Anita Mills (11 page)

“One would think so. And another day or so cannot make much difference to Miss Morland. Surely you could offer … perhaps even employ her here whilst she waits,” Trent ventured.. “Your mother—”

“I would not wish Mother on the lowest creature, Alex,” Dominick declared with feeling. “And certainly Annie is not that.”

“Annie?” Trent’s eyebrow lifted. “Annie?”

“Miss Morland.”

Trent rose to refill his cup. “More punch, Dom?”

“No.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—’twas not my intent to intrude,” Anne apologized. “I was merely looking for Miss Mitford, and her maid said she had come down.”

“Alas, but Miss Mitford fled,” Trent murmured, rising. “But do come in, my dear—we were just speaking of you. You ought to wear green often, don’t you think, Dom?”

Dominick stared at her in surprise. Miss Mitford’s gown actually became her, and in it she appeared almost elegant. His gaze traveled over her trim, slender figure, up to her face. “Most definitely,” he answered. Her clear dark eyes met his for a moment; then she dropped them politely. It was then that he noted the ruffled and starched mobcap on her head. “Where the devil did you get that thing?”

His tone spoiled the effect she’d hoped to have, and for a moment she was at a loss. “Well, the dress is Meg’s, of course,” she began defensively.

“Not the gown—the silly cap.”

Her hand crept to the offending garment. “You dislike it? I thought—”

“Makes you look like a damned housekeeper. In the carriage, my dear, I merely jested.”

“Well, I had it of the upstairs maid. And if you must know, I am wearing it to signify that I am quite on the shelf, Mr. Deveraux,” she told him severely. But there was no mistaking a certain twinkle in her eyes as she explained, “Indeed, since my arrival in your and Mr. Bascombe’s company, I have received the most censorious looks from the staff. No doubt your rogue’s reputation makes my conduct suspect.”

“Coming it too strong, Miss Morland.”

“Yes, well, rather than have them believe me fast, I should prefer to be old, I think,” she added sweetly. “It helps explain my lack of an abigail, don’t you think?”

“I think—”

His answer was cut short by the appearance of his mother’s doctor. “There you are—both of you.” His manner grave, Rand walked into the saloon. “Do sit down, sirs.”

“I shall see you at supper,” Anne murmured, turning to leave. To her surprise, Dominick’s hand rested on her arm, holding her back. “Really, I’m quite sure you will wish to be private, and—”

“No, not at all, Miss Morland.”

“Has there been any change, Doctor?” Trent inquired, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Er …” Rand cleared his throat and looked at Anne.

“Miss Morland is a friend of the family. Do go on.”

“Yes … well, ’tis quite serious, my lord. That is to say, I think perhaps we ought to prepare ourselves for the worst.”

“She isn’t going to die,” Dominick declared.

“Alas, I wish you were right, sir, but cannot hold much hope at the moment.” As the younger man’s eyebrow rose skeptically, he cleared his throat again. “You see, usually if the seizure is not severe, the patient will begin to recover certain functions within a matter of hours. In Mrs. Deveraux’s case, there has been no improvement—in fact, ’tis quite the opposite. I wish I could wrap it up in clean linen, but I cannot. Alas, sirs, but I should expect her to slip away rather quickly.”

“But not all cases are alike,” Anne protested. “Surely ’tis too early to tell. That is …”

He favored her with the patient look he reserved for imbeciles. “Young woman, I have treated many such seizures in my career, and I can assure you that I know of what I speak.” Turning back to Trent, he continued, “It is my opinion that she will continue to have these seizures until the brain can sustain no more.”

“There is no hope, then?” Dominick asked hollowly. “None?”

“One cannot say death is an absolute certainty, of course, but in my opinion, we should expect it.”

“How long … how long does she have?”

“That, Mr. Deveraux, is in the hands of the Almighty.”

