“Did you like the performance, my lady?”
“I did. I love music, and the harpist played splendidly.” The Christmas carols captured the season perfectly. If only her heart was not burdened with grief, she might have taken real joy in the evening.
Now she must dwell on the words she’d heard.
Andrew, why could you not have told me the truth?
When her maid departed, sobs she’d held in until her throat ached burst forth. She doubled over as the pain in her heart spilled throughout her body. When she could cry no more, she fell into a restless sleep, alternately pitying herself for believing Andrew’s lies and worrying that George would not be returned to his father.
She pictured the child as they’d found him in the chapel, hidden away in a cold closet, curled tightly in his blanket on a hard surface. The poor lad must be terrified again. Would he regress and refuse to talk like he had when he first came to Cardmore Hall?
She finally slept and awoke with the dawn, flinging off the covers in the cold room. She dressed herself in a plain gown and draped a woolen shawl over her shoulders. Tiptoeing down the stairs and into the kitchen, she found Mama’s cook stooped over the teakettle.
“I came down to get a cup of tea and take it to my room, but I think I shall remain on a stool in your kitchen for a bit.”
“Lady Emily. You gave me a start.” The plump cook stepped back. “Warm bread shall be ready in a thrice.”
“That would be lovely.” She watched the activity in the kitchen. Cook tested the doneness of her bread by tapping the top with her finger. A kitchen maid chopped turnips destined for a later meal, and two footmen sat at the servants’ table, sipping their morning tea. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and cloves, two spices prominent in cook’s special Christmas biscuits. The treats most likely were hidden away for this afternoon’s tea.
George would love them. She pictured his small hands lifting one to his mouth with half descending to the floor as he giggled while chewing. A sad smile crossed her lips. Must she always think of the child?
Cook waddled over and placed a plate with a slice of warm bread and jam next to Emily’s teacup. “Try this, milady, and tell me if it is to your liking.”
Emily took a small bite, loving the smell of the freshly baked bread, as well as the scent of biscuits, and nodded. “’Tis delicious.”
“Good. If you wish another slice, let me know.”
Emily licked her fingers in an unladylike manner, finished her tea, and let herself down from the high stool. “I believe I will go back to my room now that I am warm and fed.”
“You are always welcome here, milady, even though I daresay your mama would not approve of you dawdling belowstairs.”
“Thank you. You may see me again before I return to the country.”
The cook laughed and went on about her business. Emily—her tears unlikely to return—made her way quietly up the stairs and into Papa’s library where a fire warmed the room. Finding her book where she’d left it yesterday afternoon, she sat in a large chair and prepared to engross herself in the travails of Fanny Price in Mansfield Park, a book written by her favorite author.
When breakfast was announced a few hours later, she joined a surprised Papa and told him all about the musical evening he’d missed by remaining at his club. Mama would sleep for hours, but Emily, accustomed to country life, found herself restless once again.
Has George been restored? Was he treated well?
“I say there, you are fidgeting like a bird in a bed of breadcrumbs. Are you unwell?”
She instantly calmed her hands, folding them in her lap. Straightening her spine, she gazed at her father, who had put down the pamphlet he was reading to peer at her over his spectacles.
“Waiting for Mama to rise. I need to go shopping.”
“More fripperies?”
“No, Papa, gifts for the Yuletide and perhaps a dress or two.”
He picked up his paper and slid his spectacles back into place. “You can skip me. I am not in need of anything.”
“We shall see.”
After a hearty breakfast, Emily drifted back to the library and picked up her book. She felt immensely better.
The note handed to her later was from Andrew, and it asked her to meet him at the Serpentine at noon, at the same place they’d accidentally met before.
She wadded up the note and threw it on the grate, anger beginning to rise. No, she would not go.
Let him fret. I care not what he thinks.
But what if he had news of the child? What if the boy had been found and needed her? She glanced at the clock in the library, noting it was half past nine.
“Was there no response required?” she asked the footman who brought the note.
“No, milady.”
“Thank you.”
How she wished Aunt Lily were here. She could use her counsel.
Taking a deep breath, she ran up to her room and found Alice.
“Order the carriage for half past ten, and we’ll stop at the bookshop. Bring warm outerwear. I may want to walk in Hyde Park afterward. You and I can stretch our legs.”
“Yes, milady.” She paused. “Is your mother not going then?”
“No. I prefer to go early. Mama will not rise until noon.”
Her mind was made up, but it might be a fool’s errand. If the child was not with him, she would depart after ringing a peal over him.
She busied herself in her room until time to depart, not wanting to confront her mother even though it was highly unlikely at this hour. When it was time to leave, she and Alice made it to the waiting carriage without incident, telling the butler to inform her father she had decided to go shopping early.
They stopped at Hatchards, where she purchased a novel and two books of Aesop’s Fables for Phoebe, then proceeded to the park. The day was bright, but the wind blew her skirts about her, making her glad she wore her woolen cloak. She and Alice strolled a bit then sat on a bench, watching ducks in the pond. It was too early for carriages to promenade. Emily did not fear she would be noticed by anyone with whom she was acquainted.
