by April Munday
“Papa?”
“Papa is hurt. Mr... Mr...”
“Perkins, ma’am.”
“Mr Perkins is looking after him.”
“Hello, Master Freddie.”
“Hello, Mr Perkins.”
“Uncle George will be back soon.”
Freddie put his arms around her neck and she held him tighter.
Meldon returned and looked round the hut.
“We can’t stay here much longer. Almost done, Perkins?”
“If you’ll lift him gently, my lord, it will make it easier to bind him. I’ll sew him up when we get to the inn if you won’t permit it here.”
“Whoever sent those two will probably arrive soon. We must leave now. We’ll be lucky if we don’t walk into them on the way down. Miss Wilding, can you carry Freddie?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better take that pistol. Have a sip of this. It won’t do if you faint.”
He pressed a flask into her hand.
“I don’t faint,” she protested, but took a sip.
The whisky made her cough and she felt the burn as it went down.
“You’re really here, aren’t you? It’s not a dream.”
“Yes, it’s real enough. I’ll tell you why and how later.” Meldon turned to the other man. “Perkins, you’ll have to carry him. He’s heavier than he appears. Extinguish the lanterns, we’d better take them back with us.”
They were silent as they walked. Mary felt Freddie twisting in her arms to keep his father in sight. The rain continued and the grass beneath her feet was more slippery than it had been earlier. Many times she lost her footing, but managed to keep her balance. The two men were sure-footed, despite Meldon’s limping gait and they finally arrived at the inn, where they were let in by Paul. Perkins carried Finch to his room and placed him gently on the bed.
“Good God,” swore the coachman when he saw the amount of blood on his master’s clothes.
“Get some water, please,” Meldon told him.
Paul hastened to obey, pleased at last to have a task after hours of waiting.
“I’ll take Freddie to his room,” said Mary.
“Stay. Perkins can’t sew up Finch and guard him, so I can’t escort you.”
“Guard?”
Meldon turned to look at her. He was sympathetic, but firm.
“It’s not over. I’m sorry, Miss Wilding. You must both make do with what’s in this room for the moment.”
Mary understood none of this, only that Finch was dying and Freddie was wet and shivering in her arms.
“Can you get undressed?” she asked the boy. “I’ll find something of your father’s that you can put on.”
This would give them both something to do. Anything would be better than watching Meldon’s face as he began to understand the true extent of his friend’s injury. Searching through Finch’s chest felt wrong, but she found a shirt and a jacket that would keep the child warm until she could get him into his own bed.
Freddie fell asleep while she was coaxing the fire into life and there was nowhere better to put him down than on the floor on top of a coat she found in Finch’s chest. Then she pulled out a shirt and a pair of breeches for her own use and changed behind the screen.
She dared not look at the bed. Perkins and Meldon exchanged a few comments, but otherwise it was quiet in the room, quiet enough for her to hear how much Finch was fighting to breathe. She could not ask, for fear Freddie would hear the answer.
Perkins finally moved away and nodded to Meldon. The younger man leaned over Finch and tenderly brushed a lock of wet hair from his face.
“This is a fine fix, Edmund, if ever there was one.”
He looked up at her and she saw the tears that mirrored her own.
“Miss Wilding, Perkins and Paul will take you and Freddie to your room and take it in turns to be on guard.”
“I’d like to stay.”
He shook his head.
“It will be a long watch. You and I must take turns.”
“But if he...”
“Stay, then, for a while, but he’s a strong man and either way it will be a long time.”
He placed his hand protectively over Finch’s and Mary took her place on the other side of the bed.
Once the time for action was past and Finch’s wound had been sewn up, Meldon had seemed like a small lost boy. He was a reserved man, yet his love for his friend was too great to be restrained and he made no effort to hide his tears. For the first few hours they sat in silence, watching Finch’s chest rise and fall. Sometimes his breathing faltered and they stopped breathing as well. When she could bear it no more Mary looked up at Meldon.
“Tell me how you came to be here.”
He started, recalled from whatever thoughts he had taken refuge in.
“Finch wrote to me,” he explained, looking at his friend’s pale face. “He told me about Louise Favelle.” He paused. “I suppose you know that she is not Louise Favelle.”
“Yes.”
Now he turned his attention to her. His gaze was penetrating, but not unfriendly. It was, however, enough for Mary to guess that Finch had told her secret.
“He didn’t tell me how he knew and what I guess is a guess and needs no comment. Finch is good at keeping secrets. To this day his father believes that he broke the window in the dairy, when it was my clumsiness that caused the damage. Despite his father’s anger and his punishment he still wouldn’t betray me.”
Mary hadn’t realised that she was looking at Finch’s damaged hand, but now she examined it closely and wondered how he had come by it. She blinked back the tears for a hurt she could not heal. She began to doubt it had been caused by an accident at the manufactory, which was what his servants believed.