Anne looked up, seeing that the color had drained from Dominick’s stricken face, and there was no mistaking the pain there. Without thinking, she dropped her arm, sliding her hand into his. His fingers gripped hers convulsively, holding them tightly for a moment; then he pulled away. Turning on his heel, he left the room.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deveraux,” the doctor called out to him. Turning back, he addressed the marquess. “Your pardon, my lord. Perhaps I ought to have broached the matter a trifle more delicately, but, well … I’d not thought the attachment a deep one. Perhaps a bit of laudanum—and some rest, of course.” He hesitated. “Should I go after him, do you think?”

“No,” Trent answered curtly.

“Well, I’d not expected …”

Anne stared at the open door, torn between following Dominick and leaving him alone in his grief. It was not her place to intrude on him, she decided rather reluctantly. Then, remembering the terror in the old woman’s eyes earlier, she asked suddenly, “As you are down here, sir, who is with Mrs. Deveraux now?”

“Her maid. But ’twill make no difference, I think. The poor soul is utterly senseless, may God give her rest.”

“What sort of doctor are you?” she demanded almost angrily. “Whilst a body breathes, there should be hope rather than defeat, don’t you think? Were you my physician, I should wish you to fight for me! I should wish you to at least attempt to save me!”

The physician reddened uncomfortably. “Miss Morland, you are overset merely. I assure you—”

She’d overstepped herself again, and she knew it. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “Your pardon, my lord—’tis not my intent to interfere.”

Though she’d spoken to Trent, Dr. Rand said stiffly, “I shall choose to count that as an apology, young woman. Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I shall go home.”

“Go
home
?” Anne asked incredulously.

“Miss Morland,” he answered icily, “I assure you that only God can do more than I have done this night.”

After the physician left, Anne stared silently into the fireplace for a time, and the room was quiet save for the crackling flames and an occasional gust of rain-laden wind against the windows. “ ’Tis my accurst tongue,” she said finally. “After years of saying nothing, I seem to be unable to contain myself now.”

“You appear to think there is hope,” Trent observed soberly.

“I don’t know, my lord. ’Tis just that I cannot bear to see him give up so easily.” She turned around to face him. “I was once employed to companion an elderly female, a Mrs. Cokeham, and while I was there, she suffered much the same sort of seizure.” She waited but briefly for him to digest the import of what she said, then plunged ahead. “Though she was far older than Mr. Deveraux’s mother, she regained part of her strength and lived another year after. Her doctor, however, never despaired. ’Twas always that she might recover.”

“You think Dom ought to request a consult?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, her eyes troubled; then she blurted out, “Where do you think he went, sir?”

He regarded her soberly for a moment, then shook his head. “I think I should leave him to himself for a while, Miss Morland. He can, upon occasion, have a devilish bad temper.’”

“Well, you know him best, of course,” she conceded slowly. “ ’Tis just that were I he, I should not wish to be alone. Well …” She sighed. “In any event, I probably should discover Miss Mitford and apprise her of the situation. And I will, of course, offer to help Betty tonight.”

He watched her go, thinking he ought to have appealed to her to stay at the Haven. But, he reminded himself, it was not his place to ask. That would have to come from Dom. And unless he mistook the matter, ere long his cousin would be in no condition to do so.

Supper was a strange, stilted affair, with the marquess presiding at one end of the long, highly polished table, Bertie Bascombe at the other, and the two women in between. A footman moved silently to serve them, and much of the time there was little sound beyond Bertie’s determined slurping of his soup, Miss Mitford’s occasional furtive sighs, and the clink of silver against china.

Dominick Deveraux was nowhere to be seen, and it seemed as though everyone was taking care not to remark it. Even Bertie appeared unusually subdued, and between him and Miss Mitford there was not a word. In fact, aside from asking Anne to pass the peas, the girl said nothing to anyone. Trent, on the other hand, punctuated the silence with comments to Anne, and she tried heroically to carry the conversation to the others. It was a futile attempt and was soon abandoned in favor of merely eating.

Finally, as the dessert plates were being removed, Trent cleared his throat. “Would any of you care to join me in the saloon? Wilkins assures me there is ratafia for the ladies.”

