by Regan Walker
“We must get his fever down or he will die,” she exclaimed. They could immerse him in cold water, she knew, but he was too weak to take to the river. And then she remembered that Chatsworth was a grand estate. Grand estates, Kit recalled from her visit as a young girl to Petworth House, had ice houses.
“Chatsworth has an ice house, does it not?”
“Yeah, we have one,” said the woman helping her. “For many years, since the time of my grandmother. ’Tis just south of the canal pond. In the winter the men carve ice from the canal to store there.”
“We must have enough ice to surround his body.”
The woman hurried off. Not long after, the duke entered, followed again by the female servant. “John tells me Sir Martin has taken a turn for the worse, and Alice here says you need ice. What has happened, Lady Powell?”
“Martin’s wound turned angry and his fever soared. I have drained the wound and applied a poultice Alice gave me, but I need your help to deal with his fever. If he is to live, we must cool his body. Can we get some ice from your ice house to surround his body?”
“Of course. My footmen will go at once.”
The duke disappeared and a short while later returned with two footmen unloading blocks of ice from a cart and several servants anxious to help. The men carefully lifted Martin’s body from the sheet to lay an oilcloth underneath him, then placed thick cloths next to his sides and set the ice they had broken into smaller chunks around him, packing it close to his body. Kit placed small pieces of ice in cloths and set them on his forehead and chest, careful not to wet the bandage. It was all she knew to do. Then, holding the bagged ice to his forehead, she prayed.
“Oh, Lord, please do not take him.”
Perhaps in comfort, the duke said, “John and one of my footmen have ridden for the physician. If he can be found, he’ll be here soon.”
Kit prayed he would.
The physician didn’t arrive until early the next morning, the same Dr. Wendell she had encountered before. John told her the man was delayed by complications with a birth. Immediately upon entering the bedchamber, he checked Martin’s wound. He peeled back the bandage, and Kit was relieved to see the swelling reduced, though her husband was still warm to the touch.
“You have done well, my lady,” said the physician. “Continue to keep him cool. If the fever persists, perhaps he might be immersed in a tub of chilled water. Then all we can do is watch and wait—and pray.”
Kit kept vigil over her husband for another night. She told herself he could not die, not now. She wouldn’t say any more goodbyes. To him she would not, could not, say those words. He must live.
He awoke on and off, and when he was awake she got him to take a few sips of broth or a mixture of brandy and water. And she scolded him. “You must not leave me. It would be most inconvenient. I…I could not bear it. You shall get well.”
Two days after they first applied the ice, his fever dropped enough that they removed it. They changed the bed linens, too, carefully lifting him. It took several footmen and John working with Kit to accomplish that, while thankfully Martin was unaware. Kit breathed a sigh of relief. Her prayers had been answered.
On the following morning, a sudden movement woke Kit from where she slept exhausted on the edge of Martin’s bed. She looked up to see his head lifted off the pillow.
“Hello, Kitten,” he said weakly, smiling.
“Martin!” she said, excitement rising in her chest. “You’re awake.”
His eyes were clear as they had not been before. She touched his forehead. Cool. Studying his face for a clue to his health, she noted his color was better. She leaned in to kiss him gently and sat back.
“Yes, it would appear I am,” he said. His voice was a bit weak, but his customary grin was back in place as he reached for her hand. Warmth infused her from the joy of knowing he was out of danger.
“I’ve been so worried about you. I nearly lost you. How do you feel?”
“Sore.” He reached for his bandaged shoulder. “And a bit bedraggled. Thirsty. Some water?” he croaked.
“Yes, of course.” She hurried to pour him a glass from the pitcher on the dresser. Setting the glass aside, she propped up his pillows. “When your fever lessened, I tried to get as much broth down your throat as you would allow, but I was not always successful. It might take a while for you to come fully right. But the wound is healing well now,” she added, handing him the glass. “I just checked it some hours ago.”
“How long have I been out?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Most of this last week.”
“And you’ve been my nurse?” He had the audacity to wink.
“Who else? I would not leave your care to others.”
He squeezed her hand. “Rutledge?”
“It seems the duke’s pistol dispatched him to the next world. He’s dead, Martin.” Her voice sounded cold even to herself, but she couldn’t deny she was glad the man was gone.
“Saved me the trouble.”
“The duke insisted on bringing you to Chatsworth,” she said, looking around the overlarge room. “If you’re wondering about this grand bedchamber.”
The corners of his mouth hitched up in a grin. “Yes, that occurred to me. Nowhere else in the Midlands looks like this.”
She glanced toward the fireplace, following his gaze. “It seems the duke favors marble…and books. I’ve seen a lot of both everywhere, and John tells me he has seen even more.”
“John is here?’
“The duke insisted, and it seemed a good thing to me. I thought you might need him.”
“Yes, that was wise.”
“Hart put you on the first floor so that his servants could better see to our needs. He’s been very kind, Martin, even sending a message to Ormond to let him know you were injured.”
“Hart, is it? Well, I suppose that is to be expected. Seems to be the name he prefers.”
He pulled her onto the bed and winced, and observing his expression Kit said, “Do you think we should be doing this? You’re not well.”
