Addicted (42 page)

He was a wreck, now. The furthest thing from a gentleman.

“Please, Lindsay, come away—”

Shaking off his mother’s hold he snapped, “For Christ’s sake, not now, Mother.”

The shock he heard in her gasp made him reach for what little control remained in him. He turned, only to find her right behind him, standing on the stairs. She was crying, and he reached for her hand, grasping it hard in his, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Forgive me,” he begged. He never wanted to hurt anyone, least of all the woman who had raised him, loved him, taught him how to be a man of worth—a man worthy of a woman like Anais. And he had failed her. Miserably.

“I…I am not myself,” he told her as he let her hand fall away. “My head aches. A nap will set me to rights. An hour, Mother. Then I shall be able to meet you at The Lodge.”

“My beautiful boy,” she whispered through trembling lips. He allowed her to cup his face in her gloved hands and tilt his chin until he was looking at her. “What have you done to yourself, Lindsay? Where has my son gone?”

“He’s lost, Mother.”

The sight of her tears undid him. He had only ever seen his
mother cry because of his father. Never had he or his actions brought sadness to her, and knowing he had at last accomplished that killed whatever flicker of life remained in him.

“Can you not find him?” she asked. “I…we,” she said, glancing at his father. “We want him back so terribly bad.”

“I will try,” he said, stepping back from her, lying to her. The truth was, even if he wanted to quit, he couldn’t. He was no longer just a disciple following the path of his mistress. He was addicted. Wholly dependent. His body now needed opium like it required food and water.

“An hour, Mother, or perhaps two,” he said, walking backward, away from her. “I just need to sleep. Just for a short time.”

Draping his coat along the seat of a chair, Lindsay turned his attention to the silver tray that sat atop the hall table. A missive had arrived. His heart faltered a beat and he found himself illogically hoping that it was a letter from Anais. It was not.

Breaking the seal, he read the missive that had been sent by Robert Middleton. He walked the distance to the conservatory. His harem, he thought absently. A forbidden place to do forbidden things.

As he walked, he ignored the rush of anticipation that quickened his steps and instead read the letter in his hands.

Raeburn,

I was not certain you would attend Mina’s baptism, so I decided to write to inform you that I shall be taking Mina and Margaret back to Edinburgh within a fortnight. I’m certain you shall agree that it is best for all concerned.

Now alone in his den, Lindsay closed his eyes and sunk down onto the red velvet divan.
Dear God, no.
What bloody right had Middleton to squander off with a child that was not rightfully his own? But Mina was Robert’s child now, he reminded himself. She was only flesh of
his
flesh, nothing more. Mina was not, nor would she ever be, his daughter in more ways than blood.

The paper trembled in his hand and he peered down at the scrolled words through eyes that burned.

You must understand there is nothing that can be done. We have introduced her to the world as our daughter and I may assure you that to Margaret and myself, she is our daughter. No one will question her legitimacy as it was common knowledge that Margaret was nearing her date before we left for Bewdley. The child will enjoy everything we have to give her. I vow she will be—and is—loved and cherished.

I have taken a position as a professor at the university. My post shall keep me in the north. I’m certain you will find these arrangements satisfactory as it will dramatically reduce the chance for awkward, and admittedly, unpleasant surprise encounters.

You will find in this packet another letter, concerning information that I thought you should know. You will recall that I made every attempt to inform you of the facts prior to your departure to London. Since I was not successful in that, I will take the opportunity now, to write them down for you.

Lindsay crumpled the letter in his hand. Anger raced through his blood and he spat a foul oath as he stood up from the divan.
Bending to pick up the folded letter that Middleton had tucked inside the missive, he headed away from the spring bath that steamed so invitingly beside him, and made his way to the curtain partition that housed another divan. There, the silver tray awaited him. So, too, did the lacquered box that housed the opium.

Dropping the last of Middleton’s missive onto the divan, he pulled the lid of the box off and rifled through its contents, searching for the Constantinople pats that would bring him solace. Finding the yellow cake he broke it in two, pulling out the black, seed like pieces. He stared down at them lying in his palm, hating them—needing them.

Bloody hell, was this what he truly needed?

In truth it was now all he could think of. He was afraid that it was the only thing he wanted, maybe even over Anais.

Glancing up from the opium cake, his gaze sought the mother-of-pearl-and-jade pipe that sat atop the tray. Would the opium be enough to replace the empty spot in his soul that Anais had left?

He spied the letter and he wrestled with the idea of reading it or smoking the entire cake and sleeping for days, only to awaken without any memory of the past weeks.

Should he read the letter and inflict more pain, or should he shut himself off from the world and feel nothing?

Shut everything out, his mind shouted. Reaching for the pipe so that he could send himself to oblivion, his hands fumbled with the opium, but it was not eagerness that made him clumsy. It was fear. He knew what he was doing. He was trudging down the path to destruction, following his father’s boot steps down a dark and muddy path. Step for step he was right behind his
father, sinking into vice. Submerging any emotions in a substance that prevented any feelings at all.

His fingers faltered with a sulphur match and he burnt his fingertip before he could light the wick that would heat the burner. Shoving aside every thought and feeling he had, Lindsay reached for the opium and put it on the needle, heating it until it began to bubble. When it was at the right stage of softness, he pulled it off, rolling it between his fingers until the consistency was perfect.

There had been a time when this was a ritual for him. A game of seduction. He had thought it amusing. A lark. A dream on a cloud of sensuality. Now it was a necessity. There was no beauty in feeling the opium warming between his fingers. No seduction in waiting for the feel of the first rush, warming his blood. Now there was impatience. Anger. He could not wait to feel the opium. Could not bear to seduce it into working.