Miss Mitford bowed her head before shaking it. “I am rather tired, my lord,” she mumbled. “I should like to be excused.”

“I dashed well am too, Miss Mitford,” Bertie agreed, eager to escape. “Think I’ll retire early. Got to, you know—me and Miss Morland got to get back to Nottingham in the morning, don’t you know?” Waiting politely for the pale girl to rise, he turned back to Anne. “Wilkins says the Royal Mail departs for London at ten sharp.”

“Miss Morland?” Trent inquired politely.

“I rather think I ought to look in on Mrs. Deveraux again.”

“Has there been any change?”

“Well, I did not stay, of course, for Betty insisted I should sup with everyone else. However, Mrs. Deveraux is now unresponsive.”

“What do you think?”

“My opinion has not changed, my lord. I still believe ’tis too early to know much of anything.”

Trent cleared his throat again. “Miss Morland, I should like nothing more than to go home to my wife,” he declared, “but in good conscience I cannot leave Dom at a deathwatch with naught but Miss Mitford for support.”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed noncommittally.

“I do not suppose that you could be persuaded somehow to stay?”

“Not above a day or so, sir, for there is still the matter we spoke of this afternoon. The longer I delay, the worse ’twill surely look for me.”

“Dominick—”

“Mr. Deveraux has far more important matters to concern himself with than me, my lord,” she said definitely. “I cannot embroil him in my affairs further.”

He sensed that he ought not to press her, that he ought to leave it to Dominick to tell her of his inquiry at the Blue Bull. He inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps you will wish to take your ratafia later?”

“I should not wait for me,” she advised. “Much depends on Mrs. Deveraux’s condition … and on Betty.”

“The ninnyhammer could sit with my aunt, you know. She at least owes Aunt Charlotte something.”

“Miss Mitford, I suspect, is one of those females who cannot cope with illness.”

“Miss Mitford, my dear, cannot cope with anything.” He moved closer, and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her. Instead he raised his hand in a sort of salute. “You, on the other hand, appear to have a great deal of sense. You remind me very much of my wife.”

“I shall take that as a very great compliment, my lord.”

Yet, as she climbed the stairs, she could not help shaking her head. Sense? If she’d had any sense, she would never have gone with Quentin Fordyce, she would never have found herself in such a pickle. Sense? He gave her far too much credit.

As for staying, she could not deny the appeal of that. When she viewed her own disquieting future, she had to admit it was tempting to remain in hiding at the Haven, to pretend she’d not struck Quentin Fordyce in the head, but it would not be right. And moreover, she’d meant what she’d told Trent: if she were to be caught later, the very fact that she had hidden would no doubt be construed as proof of guilt. No, she had to go.

Betty came to the bedchamber door when Anne knocked. Behind her, a brace of candles flickered at Mrs. Deveraux’s bedside, casting eerie moving shadows on the papered walls. An ormolu clock ticked on the mantel, keeping time to the steady beat of rain against the tiled roof. Water coming down the chimney hissed and sizzled when it hit the fire.

Anne’s gaze moved to the woman in the bed. She was propped up amid a bank of pillows, her gray hair spilling over them and tangling at her shoulders. The only color in a seemingly bloodless face was the reflected yellow of the candlelight. As Betty stepped back, Anne entered the room and walked to stand over Dominick’s mother.

Looking downward, she saw nothing of the beautiful girl in the portrait below, and she felt a rush of pity for the frail, still woman lying there. Reaching to smooth the gray hair back from a translucent, almost alabaster forehead, she felt the cool skin. To her relief, the woman’s breathing was not labored.

“She ain’t moved in hours,” Betty told her.

“Did Dr. Rand give any instructions?”

The girl shook her head. “Un-uh. Just to give her the laudanum. Said ’twas the end—said she’d not likely waken.”

“Hush.” Lifting a candle from the stand, Anne leaned forward to study Charlotte Deveraux. “ ’Tis possible she can hear you.”

“Shouldn’t think it,” Betty muttered, peering over Anne’s shoulder. “Never thought it’d be like this, ye know. Thought her’d go in a fit—not quiet-like.”