“It’s part of my recovery having you next to me, Kitten.”
She smiled in agreement, turned in to his side and nuzzled the base of his neck, reveling in the now cooler touch of his skin.
“I seem to recall in my foggy dreams a woman’s voice telling me she loved me. Your voice, Kitten.”
“Yes,” Kit admitted. “I was reminding you that you were not free to leave this world.”
“I have no desire to leave it,” he announced, leaning down to kiss her. “And it sounds like I owe my recovery to Hart as well as you.”
“The duke doesn’t think you owe him anything, Martin. He’s been telling everyone you’re the Prince Regent’s man and a hero. But I agree with you: We do owe him. If we hadn’t been here, if we hadn’t had the ice he provided and the care…”
Her words trailed off as Martin drew her tighter into the curve of his body. She kissed the skin just below his ear and said softly, “The duke thought to offer us a wedding gift with some time at Chatsworth, but you getting shot changed that a bit.”
“I’m certain we can make up for it,” he said, teasing her lips with a gentle kiss.
Seeing Martin brought back from death’s door had drained all the prior anger she’d experienced at his having failed to tell her what he was doing in Pentridge. Those nights of sitting with him while he was lost in fever had bonded her to him in a new way. But she hadn’t forgotten. As she leaned into his side and returned his kiss she whispered, “You might have told me you were working for the Crown and not against it.”
“Did you truly worry I was a traitor, Kit? You were supposed to be trusting me, remember?”
“I did trust you—and I did worry. Recall we did not know each other very well.”
“Ah, my kitten, you keep saying that. But, as I keep telling you, we did know each other very well.”
The look on his face was most definitely a satisfied grin, and she wo
uld have slapped him except for the huge bandage wrapped around half his chest and injured shoulder. Instead, she cast him a sardonic smile. “Ah. So you will continue to act the spy for the Prince Regent.”
* * *
Her statement surprised him, but more unsettling was Kit’s clear concern. Martin watched her brows beetle with fresh worry, and he knew he could never put her through this again. “No, Kit. This was my last assignment. Our future together will be very different, I assure you.”
“That sounds good, husband.”
“I hadn’t planned on being wounded. I was just exhausted and so angry at Rutledge’s perfidy and worried about his shooting you I was slow to act.” The fear Martin had felt when Rutledge snatched the footman’s pistol was still so real he shuddered at the memory.
“Not so slow to act, husband. You threw yourself in front of me. Remember? The duke said that move saved you from a mortal wound, and I am glad. It would break my heart if I were to lose you. I love you so.” She did not need the dark of night to whisper the words any longer. After all they had been through, she would shout them from the rooftops.
“I love you, too, Kitten, most fervently. But it seems I cannot always protect those I love.” He cast a side glance at his bandaged shoulder. “I cannot even protect myself. Life is a risk-laden business, Kit. At times it has left me with a deep ache for how precious it is—and how fragile.”
“We both know how fragile life is.” She let her gaze fall to the side as she said, “We’ve both lost people we love.” Then, facing him, she added, “I was not going to lose you.”
Martin knew well he could not love without accepting the risk of losing that love. Try as he might, he could not protect Kit from all danger. Whatever time life would give them, he would embrace it fully. But he would not be careless, either. Never again.
“And I do not intend to lose you,” he said. “That is why I will always hold you close, Kitten.” He pulled her atop him. “Come here. I’m tired of sleeping alone.”
“You’re not fully recovered!”
“I may be weak, but I’m not dead. And there are ways.”
“But—”
He showed her the ways.
* * *
“You’ll be pleased to know,” the duke said, “my agent is conducting an inquiry into the tenancies of those involved in the insurrection.”
Martin looked at Kit, sitting across the dining table in what the duke called his “small” dining room. The scale was more conducive to conversation than his grander rooms that would seat scores. Though not surprised by the duke’s stated intention, Martin thought he saw a glimmer of concern on his wife’s face. She cared for the families in the village.
“Will they lose their homes?” she asked.
“Possibly,” replied the duke.
A footman served the next course: a pheasant displayed on the silver platter with its head attached and its feathers fanned out. Martin watched as Kit accepted a slice of the meat on her plate while trying not to look into the bird’s eyes, and gazing at his beautiful wife brought a smile to his face, particularly when he considered their last two nights together. His lovely vixen was all he could hope for in a lover. And she’d been creative as to positions, accommodating his wounded shoulder.
Struggling to bring his mind back to the topic of conversation, he asked the duke, “Are they still rounding up rebels? John tells me the price on some heads is now up to the enormous sum of one hundred guineas.”
John, sitting next to him, nodded. “’Tis what I’ve heard.”
“It may be weeks before all are captured,” the duke said, “but with that kind of coin as bait, they will soon all be reeled in.” I intend to take away the property of any involved in this uprising and give it to tenants who refused to join the rebels’ cause. I have already assured myself that woman, Ann Weightman, who forced her four sons to participate under diverse threats, will no longer be innkeeper on my lands. She has been arrested for permitting a seditious meeting in the White Horse.”
