“Damnation!” St. James said as the carriage horse he leaned upon spooked and half reared in the shafts. At the same time he glimpsed the two shadowed figures rolling on the ground and the cob giving an ill-tempered kick that went over their heads by inches. The cob's kick landed on the near carriage horse's hindquarters and it squealed and jumped forward. St. James was knocked to the ground. He fought the blackness in his vision. His left hand, now beyond endurance, loosed the hammer and his dueling pistol went off with what a boom that echoed endlessly in the narrow mew. Then he lost the gun and he had no time to wonder if he had shot himself, someone else, or if the bullet had only bit into the ground. He rolled as the horses, now out of their minds with fear, bolted forward. Tyler had ducked instinctively at the sound of the shot and now he was nearly toppled from the driver's seat. St. James rolled again and was just missed by the front carriage wheel. He clawed at the ground with his fast weakening left hand, his right still holding the confiscated gun, his one remaining weapon. By some miracle, his thumb still held the hammer at the ready.
Tyler succeeded in controlling the horses but the carriage moving up had removed the shadow that had been over the struggling boy and man. St. James could now see them both in the light of the moon. Steven was on the bottom, which did not surprise St. James as his attacker was older, heavier and much wiser in the ways of combat. St. James clawed himself along with his weak and bloody left hand, his body squirming until whatever wound he had in his chest screamed agony in an endless piercing. His right hand stretched before him on the ground, holding his pistol as he searched for a chance to shoot.
The man arched his back bringing his head from where it had been close to the boy's neck. He managed to pull something from some secret hiding place upon his person. The sudden flash of a knife gleamed sharply in the moonlight.
Then three things happened at once. St. James would forever be uncertain of what happened first, second and last.
There was a startled cry that St. James supposed to be fear as Steven must have seen the blade of the knife (but which he would later damningly come to understand was a sound of shock). Then Steven said a single, bewildered word, “Da?”
At the same precise time, St. James heard the man say, “God, no, Steven! Say t'isn't you, la—”
And at the same precise time, St. James loosed his thumb on the hammer of the man's own pistol. The man's body jerked back in mid cry before the crack of the shot was even heard. What St. James would always remember most was that brief, eternal silence between the man's words cutting off and the final boom of the gun, like thunder following lightening that has already struck.
St. James' gold eyes widened in sudden agony that had nothing to do with his own injury. The man was half knocked, half slumped off of Steven and lay with his face up to the full light of the moon.
Steven cried out in a voice filled with abhorrence and pain and the shock of tragic loss, “Me God, but t'was me own father! Me own Da!”
And St. James lay his face down on his outstretched arm that still held the smoking gun and shuddered.
Tyler's hands pulled at him, but he never raised his head, just motioned with the gun in his hand in Steven's direction in silent order that Tyler attend to him.
“Lad,” Tyler said over that boy's incoherent speech that consisted of no understanding at this point. “Lad!” Tyler said more sharply. “I need your assistance, lad! Can you manage?” and something in Tyler's voice broke through to him for he became silent except for the heaving breathing in his chest.
Tyler went on with force. “We have to get his lordship into the coach and away from here. He is bleeding badly.”
“Me father,” Steven said. “Me da.”
“I know, son. But your father put a bullet into St. James there and if we do not attend to him he is going to die also. Do you understand?” He picked up the knife and shoved it beneath Steven's eyes. “Do you see that, Steven. He thought this man were gonna kill ya. He didn't know it was your Da. Neither did you,” he added a little brutally.
Steven was only gasping.
“Do you want to see his lordship die, lad?” Tyler asked.
“No.”
“Then you have to help me! Can you do it, boy?”
Steven nodded, and a second later, they were rolling St. James over and struggling to sit him upright. They put their shoulders under his arms, forced him to his feet. He groaned once as his left arm was pulled around Steven's shoulders, and then he was oblivious.
“He's out of it,” Tyler said as they shoved him into the carriage.