Very carefully, holding the candle so that it would not drip onto the bed, Anne used her other hand to raise one of the woman’s eyelids. The pale eye was glassy, but as the light struck it, the pupil contracted.

“Take this,” she ordered tersely, handing the maid the candle. Possessing one of Charlotte Deveraux’s cold hands, she tried to feel the pulse in the wrist. When she could not count it, she leaned over to run her fingertips along the woman’s jawline, discovering the stronger one there. It was relatively steady.

“Have you tried to give her anything to drink? Can she still swallow?”

“Ain’t had nothing but the laudanum.”

“That I gave her?”

“No, miss—Dr. Rand gave ’er another dose.”

“How much?”

“Six drops. Twice.” Still holding the candle nervously, the maid eyed her mistress with great misgiving. “Told you, she ain’t going to wake up.”

After sixteen drops of laudanum in but a few hours, neither you nor I would wake either—not for a while, anyway,” Anne muttered dryly. She turned to face the girl. “I would you did not give her any more tonight.”

“But Dr. Rand said to dose her every four hours.”

“ ’Tis only useful for pain and agitation, and at this point Mrs. Deveraux appears to suffer neither. I should think she ought not to have any unless she is restless.”

“Ye ain’t the doctor,” Betty grumbled under her breath.

“No, but I have seen this sort of thing before. Mrs. Cokeham had an excellent physician, the best to be had in London, and he insisted that the best thing to do was to encourage her. A very great deal depends on Mrs. Deveraux’s will to survive.”

“Encourage her?” The girl eyed her mistress with disbelief. “But she ain’t … She can’t …”

“It was Dr. Morse’s opinion that the last sense is that of hearing, Betty. We must speak to Mrs. Deveraux as though she can hear everything we say.” To demonstrate, she leaned over Dominick’s mother again, this time to pull the covers up over her cold hands. “Mrs. Deveraux,” she said clearly, “ ’tis Anne Morland. I have asked Betty to keep you warm, and I shall be back directly to bring you a drink and sit with you. Hopefully, you will feel more the thing in the morning.”

“You going to stay with her tonight?” the girl whispered.

“For a while, I think.”

“Thought you was leaving on the stage.”

Not wanting to answer that, Anne merely murmured, “I can sleep on the mail coach, if necessary. Until I am come back tonight, I’d have you get someone to build up the fire. And perhaps you ought to put another blanket on the bed.”

Outside the chamber door, Anne stood for a moment, feeling quite helpless. Mrs. Deveraux would either get better or she would expire in a matter of days, and despite what Anne had said to Betty, she really had no idea which would happen. And while none of the people in the house seemed inclined to like the woman very much, the terror she’d seen earlier in Charlotte Deveraux’s eyes still haunted her.

Her heart went out to all of them—to the prodigal son come home too late, to the mother he apparently could not love, to the marquess yearning for his wife. And to Miss Mitford even, for the girl seemed to be fearful of everything.

As she made her way down the stairs again, she supposed she ought to report her observation of Mrs. Deveraux to Lord Trent. Afterward she would get herself some tea and possibly a book before returning once more to the sickroom. Hopefully, ere she left the Haven, she would see some improvement in Dominick’s mother, some indication that she’d been right.

The saloon was dark, and there was no sign of the marquess. He had, she guessed, chosen to retire also when there was none to keep him company. It didn’t matter—she could tell him in the morning, and perhaps then the news would be better.

A door opened, throwing a slice of light into the dimly lit hall, and Wilkins, the ever-present footman, emerged. When he saw her, he shook his head.

“Four bottles, and he’d have another,” he grumbled.

“Ain’t like him to be a sot.” With that rather oblique observation, he started past her.

“Wilkins?”

He stopped. “Aye?”

“I mean to sit awhile with Mrs. Deveraux, and if ’tis not excessively troublesome, I’d have a pot of tea up there.”

“Aye.”

“And I don’t suppose Mrs. Deveraux has anything I could read, do you think?”