“I feel sorry for the villagers,” said Kit, vocalizing the concern he’d seen in her eyes. “I don’t think they realized what they were doing. Not really. I became acquainted with Mrs. Weightman’s son George while we were in Pentridge. He was a kind young man whom I believe only became part of the rebellion at his mother’s insistence.”
The duke wore a troubled expression. “Then you will not like my news, my lady. The magistrate Edmund Mundy has just sent word that George Weightman is one of those apprehended. I expect he will be tried for treason along with the others. The government is being quite serious about this incident and will, I expect, hang some as examples.”
“They ought to be trying Sidmouth’s spy Oliver,” said John.
“‘Ought’ is the key word, John,” said Martin. “The government will never call him at trial, because spies do not help the prosecution. Juries do not like the sneak, which he certainly was. Worse, he was working for the very government now crying treason, encouraging the villagers to rise against the Crown.”
“There’s to be a grand jury convened in Derby,” the duke informed them. “My uncle George Cavendish has been asked to be foreman. Young Weightman may well hang for his role. As I recall, Martin, you told me he actually led a group of the men through the night.”
“Oh, no,” Kit said, looking anxiously at Martin. “We must do something to help him. Surely he does not deserve to die.”
Martin felt an ache in his chest at the despair reflected on his wife’s face and the sympathetic look John cast her way. Perhaps when they returned to London he would ask Prinny to commute the sentence should young Weightman be convicted, as he undoubtedly would.
The duke’s brows rose in question at Kit’s statement, so Martin offered, “My wife grew attached to some of the villagers, remember, young Weightman included. She made sketches of many of them.”
“You draw, Lady Powell?”
“Yes, I do…a bit.”
“More than a bit,” Martin said proudly. “My lady is quite the artist.”
“May I see? the duke asked.
“Why, yes,” she said.
John was sent to find the sketchbook he’d retrieved from the inn with Kit’s other things. He returned, and with Kit’s nod he handed her drawings to the duke. The duke took some time to peruse them as his guests continued to eat.
The duke looked up, obviously impressed. “They are quite good. Martin has not exaggerated. Would you be willing to share these drawings with a friend of mine, Lady Powell?”
“Why, yes, if you desire it, Your Grace. Well, at least some of them,” she added. Martin could only guess at the ones she would withhold.
“Hart,” the duke reminded her. “You may call me Hart. The person with whom I’d want to share them is my friend Edward Baines, the editor of the Leeds Mercury. He is quite the thinker. We share many views on education. Knowing of my overseer role, he has sent me a message inquiring about my response to the uprising in Pentridge.” Giving Martin a knowing look he added, “It seems he is pursuing a story of the rebellion.”
Kit raised her eyebrow, eyeing him. “Martin?”
“I suppose it can be done, though he must not know of my position or my work for the Crown. And, he must not mention you, Kit—or me—in his article.”
“If he were to use your drawings, my lady,” the duke said to Kit, “I am quite certain I could persuade him to say nothing of you. Your name will not be mentioned.”
The topic was dropped for a time, but on the way back to their room that night Martin took Kit through the long gallery the duke had converted to a grand library. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You don’t have to share your drawings if you’d rather not, Kit.”
She looked up at the wall of books on both sides of the gallery as if pondering his statement and sighed. “No, I want to, but I will carefully select what he may use.”
Chapter 26
Kit’s meeting with Edwa
rd Baines was soon arranged to take place in the sitting room the duke called “the schoolroom.” It was a small room with a white and gold mantelpiece over which hung a picture of a boy with a magnificent dog, though Kit did not know the breed. Kit had been a bit reluctant to meet with the editor alone and so asked Martin to join her, which as it turns out he had planned to do.
Upon greeting him, Kit thought Edward Baines had an interesting face, with a tall forehead, long nose and sparkling hazel eyes, framed by brown hair falling nearly to his shoulders. His friendly sincere smile instantly put her at ease.
“I am looking into some claims only recently brought to my attention about a man named William Oliver, Lady Powell. The duke tells me you may have a drawing of him.”
Kit exchanged a glance with her husband sitting next to her.
“I see the name is known to you both,” Baines said.
“Why, yes,” Martin offered. “From time to time he was in Pentridge, the town where we stayed. The village is not large.”
Kit handed him the drawings she’d brought. “There is one of him among those, I believe,” she said, directing him to one particular sketch and then another. “This one.” She pointed to the picture of the men sitting around a table drinking at the Dog Inn, and to another of Oliver’s face alone.
When the editor turned to the drawing she’d made of the men meeting in the upper room, Kit saw a faint glimmer of surprise on Martin’s face. She had purposely drawn different faces on Martin and John so as not to include their identities among those plotting treason. At the time she did it, she didn’t know why, but now she did. In her heart, she had never counted them among the rebels. Never allowed herself to believe her husband was a traitor. Martin reached for her hand and squeezed it, giving her a grateful smile as he did.
“How did you manage to see this meeting, Lady Powell?” Baines inquired.
Thinking fast she said, “Oh, I was merely passing an open door and found the men’s faces intriguing. I particularly like to draw faces, you see, but I have also made drawings of St. Matthew’s and the cottages in the village. They are among the ones in the stack I’ve given you.”