When a gentleman approached, she clutched her bonnet and tightened the strings. Andrew was alone. No small boy tagged by his side.
She stood, and he confronted her, his gaze settling on Alice. “Could you please tell your maid to give us privacy?”
Emily nodded her assent, although she seethed with anger.
“You are a liar and a cheat. You’ve done nothing but tell me Banbury tales since the first day we met by the lake. I will tolerate you only for George’s sake. Do you hear me, Andrew? Now go and let me depart with a shred of dignity.”
“I have never lied to you.”
She scoffed. “I heard every word of your impassioned speech to Wentworth. When I saw you leave the music room, I followed you, impatient to hear about George. I saw the door ajar and peeked within, but you and Ralston weren’t alone, so I remained in the hall.”
“What I told Wentworth was a fabrication to get the child back. Nothing was true. I’m gambling on his sense of self-preservation to do the right thing. He will not want his family to know of his perfidy. I beg of you, Emily, please believe me.”
She stared him down, not moving an inch. “You’ve caused me nothing but trouble since the day you bedded Caroline and were caught by her mother. I deserved better, Andrew. You made me a laughingstock. Poor Emily Sinclair. Betrothed to a man who deceived her. Then you go to war, and I hear nothing until Aunt Lily informs me you’re in residence. I tried to stay away, my hurt still deep. Then I saw you at the village fair, and I knew—despite everything—I still cared. Now I can safely say you have killed all of my feelings.” She picked up her reticule and turned away.
“What will I do without you?”
“I pray you’ll have George, and if you do not, there’s always laudanum. You seem to have a love affair with your medication. I hope it makes you happy.”
She beckoned to Alice and hurried off, not wanting him to see tears welling in her eyes. She would not let them fall. Strong women were not watering pots, and she’d cried all too often of late.
And I will need all my strength when George is returned, if I am to retain my pride and my sanity.
Chapter 34
I have lost her.
Andrew hung his head as he made his way back to where he’d left his horse. The heaviness in his heart weighed him down and slowed his steps. He’d lost his son, and he’d lost the woman he loved.
Ralston had told him the hour when the physician was due. They were to meet at Cardmore House because of its scant staff and the unpredictability of his reaction.
He’d once heard withdrawal was akin to being in hell.
Now he didn’t care. He deserved all the pain God wished to inflict upon him, but not until after George was safely home.
If I suffer the fires of hell, it is more than I deserve. I should have defied my father, denounced Caroline’s perfidy, and then gone off to war, forever branded as a rogue.
In time he might have been able to regain Emily’s good will. Her father would not have overlooked the wealth and title, and Caroline’s father would have packed her off to avoid a scandal.
Delusion may temporarily soothe, but truth still lies in wait.
He shook off his thoughts and rode through the streets back to his townhouse. The stone edifice looked forbidding, even in bright sunlight. Perhaps he should sell it. The building was not part of the entail. His father had purchased it upon his marriage and brought his bride to live here during the season.
Stabling his horse, he directed the only groom in residence to see to its needs. He then stumbled into the house, using the servants’ entrance. Finding his way upstairs to his drawing room, he encountered Ralston on the stairs.
“Where the devil have you been? I was about to go out to look for you.”
“I’ve been to see Emily. She does not believe me. You must tell her, Ralston. What she heard me say to Wentworth was a lie to convince him to return George to me, and I dearly hope it worked because I fear George is all I have left.”
Ralston frowned. “The physician I told you about awaits in the drawing room, and he tells me the procedure might be lengthy. I’m glad you decided to wait until you return to your country estate before you begin. If you do this, Lady Emily will come around, especially when George is restored to you.”
“We could get news of George any moment. Do you think the scoundrel will do the right thing?”
“Yes. He won’t want his brother to cut off his funds. Then it will be your turn. You must be as brave as you were in battle when you hear the physician’s words.”
Brave? He thought back to the day he’d ordered his men to retreat. The enemy had broken through their lines. Shots had whistled past his head. Men screamed. Horses and riders swooped their sabers at anyone in their way.
His legs had stuck to the ground as fear gripped him. He hadn’t been able to breathe or bring words to his mouth. The stench of blood and manure and musket fire filled his nostrils, threatening to choke him. Where were the reinforcements? If they continued to advance, they would all die.
He hadn’t been able to stand it. The fear. The suffering. The sounds. Without an order to do so, he’d shouted, “Fall back. Take cover.” And they had, the majority of his regiment able to retreat before being cut down. He’d fallen, picked himself up, and run, like an animal instead of a brave man facing his attackers as ordered.
Later, he’d been called a hero because there had been an official order to retreat, even though it never reached him. He’d been praised for his decision. Praised!
“Are you woolgathering again?” Ralston’s impatient voice cut into his thoughts. “Or trying to think of a way to weasel out of this.”