“Tie that cob to the back, boy, and then drive, do ya hear?”
“What about me father?”
“Later, son. Haven't time now, do you ken? We'll come back, I promise, but first we have t'get his lordship taken care of or we'll have two bodies t'deal with 'stead a one!”
Steven went to slam shut the carriage door, but Tyler forestalled him. “Hand me that knife,” he said and Steven bent over the body of his fallen father, took the knife that was at his side, large tears streaming down his face and gave it to Tyler as he had been bid. “Fine lad!” Tyler spared. “God help ya, but you're a good and brave one. Now on with it, son!”
And so saying he left the conveying of he and the duke home to a distraught thirteen year old boy, but he could see nothing for it. If he did not do something now, St. James was sure to die from loss of blood. He closed the carriage door behind him with a slam, bent over the unconscious man with the knife and slit his clothes from his chest and his sleeve from his arm with quick precision. There was so much blood that it took him a moment to locate the injuries. The bullet had grazed along one of St. James' ribs just above his heart, entered the underside of his upper arm and exited out the other side. “God a might! If he'd been turned another hair toward the man, he woulda been plugged proper for all,” Tyler muttered.
He tried stopping the bleeding with the coat he had cut off, but velvet is not a very good packing for a wound. “Damn it! Can't make a tourniquet, have nothin' to stuff in there—” and then hit with inspiration, he pulled out his bag of chaw, opened it, and pulled out great handfuls and packed it into his lordship's chest.
Only when he saw that this appeared to be working did he become conscious of anything else. With a start he realized that the coach had not yet begun to move. “Hell and Damnation!” He kicked open the door and flung himself out. Nothing but silence and darkness met him in the alley. The cob was gone and Steven was no where to be seen. The boy's father lay staring sightlessly up at the glow of the moon.
Tyler, who had just begun feeling as though he had some control of the situation, slammed the door behind him in near despair, took the last bit of tobacco that was left in his bag, put it in his cheek, flung the bag to the ground and climbed hastily onto the driver's seat. He slapped the reins onto the horses, yelled at them, no longer even caring of the noise for if the shots being fired hadn't brought anyone then he doubted a common, “Yah!” to the horses was going to. He drove hell for leather to the duke's home on what seemed to be the longest ride of his life.
It was an hour later when St. James returned to consciousness. He recognized the familiar surroundings of his bedchamber. The fire was built up and threw flickering light out to join what came from the lamps on the tables at either side of the head of his bed. Effington was bent over him, examining his side and Tyler was holding a third lamp over his chest.
“Steven?” St. James' asked, but they did not even hear his weak question, for they were bickering in low voices to each other.
“How could you pack his wound with tobacco!” Effington asked with distaste.
“I hadn't nothin' else, man,” Tyler returned. “I suppose if you'd been there, you would have had something a good deal more dainty t'place in him, like that ridiculous night cap a yourn for instance!”
“I would have never been there,” Effington pointed out in a straitlaced voice. He looked incongruous leaning over his lordship wit
h the point of his night cap dangling down and his sleeping gown making him appear as some ghost. “Well,” he conceded at last, “it did slow the bleeding.” Then he added, “I could weep, for look at his splendid clothes.”
“You will have to burn them,” Tyler informed him, “as soon as we manage to get the rest off 'im.”
St. James, becoming a little more lucid as Tyler set down the lamp and they proceeded to jar him about in attempt to get him out of his clothes, said, “T'is why. . . I insist upon plain clothing. . . no great loss when faced with this. . . predicament.”
Effington frowned down at him, “There you are, milord. I hope you can anticipate that I will be writing yet another letter of resignation over this night's work! But not until we get you safely out of danger for I daren't leave you to Tyler's hands.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across St. James' lips, but he only asked, “Where. . . is the boy?”