At last the first few tendrils began to rise from the brass burner of the pipe. With impatience, Lindsay pulled the cravat from his neck and tore at the buttons of his shirt. Reclining on the divan, he reached for the pipe, bringing it to his mouth, he felt the warmth of the vapor on his cheeks. With a great pull, he inhaled the smoke, filling his lungs until he thought they might burst. With a slow exhale he let a minimum of the smoke out, watching it rise up to the ceiling of his tented pleasure den.

His gaze found Robert Middleton’s missive, and he wondered what it could contain. Certainly nothing that could salvage the events of the past weeks.

Taking two more pulls on the pipe, he steadied himself and
reached for the letter. With the steadying influence of the opium, he could read the missive.

Breaking open the seal, he scanned Robert Middleton’s hurried scrawl.

She had labored the entire day on her own without anyone to help her or offer her encouragement. That is my first regret.

His heart sank. Another lie. She had said that the ordeal wasn’t overly long. That Broughton had stayed and cared for her. Why had she lied? Why had she thought she needed to make it easier for him to hear? Did she think him that weak and fragile? Christ, was he that weak?

He looked at the burner and the opium. He told his mother he would try, and yet here he was, lighting up once again because he couldn’t deal with the emotions—the pain that coursed inside him. Yes, he was weak, he could no longer deny that.

My brother arrived at the cottage to check in on her, it was then that he found her in the latter stages of labor. He raced back to the house to retrieve me, and when we arrived it was apparent the birth was imminent. She was brave and made nary a sound while she delivered your daughter, and I could not help but be awed by her calm control.

All went exceedingly well until the time that the afterbirth failed to detach from the womb. It was then that she began to bleed brightly and profusely. There was so much
blood—much more than I had ever seen in my life. I began to fret and wasted much valuable time in panic when I should have been using the skills that were taught to me. That is my second regret. In my defense, I will say that I had never encountered a complication upon birthing as the one Anais presented me with. So much blood—flowing blood—that overwhelmed me and left me feeling helpless.

His lips wrapped around the pipe, and he inhaled again, then again, until images of blood swarmed before him. Of their own accord, his eyes found the letter and he began reading once again.

After struggling to manually remove the afterbirth, it was apparent that Anais had lost a vast quantity of blood—I fear that her entire body of fluid was pooling about me. I can still hear her life’s blood rolling from the sides of the bed, tapping against the wooden floorboards.

Although I was successful in removing the afterbirth and stemming the bleeding, I thought little could be done to restore the quantity of life’s blood she had lost.

Thankfully, Anais was unconscious for the majority of this ordeal. And I would take the time to tell you now, that her last words to me as she looked up into my face with her wide, frightened eyes—eyes that saw her impending death—were “take care of my baby.”

Fearing I failed her in life, I resolved not to do the same in death. I had my brother retrieve my wife and not caring about the trauma she, herself, had suffered not more than a fortnight before, bade her to feed Anais’s babe.

Owing to her advanced pregnancy, my wife had milk in her breasts to feed the babe. It was then that our days and nights were filled with caring for the babe and seeing to the needs of my patient who had not regained consciousness. I feared the worst when the fever set in almost two days later. I was convinced Anais would surely not cling to life much longer.

Pressing his shaking fingers to his eyes, Lindsay stemmed the tears that began to gather amongst the opium mist. She had needed him and he had left her bereft and alone. He had wasted away his days in idleness and self-pity while Anais had been struggling to bring his child into the world.

We cared for the child since the night of her birth. It was not too difficult to pretend to the servants that Margaret had delivered the child. We had not shared the despair of losing our own with anyone other than my brother. After losing two previous babes, we wanted the loss of our third to be kept between us. Since no one realized that Margaret had lost the babe, they all assumed that the child they suddenly heard crying in our chamber was our own.

Despite the fever and gross blood loss, Anais awoke, clear-minded and free of fever on the sixth day. I needn’t tell you how many tears were shed upon seeing her with her eyes open. Nor do I need to tell you the anguish felt by all when she realized that she could not care for the child in the way a mother must.

I will never forget the look of her when, two weeks after
giving birth, she bade my brother to take her home. The parting look she gave her baby will haunt me forever. Never think that what she did was for the ease of her circumstances. Never think that what she did was an act of a spoiled woman, for what it was, was an act of an angel.

We shall never forget our angel. We shall never forget that it was the two of you who made our fondest wish come true.

May you one day find peace with what has happened, and learn to be content in the knowledge that your love for each other has made our life rich beyond measure.

The letter slipped from his hands. He had one of two choices. Weep as he hadn’t allowed himself to weep in years, or pick up the pipe. It was not a difficult decision. The pipe felt familiar in his hands. The tears did not.

Anais strolled down the long marble hall and stopped before the heavily paneled wooden door. She knocked and waited for a response. None came. Opening the door, she saw Lord Weatherby asleep on a settee, his wife’s head was resting on his shoulder. They were holding each other.

As if in slow motion, she turned around, realizing that something was wrong. The house was too quiet. The servants too still. There was a pall over the house that was heavy and dark.

Lindsay.

Lifting her skirts, she ran from the room and down the hall. It was raining outside and the butler had left her parasol and coat on a hook to dry. She passed the coat tree, skidded in a puddle
of rainwater and ran into a pair of strong arms that wrapped tightly around her.

“Lindsay?” she asked breathlessly as she held on. When she looked up, it was into the grave face of Wallingford.

“Take me to him,” she demanded, pulling away from him, but he reached for her and held her tightly about the wrist.

“He would never want you to see him this way, Anais. I promised—”

“I don’t give a bloody damn what you’ve promised him. I will go myself. I know where to look.”

Releasing her, Wallingford motioned her ahead. They both knew where they were going. When Anais opened the door of the conservatory, it was to see it bathed in candlelight, the gentle glow flickering off the orange and pink silks.