get a doctor. Get him now.’ She addressed this to Larkin even while ordering another to bring a mop and fresh hot water with soap and dry towels.

  Jasper’s servants behind her turned to go, expressions horrified. She was glad they were no longer there and that Jasper had not seen them, had not been exposed to anything more that would hurt him. She pulled a blanket lying on the floor over his nakedness and removed her jacket, fashioning it into a pillow for his head.

  Then she stood and opened the windows, letting the cold roll in to dissipate the stench while lighting the scented candle by his bed. After this she collected a bowl of water from the sideboard and, dipping the thick end of a towel in the liquid, she returned to him. The blood around his lips was easily removed as was the sweat from his forehead, hair drenched wet. Her fingers ran through the length, trying to find in tidiness the dignity he needed, trying to reinstate all that he had lost in his aloneness and pain.

  He’d been drinking. The remains of a smashed bottle lay on the floor to his left, the shards catching in the candlelight and sending small bursts of light on to his skin.

  Every piece of him looked broken, shattered, bent and swollen. There were bites on his hand that broke her heart and the stubble on his chin was dark. A shadow man of night and agony. The scar on his leg looked many times worse than the first time she had seen it. Yesterday? In this bed bathed in moonlight. Could he recover? Was there any way he might weather this and live?

  He’d warned her, tried in his way to set her free, allowed her in his moment of need to have the choice. Stay or go. A damaged man. Too damaged?

  She shook her head.

  ‘Jasper,’ she whispered. ‘I will never give up on you, do you hear me? Never. There is nothing you could say or do to make me go.’

  He groaned in return and she thought he might have heard her, there in his far-off place of sanctuary. ‘I will chase you to your hell and back if need be and you had better get used to it.’

  Just for a fleeting moment she thought she saw a smile.

  * * *

  He came to in his bed, the sheets tucked about him in a tight and tidy way. His right hand was bandaged and his mouth was dry.

  ‘Water?’

  Swallowing, he tried to say it again, the first attempt a croaky nothing that had not risen above a whisper. But she was there, beside him, sitting in the chair, suddenly awake, her hair escaping its pins and her glance keen.

  The beaker was carefully balanced. Not too much and not too little. The lemon flavour stung his cracked lips and he winced.

  ‘Alive?’

  She smiled, one hand resting on his chest. He felt the weight of it like a gift. The room had been cleaned, too. There was the scent of ammonia on the edge of air.

  ‘Mr King?’ His focus shifted. A man stood there behind Charlotte, a large redheaded man with rosy cheeks and a full beard.

  He looked back to Charlotte.

  ‘This is Dr Christopher O’Keefe and he is the doctor at the Foundation. He has had a quick look at your leg already.’

  Hope shrivelled. Now she would know how impossible everything was. Now she would know that he had no future whatsoever and that he was a man whom she would be far better off leaving alone.

  ‘Doctor O’Keefe thinks he might be able to help you.’

  Jasper felt a smile wind tightly across his mouth. He had heard this before and it had never worked out. A physician who thought he held the answer, until he didn’t. A medical wonder that was promised so easily, but did not live up to any expectations.

  He wanted to be alone with Charlotte. He wanted to explain and make her realise that it wasn’t so simple.

  He wished the man might go and she would be here only with him. He reached out his hand and was relieved when she took it.

  ‘Doctor O’Keefe said that he would like to see if he could alleviate your ailment at first light. It would be a quick operation performed under the influence of morphine and he only needs your permission to go ahead.’

  ‘No.’

  Her eyes darkened.

  ‘You do not wish to be cured?’

  ‘Not...possible and no...morphine.’ He knew he sounded ungrateful, but just at this moment he couldn’t withstand another round of empty promises. The very thought of it made him feel sick.

  Doctor O’Keefe spoke now, his Irish brogue strong. ‘The swelling that has taken place in your leg has dislodged the metal from its previous resting place, I think, and allowed it to linger in a far less complicated position.’

  These words lay in line with what he had been told before. The blood routes had been the problem because of their proximity and any stray movement might have ruptured them, death following.

  ‘I think I can feel its edge, you see, because the object has risen in your groin and is nearer to the surface. Is it metal?’

  Jasper nodded.

  ‘Are you a haemophiliac?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you move the leg in this direction?’

  His hand indicated to the left and Jasper managed this with much more ease than he had during the past few hours. He was in one of his linen nightgowns now and the smell of starch comforted him. The candle by his bed was scented, too, the small plumes of smoke sending up sandalwood and musk.

  ‘I...won’t take...morphine.’

  He felt Charlotte’s hand tighten on his own.

  ‘Mr King was addicted to laudanum once and does not wish to be so again.’ Her explanation to the doctor had him swallowing and he saw the man look at him sharply.

  Hell, could he have no secrets of his own?

  The rain had come again, the splash of it against the window, colder than it had been yesterday. He just wanted to stop and listen to the sound, he wanted Charlotte to stay and the doctor to go, he wanted a drink and a cheroot to dampen down his anxiety. He felt wrung out and exposed and he wanted it to end.

  As if the redheaded man real
ised his thoughts, he tipped his head and made to leave.

  ‘Send word, Miss Lottie, if you need me. I think this could be done without morphine. Perhaps a good shot of liquor might do the same job, Mr King, if that would be more to your liking.’

  Jasper did not answer, but merely shut his eyes, tired of the hope and the possibility of something he knew held none at all.

  ‘You can open your eyes now. He is gone.’

  Her voice held a tinge of humour within it.

  ‘But he will...be back?’

  ‘That is up to you.’

  ‘Is it?’

  * * *

  Charlotte heard the lingering accusation in his words.

  ‘Christopher O’Keefe is a talented physician. The most talented we have ever had at the Foundation.’

  She needed to tell him this, needed him to understand that there was hope in a situation where he so obviously allowed none.

  ‘Happened...before. Others.’

  His voice was faint and she knew he was exhausted. The paleness in his face was not as concerning as it had been a few hours back, but the dark rings under his eyes were still most decidedly there.

  She would not push him. Not yet. She needed him to find his rest and to let go of his fears. The rain against the windows was soothing and he appeared to be listening to it, a constant and repetitive sound. When his eyes shut she simply waited, not daring to move, and ten minutes later she knew him to be asleep.

  She wouldn’t stay here tonight. His valet would watch over him and the other servants who were well in force would help. She needed sleep almost as much as Jasper did, a headache forming and her cough freshening again. But tomorrow she would be back to plead the physician’s case and vie for the sense of trying something that might help alleviate this agony ever returning.

  Laying his left hand down on the sheets, she leaned down to kiss the deep puncture marks across it.

  He was safe now.

  For this moment there was nothing more that she could do.