Tyler and Effington exchanged glances. Tyler went to the sideboard, selected a bottle of whiskey as Effington pulled off the last of his lordship's bloody clothing. Tyler came toward St. James with the bottle. “Need t'get some of this in you, milord. Wasn't expectin' you to come 'round.”
St. James raised a shaky right hand, took the bottle of whiskey from his groom, but before drinking it, he asked again, “What has become of the lad?”
Tyler went to the fireplace. St. James turned his gold eyes to Effington, but the valet was preoccupied by saying to himself, “Basin of water and linens. Shan't be a moment,” and he left the room.
“Tyler!” St. James demanded, his voice a croak. “Do not tell me. . . that first bullet hit Steven?”
“No, milord,” Tyler hastened to say. He pulled a red hot poker from the fireplace, nodded in satisfaction before placing it back. “Now drink t'whiskey, milord, for I'll be at ye as soon as Effington comes back.”
St. James, with a curse, swung the bottle to his lips and drank as much as he could manage in as short a time possible. He broke off for air and gasped, “How bad, Tyler?”
“Grazed your rib and went through the underside of your arm. If you had been facing him by another inch, he would have drilled it right through your heart.”
St. James had no time to ponder on this for Effington returned to the room, linens slung over his shoulder, a basin of clean water in his hands which he set down upon the table. He picked up the lamp that Tyler had left on the sideboard. “What do I do now?” he asked Tyler.
“Put down that lamp,” Tyler told him. “And you'd better move the one on that side of t'bed outta reach of him,” and he moved the one near him as he spoke, “so he don't flail about and catch t'whole house afire. Then hold him down and smother him with a pillow if you have to, for we can't have him screaming and waking t'household up.”
St. James took another determined gulp from the bottle and then Effington was there, taking it from him. He was grinning as he did so.
“Damn you. . . Effington.” St. James glared and struggled to sit up.
Effington shoved him easily down again. “Now, now, milord,” he said with more satisfaction than sympathy. “Take your medicine like a good boy and let it be a lesson to you.”
“I'm. . . going to. . . bloody—” St. James spat out.
Effington clapped a hand over his patient's mouth. He raised his sleeping gown up so that he could put his knee on St. James' shoulder. Tyler laughed at the valet's skinny, white leg holding mi-lord down, but he did not delay. With methodical quickness he dug into the duke's wound, pulling out tobacco as best as he could.
St. James jerked with enough force to knock his valet's night cap from his head as he had his hands full keeping his employer as still as possible. There was a great deal of noise coming from his clamped mouth and his eyes spat fire and hate and damnation upon their souls.
Then Tyler got up from his knees, sweating, and fetched the poker.
“There's still a great deal of tobacco in there,” Effington panted.
“It'll burn,” Tyler reassured him. Then added, “Oh, Lordy, but it will burn. Be ready!” He set the poker into the wound.
St. James spasmed, his body going rigid. Tyler scrambled to sit on his legs while still holding the iron. Effington gagged and choked, his face turning green, and then, mercifully, St. James blacked out.
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday Morning
Miss Murdock sat up in bed and stared with disbelief at the window. Oh, he wouldn't, couldn't be so bold as to think she would come to him again tonight. Not after his display at Almacks!
But the tapping came again, and where it had been gentle the night before, it was more insistent this night, and she hurried out of bed and put on her robe. As she had no doubt who it would be, she paused to light her lamp and went to the window. With exasperation, she pulled back the drapes, shoved up the sash, and whispered without preamble, “You may tell his lordship that nothing he could say could induce me to come—” but she stopped as she got a closer look at Steven's face.
“He's not down there, miss,” he whimpered. His teeth were chattering but Lizzie had sudden certainty it was not from the cold.