“Got anything as you’d want, miss, but…” He hesitated momentarily, then blurted out, “But I wouldn’t be a-going in there—not tonight.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

He jerked his thumb toward the door he’d come out. “The library,” he said succinctly. “Master Dominick’s in there—and he’s in a real taking.” Then, thinking he’d perhaps said too much, he started back toward the kitchen. “Bring you the tea upstairs,” he promised.

“Yes. Yes, that will be fine.”

Alone in the hall, she stood contemplating the light beneath the library door. She ought to leave well enough alone, she supposed, but somehow she could not. Telling herself she was but a meddler, she pushed the door open and eased gingerly inside.

Despite the light from the fire and from several braces of candles placed about the room, the tall rows of filled bookshelves gave it a dark, musty appearance. As her gaze swept across it, she thought that Wilkins had misled her, that the room was empty. And then she saw the booted feet.

Dominick Deveraux sat, or rather lay back, in a wing chair, his legs sprawled before him. His black hair was disordered, his face was flushed, and his closed eyes were like bluish smudges above the strong cheekbones. Rather than being in a taking, he appeared to have passed out.

“Mr. Deveraux … Dominick,” she said softly.

There was no answer. She was disappointed, but it was just as well, she decided finally. He was in no condition to discuss anything relevant anyway. But as she stared down into his handsome face, she felt a pang of regret—somehow it did not seem right that a man as young as he should be so very torn. Spying a plaid woolen shawl draped over another chair, she picked it up and laid it gently over him. In the morning he was going to pay dearly for his night of folly.

Disengaging a candle from one of the braces, she carried it with her to the bookcases, exploring the seemingly endless rows for something likely to keep her interest. Mrs. Deveraux, or whoever maintained the library, did not seem much inclined to the newer novels. Finally, after a great deal of indecision, she selected Blake’s
Songs of Innocence,
his much-acclaimed but somewhat dark volume of poetry. At least it would suit her mood.

“Bookroom thief,” he uttered behind her.

Startled, she dropped the candle onto the rug. Before she could bend over to retrieve it, he’d lurched to his feet. Swaying, he stamped at the flame, grinding the burnt wick and the wax into the expensive rug.

“Trying to burn the damned place to the ground,” he mumbled thickly.

“You startled me.” Then, looking down, she apologized. “I’m terribly sorry about the rug. Perhaps if ’tis rubbed with soda …”

“Hang the rug. Buy another.” For a moment his bleary eyes focused on her, and he shook his head. “Ought not to be here. Not a pretty sight, am I?” Stumbling, he managed to find his chair and sink into it again. “Where the devil’s Wilkins?”

Ignoring the question, she sat down opposite him and leaned forward. “Mr. Deveraux, I have been to see your mother,” she began, “and I think—”

“Wilkins!” he shouted. “Wilkins!”

“Mr. Deveraux,” she tried again, “she’s too heavily drugged to respond to anything. I should like your permission to discontinue the laudanum until ’tis absolutely necessary.”

He blinked. “Don’t matter. You heard him—she—she’s dying.”

“Perhaps … and perhaps not. I think only the next day or so can tell that, sir.”

“Here’s your …” The footman stopped. “Oh.” There was no mistaking the disapproval on his face when he saw her.

“Give it over, man.” Dominick looked upward, scowling. “And I am in no state to compro … to compromishe anyone, I asshure you.”

“Bring the pot of tea in here, will you? And two cups,” Anne added significantly. “He does not need any more wine.”

“Don’t want tea! Wilkins, d’ye hear me? Don’t want tea!”

“Coffee, then.”

“Wilkins!”

“I shall bring both, miss.”

“Wilkins! Dammit!” Dominick called after the retreating footman. Slumping back, he eyed Anne balefully. Lifting his empty glass, he sneered. “To Mish Annie Morland, a due-deuced managing female. Interfering female, thash what you are.” He waved the glass for a moment, then flung it past her. It broke against the marble facing on the fireplace. “A pox on females,” he muttered.