“You have a tender heart, Miss Wilding, but Finch’s father loves him still and Finch loves him.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
She would not say what she suspected, not even to Finch’s friend, for who knew better than her that not everyone was what they seemed, not even Finch himself. Mary didn’t like where her guesses were leading her.
“I received the letter and went to her house.”
“Why? What could you have hoped to do?”
“None of the things I wanted to do.”
His anger was apparent and she was glad he didn’t elaborate.
“She had left already. I must have missed her by little more than an hour. The servants couldn’t say where she had gone, but I knew she must have followed you. Although it made no sense.”
“No, it makes little sense now, for I suppose we must assume that she was responsible for this.”
Meldon gave the matter no thought at all.
“Well, she didn’t follow him because she loves him. She worked hard at appearing to be a woman in love.” He shook his head. “Everything about her was wrong,” he said, unconsciously echoing his friend. “All Finch could ever tell me was that she was beautiful. He could never tell me about her character and when I met her I understood why. If he had even once clearly considered her character, he would have known that there was nothing there worthy of his love.”
Mary had thought that Finch had lied to her about not loving the Frenchwoman even before he learned the truth about her in order to spare her own feelings. Now she was certain he had not lied.
“He doesn’t love her now,” she whispered.
“No, he has that much sense” Finch stirred slightly and Meldon moved the bedcovers to accommodate him. “And I do think you were out of your senses when you met her, Edmund,” he said so quietly that Mary could barely hear him, “otherwise you would have known her for what she was immediately.”
“He was ill,” said Mary.
Meldon looked across the bed at her.
“But not...”
Mary nodded, remembering all the times when Finch had been with her only physically, his mind being elsewhere. Surely Meldon had noticed. He was thoughtful, then he looked at his friend
’s face.
“It’s possible,” he said reluctantly, “but you will not mention it again.”
“No,” she whispered. There was no need to speak of it again. “Please go on.” At his puzzled frown she added, “That woman had already gone.”
“Yes. I went home and told Lady Meldon that I would have to come north for a few days.”
“With a surgeon?”
“Perkins is my valet.”
Mary felt faint.
“He’s a valet?”
“He served in Spain with me. I saved his life and, when I was wounded, he made it his business to learn enough doctoring to keep me alive. He had a talent for it and an interest that I have fostered. It suits us both for him to be my valet, although I have no idea where or why he learned so much about clothes.”
“Do you think she is nearby? Oh, of course you do, that is why you keep such a close watch over him and Freddie.”
“And you.”
“Me? I have no value.”
“You’re under his… Forgive me, Miss Wilding, but you’re under Finch’s protection in the strictest sense of the word.”
“I understand,” she said. “Mr Finch is a gentleman.”
They lapsed into silence, both staring at the deathly pale form on the bed.
Early in the afternoon of the following day there was a knock at the door. Thinking it must be Meldon, Mary rose and made towards it.
“Careful, Miss,” said Paul, who was sitting with her.
“You’re armed,” she said.
He nodded.
He was right, of course, it could be anyone on the other side of the door. It was not time for a meal, nor was Perkins due to redress Finch’s wound. They had not arranged a signal so that they might know who knocked. She nodded back to show that she understood his caution.
Mary was not really surprised when she opened the door to reveal a beautiful woman. This must be the woman who was pretending to be her. Mary understood why Finch had been bewitched by her; they must have caused people to stare when they were together, her beauty the perfect match for his. Mary thought, however, that this was not a face over which its owner ever lost control, which made its beauty somehow false.
The woman smiled.
“Good afternoon. I believe Edmund Finch is in this room.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I should like to see him.”
“He is unwell and not receiving.”
“You don’t know who I am.”
It occurred to Mary only now that the woman should have introduced herself when she first spoke.
“I can guess.”
“Then you know that he would want me to be here with him.”
“I know that he would not want you to see him as he is now.”
Mary knew that Finch was not vain, but she doubted this woman knew him at all.
The idea seemed to surprise the other woman.
“He needs me. Let me pass.”
“No!”
A pistol shot made them both jump. Almost immediately the door to the next room opened and Meldon burst through it. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or jacket and his shirt hung outside his breeches. As he drew nearer, Mary could see that his hair stood on end; he must have been asleep when the shot woke him. Despite that, he had a pistol in his hand.
“Ah, Lady Louise, good afternoon.”
He bowed. The woman did not curtsey.
“The news of Finch’s injury arrived in London earlier than I expected,” Meldon continued. “It would have been more seemly to wait there for further news… unless you’re engaged. I don’t suppose you are engaged by any chance?”
The Frenchwoman ignored the invitation to explain her presence and took a step towards him.
“What is the meaning of this? This woman will not allow me to enter Mr Finch’s room.”
She glanced at the pistol and her eyes widened. Meldon affected not to notice and raised the pistol.
“No. He is too sick to receive visitors.”
“And the shot?”
“If you know that Finch is wounded, you doubtless know that it was as a result of rescuing his son from kidnappers. We do not know that another attempt won’t be made to take the child.”
“Not by me!”