Andrew sighed. He was ready to meet this new fate, whatever it was. He certainly hoped this physician knew more than the last.
The doctor, dressed in a subdued coat and waistcoat, greeted him at the door and shook his hand. Andrew bade him sit.
“Before you agree to this, I want you to know what you will likely experience. Then, if you wish to continue, I shall give you directions on how to proceed.”
“Will you be present?”
“No. This is best done in a familiar place where you have servants to attend you and—please hear me out before you protest—strong men to prevent you from leaving the room which will most likely be your home for a few weeks.”
Andrew frowned. “That long?”
The man hesitated. “Some take less time, others even longer. Addiction is a concept centuries old. Strides in the subject have been made recently by a Dr. Benjamin Rush in a place called Philadelphia in America. Most of his work is in alcohol addiction, but his pamphlets are fascinating, and he suggests that those who have long-term pain can also become addicted to morphine and laudanum with alarming personality changes.”
Andrew sat back. Was he addicted then? Had he changed? His initial indifference toward hygiene and company of any sort were mainly due to the daunting task of running a large estate and the return to a place he’d always despised. But his discovery of the unmarried state and proximity of Lady Emily had spurred him to try to regain his dignity and assume the duties he’d been bred for. ’Twas only lately, as his dosage increased, he’d noticed his irritability, almost constant anxiety, and restlessness during the night.
Since the child’s abduction, he’d tried hard to hide these unwanted traits, but his body now betrayed him. He sweated profusely with no exertion, and his eyes sometimes watered without feeling emotion. When he was too long without the drug, his stomach cramped until pain wracked his entire body, causing him to swallow more of the foul stuff than he should in order to bring himself back into peaceful oblivion.
“If I decide to do this, I will have to wait until a personal matter is resolved. Can you describe the process itself? What can I expect?”
“First I must tell you I have not witnessed a person going through what is called withdrawal. But colleagues of mine have, particularly those who study poor souls in prisons. They say the person shakes with pain, vomits, has the flux. He screams as it tears through his body, and claws at the door to get out to find the drug.”
“But afterward, when the agony ends and the patient quiets, does the pain return?”
He cocked his head as if considering his response. “It depends on the patient. The craving will not end. I recommend small doses of brandy when the craving ensues, lessening it as time passes. Willpower is going to be the ultimate necessity. The will to be free of pain, free of the drug’s control.”
Andrew fidgeted with his signet ring. This withdrawal sounded worse than being on the field of battle.
The physician rose. “Do this at your country estate. Put yourself in a room with a lock. Station two strong men inside with you to restrain you when maids come in to clean the mess you will make.”
“Should I be bound?”
“No. This is a dangerous procedure. You could choke if you cannot lean over when you cast up your accounts. No restraints. Just strong men and a solid door.”
He left the room, leaving Andrew and Ralston staring at one another.
“Do you think I can do this?”
“I know you, Cardmore. I know you have iron resolve when you need it. If you decide to do it, you will need to have incentive, and I believe you now do. Emily loves you. I’m sure of it. She’s out of charity with you right now, but you can win her back. George needs his father, and I am not talking about Wentworth, but you—the only father he’s ever known.”
He had much to think about, but for now they must wait for Wentworth. As insurance, Andrew had penned a note to Wentworth’s brother, a gentleman well known in the House of Lords as a man of integrity and common sense. He told him he would not press charges if the boy was returned. But if his brother remained in Britain, he might change his mind.
Now they must wait, and it pained him not to be doing something to bring the child home. He’d grown to love the serious little soul who needed affection and laughter in his life. Andrew had not had a caring father, not like some of his friends whose parents had taken them hunting and fishing and on excursions. George had been excited about seeing the lions in the Tower of London. They hadn’t gone yet.
Emily would be sure to scold me.
He must not think of her until he shed himself of his need for laudanum. Perhaps he’d curtail his drinking as well. Ralston had once said he must forgive himself if he was to change. He would sincerely try to shed his past and concentrate on the future.
When Ralston left, Andrew wandered alone in the townhouse, trying to remember when it had been a happy house, when his mother had been alive and his sisters dressed for Christmas in red velvet gowns with satin ribbons in their hair. They’d laughed and peeked at the brightly-colored attire of the guests at the grand ball their parents held the night before St. Nicholas Day.
Andrew remembered a house filled with music and gaiety.
Mama had taken it all with her when she died.
Perhaps he could revive the ball at home in the country in the years to come. He could invite his neighbors. The Hall had a cavernous ballroom. Extra staff could be hired to help cook and serve.
The clock positioned near the fireplace ticked ominously. He threw himself in his chair, wishing Ralston had not had to return to his lodgings for additional clothes, warming himself with the few embers still burning on the grate. He stood and examined the coal bucket. It was half full. Rather than ring for the footman, he scooped coal and spread it on the embers. Heat rewarded him.
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