“Come in, Steven. My God, what has happened?” She assisted him into the room, the flame in the lamp jumping from the draft of the open window and making shadows move along the wall. He stood shivering in the middle of the floor looking quite lost. “Oh, what ever are you doing out at this hour of the night alone?” she exclaimed. She took him by the shoulders, led him to the chaise lounge and sat him down upon it. Then she gathered a blanket from her own bed and wrapped it around his narrow shoulders. “No wonder you are so cold,” she soothed, “for you are all wet.” And she drew her hands back and catching sight of them in the light from the lamp let out a little exclamation of horror. “Blood! My God, Steven, are you hurt?” She knelt so that her face was below his and looked up into his miserable eyes. “You must show me where you are hurt, for you are bleeding, Steven!”
“T'is not my blood,” he mumbled.
Miss Murdock made a conscious effort not to panic. “Whose blood is it, Steven?”
“Me—me father's. And St. James',” and he cried in a great burst of confusion as well as grief, and she held him in her arms and comforted him as best she could. All the time her heart hammered and she could only think, and then refuse to think, that St. James was dead. Oh, God, he was dead.
“Steven,” she said. “Can you tell me what has happened? Can you at least tell me if St. James is alive? Has he been badly injured?” and she tried to keep her voice even for she feared that if she indicated just how frantic she was that she would frighten him to such a degree that she would never get any answers from him.
“He was alive the last I saw, but I do not know if he shall live,” Steven sniffled. “But me father, me da—he's dead,” and his tears intensified in proportion to the knot growing in Miss Murdock's stomach.
“Where is he now?” Miss Murdock asked in desperation.
“Lying in the middle of an alley for someone to find in the morning,” Steven sobbed.
Miss Murdock gave a sound of pure horror. “No! Do not tell me that you left St. James to bleed to death in the middle of an alley?”
But he shook his head. “No, miss. Tyler was taking milord home. Me father, he's the one lying dead in the mew.”
“Oh, thank—” but Miss Murdock had the presence of mind to leave that exclamation unfinished. Instead she asked, “Can you sit here by yourself for just one moment? I will return directly, I assure you. You won't leave, will you?” she asked in sudden panic.
“No. I have no place t'go, for I don't know how I am t'tell me mother,” he told her.
“Oh, Lord help us,” Miss Murdock breathed, then she was up from her crouch in front of him and hurrying to the door without even pausing for slippers. She opened the door, went into the hall and ran down it in her bare feet. She stopped in front of the door she knew to be Andrew's and tapped on it, biting her lip in fear that she would awak
en anyone else. He did not answer, and with a little burst of impatience, she turned the knob and entered.
From the hallway, she thought she heard the soft click of another door's closing, but she was in no mood to debate within herself whether it was in fact what she had heard. Instead, she went to Andrew's bed and felt up by his pillow until she found his head, and then patted down a few inches to his shoulder, which was bare, and she gave it a fierce shake. “Andrew,” she hissed. “Andrew, do wake up!”
He sat up in his bed, nearly hitting her with the top of his head. “What? Who's there?” he asked more loudly than she would have liked.
“Shh! It's Lizzie.”
“Lizzie!”
There were so many things she could have read into his voice that she did not even want to begin. “Yes. I fear your cousin has been injured in some way. Possibly,” and she swallowed, “possibly grievously.”
“St. James?” he asked. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. She was grateful for the darkness in the room, for she had no way of knowing in what manner he slept and had no desire to find out now. She stepped back from the bed. “When did this happen!” he demanded.
“I—I don't know. Tonight, obviously. Oh, Andrew, you must ride 'round immediately to see what has happened!”
“I intend to,” he said with a new grimness in his voice. Then he frightened her completely by saying, “I should have been with him!”
“No!” she begged, but he was already pushing her to the door.
“Out,” he said.
And she understood that of course he wished to get dressed.
“Send me word, Andrew, as quickly as you can.”
“I will,” he promised and shoved her out of his room. She ran back to her own rooms, breathless and pale with apprehension, but slowed before entering, not wishing to burst in on Steven and upset him any more than he already was. She slipped through the door, and was relieved to find him still upon the chaise lounge, slumped on his side along the length of it, his feet hanging down.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 33