“Mr Finch’s servant is under orders to fire a shot if ever anyone not known to him tries to enter the room.”
Mary had not known this; when had the men discussed it?
“Lord Meldon, you know how much I mean to Mr Finch...”
“I know exactly what you mean to him,” interrupted Meldon, his façade of politeness starting to fade. “He is a vain man and would not forgive me if I allowed you to see him as he is. It is not certain that he will live.”
Despite her own feelings of despair, Mary was watching the Frenchwoman and her expression didn’t change. The woman had just been told that the man she was supposed to love might die and it seemed to make no impression on her.
“He will be angry if you don’t let me see him.”
“He will be angry if I do.”
“I can nurse him. He doesn’t need this woman.”
She didn’t even look at Mary, but gestured dismissively towards her.
“Yes, he does. Miss Wilding knows how to be still and quiet. She doesn’t panic when it seems he won’t breathe again.”
Now they were both looking intently at the Frenchwoman. What he saw there seemed to make up Meldon’s mind.
“When... if he wakes, I’ll tell him you’re here. If he wishes to see you, I’ll send for you, if you’re still here.”
“Why should I leave while he’s here? I came here to be with him.”
She placed a hand lightly on Meldon’s upper arm and looked up into his face, her lips slightly parted.
“Please let me see him. I’m so worried.”
Mary wanted to look away for shame, but she found herself fascinated by the woman’s self-confidence. For a moment she saw Meldon’s disgust, then it was gone, replaced by a bland, but concerned expression.
“You’re quite right to be worried. He is likely to die. Please leave him be for now. He could not be receiving better care than he receives from Miss Wilding.”
He smiled at Mary and turned away from the Frenchwoman.
“Lock the door, Miss Wilding.”
For a moment she watched him limp down the corridor with a hand on the wall to keep his balance. It was only then that she realised that he was without his cane.
“I will see him,” hissed the Frenchwoman quietly.
Mary shut the door and pulled the bar across, wondering if it was enough to keep the woman out.
“Come on, Edmund, wake up.”
Finch tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too much.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve called me that, George.”
Speech was also difficult. It was slurred. Was he drunk as well?
“I was beginning to think I might never get the chance again.”
Meldon’s voice was quiet, but it still hurt Finch’s ears.
“Serious, then?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Perkins turn that particular shade of grey before.”
Finch opened his lips to speak again, but Meldon said quickly, “Before you ask, Freddie is with Miss Wilding, Perkins and Paul. Perkins and Paul are armed. She and I take it in turns to sit with you and look after Freddie. Miss Wilding and Freddie are well”
Finch sighed. It hurt like hell.
“Perkins said you can have some laudanum if you need it, but I don’t recommend it from personal experience.”
Dimly Finch remembered something Meldon had said about the effect of laudanum after he’d been wounded himself, but then there was only pain, then unconsciousness.
Her hand was cold over his. Finch tried to smile, but could not. Emily’s hand was small compared to his. It lay still on top of his hand, not so much holding it as reassuring him. How he had missed her, but now she had come to him. No,
that wasn’t right. Emily was dead. Had he gone to her, at last? He breathed. No, he wasn’t dead. This was someone else.
“Miss Wilding.”
Of course.
There was some relief in the recognition, but she snatched her hand away as if he had bitten her and he realised he hadn’t opened his eyes; she hadn’t known he was awake. Speaking had used all the energy he had; it was impossible to open his eyes or to ask her to hold his hand again. When he felt the tears on his face he could not say whether it was for the loss of her or Emily.
Finch took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Mary was so surprised that she forgot to let go of his hand. Slowly his eyes focused on her and he smiled.
“Miss Wilding.”
“Mr Finch.”
He took a deep breath.
“Bad dream.”
“Don’t try to talk, just lie still.”
“Talk... talk to me, then.”
His voice was faint and his eyes closed.
“I don’t want to tire you, but I will tell you what’s happening. It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Lord Meldon has been here through the night and is now asleep. I don’t know who’s awake. It doesn’t matter. Freddie is well. He sleeps most of the time, which is good for him now, but can’t go on.”
She remembered that she was holding his hand and let it go. His fingers moved restlessly as if they missed hers. Finally they came to rest on the counterpane.
“Tell me... tell me...” Finch swallowed, “Tell me how you are.”
“I’m well.”
He opened his eyes again. “Are you... here all the time?”
“No. Lord Meldon and I take turns.”
“My dear... friend.”
“He is a friend indeed,” she agreed.
“And you... you also.”
“I have done nothing.”
“Mmm...”
Then he was asleep again and she took his hand, until the next time he should wake.
Finch opened his eyes, but it was still dark. He moved his head slightly, but groaned when the pain made him stop. There was a single candle on the table by the bed and by its light he could make out the shape of Mary asleep in the chair next to his bed. Her head leaned against the back of the chair. One of her hands was in her lap; the other held his. She looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t wake her yet. He was still alive and he wanted to look at her.