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Authors: The Finer Things

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The Murderess
THE
doors to the library remained closed. The Hardings were inside, as was Catherine, the duke of Rutherford, his son, Dom St. Georges, and a physician who had been immediately summoned to attend to Jon. He had been carried there by his brother. Fred Stanhope was dead.
Violette stood hunched against the wall just outside of the closed doors, shaking violently, tears streaming down her face. She prayed desperately that Jon was not dead.
But how could any human being survive such a fall? And there had been so much blood.
The ball was summarily finished. The guests had left in pairs and clusters, speaking in hushed tones, aghast and shocked. Violette had not even thought about departing.
Anne St. Georges appeared, her face pale and set in grave lines. She regarded Violette as she approached. Violette inhaled, trembling visibly. “What is happening?” she whispered. “I must know!”
Anne touched her shoulder. “Shall we go inside?”
An image of Jon’s face, etched in terror, just before the railing broke, seared Violette’s mind. She was not ever going to forget that final, horrible instant just before both men fell to the ground floor below the second landing. In that moment, everything had seemed to happen in slow motion, a cruel, horrifying kind of torture. Violette had rushed forward, but too late.
And it was her fault.
That realization was so terrible that Violette shut her eyes, forcing it away. She felt so violently ill she thought that she might wretch, right there in the hall, in front of the marchioness. Anne was studying her out of grave blue eyes. Violette did not
want to go into the library where the Hardings were, where Blake was. She was afraid to come face to face with Jon’s family. Yet she had to know that Jon lived.
Please, God.
Anne smiled kindly and opened the doors. Violette looked past her and saw Jon lying prone on the sofa, his face starkly white, his eyes closed. A tall man in a dark suit bent over him: clearly he was the physician. Jon’s bloodstained jacket and shirt lay on the floor. Blake knelt beside the doctor, holding Jon’s hand. Violette only saw his broad back, but it was easy to note the tension in his stiff shoulders. The earl and countess stood at Jon’s head, the earl with his arm wrapped around his wife—clearly he was supporting most of her weight. The countess was white with shock and fright. She seemed dazed, clinging to her husband. Catherine stood with them, apparently trying not to cry, while Dom St. Georges and the duke were gathered at the foot of the sofa, watching the examination with severe expressions.
Violette found the courage to follow Anne into the room. She did not hesitate. She moved immediately to Catherine. The two women embraced and rocked one another.
“Dear God,” Catherine whispered. “Oh, dear God.”
When Violette pulled out of Catherine’s arms she saw that Blake had shifted so that he could stare at her. His eyes were wide—and harsh and cold.
Violette stiffened, unable to breathe. She thought,
Blake will never forgive me.
She had seen it in his eyes.
The doctor sighed and straightened, affording Violette a better view of Jon. His head had been bandaged. One side of the bandage was pinkish-red. Violette saw his bare chest rising and falling very gently and she began to cry again, this time silently, in relief.
Thank God he was not dead.
The earl moved forward. “You have not said a word. How badly is he hurt?” His face was gray. He appeared to have aged a dozen years in the past half-hour.
The doctor faced him, his expression somber. “I will not mislead you and your family, my lord. It is very serious. His back is broken. I am sending for assistants and more medical equipment. We shall work through the night. If he is stabilized by tomorrow evening, he can be moved to his home. A long period of recuperation will follow.”
“If he is stabilized?” the earl asked. “I want to know everything. He will recuperate?”
“He is young and he appears strong. As you know, he suffered
a blow to his head when he fell, but that is not what concerns me. A broken back is very serious. He is currently in a physical trauma. Because he is young, though, and healthy, I do not expect him to expire.”
“My son will live?” the countess cried softly.
“I expect him to survive this trauma,” the doctor said quietly. “Those odds are quite good.”
Violette gripped Catherine’s hand. What was the doctor saying?
Blake stood. Voicing Violette’s exact thoughts. “What are you saying? Precisely?”
“Assuming that he shall live, his recovery will be slow, painful, arduous. And possibly,” the doctor cleared his throat, “incomplete.”
“Incomplete,” the earl echoed.
Violette looked only at Blake now, understanding his anguish.
“I am saying that he may recover fully, he may not. I must set his back so it heals properly, and that in itself is a very difficult operation. And even if set properly, we cannot know the extent of the damage to his spinal cord. There is a chance he may be capable of all normal physical functions. There is a chance he may not.”
“What is the worst scenario?” the earl asked sharply.
The doctor hesitated. “If Jon has suffered extreme damage to his spinal cord, there is a possibility he might be paralyzed to some extent or another.”
Blake was ashen. “Paralyzed? To some extent? What the bloody hell does that mean?”
Catherine released Violette and rushed over to Blake, putting her arm around him. Tears began to fall from her eyes, but she did not make a sound.
“I will not know until he begins to recover,” the physician said. “He might be completely paralyzed, unable to do anything more than talk. Or he might be partially paralyzed, from the waist down. If the spinal cord was, miraculously, undamaged, he will be as good as new.”
Blake stared. Everyone stared. The countess covered her face with her hands and began to weep softly. Violette felt the tears streaming down her own face, but she did not dare move. Even she could understand what the doctor had said. It would be a miracle for Jon to recover fully from the accident.
The earl went to his wife and pulled her fully into his embrace.
Her face buried against his chest, her sobs grew louder. He held her hard.
And Blake suddenly turned his dark gaze on Violette. It was filled with bitter accusation.
And Violette could not stand it. She fled.
 
Two days later, Blake sat beside Jon, who was in his own bed. Bright morning sunlight streamed through the open, unshuttered bedroom windows. Dr. Braman had spent most of the first night with two medical assistants operating on Jon. The following evening Jon had been removed to Harding House. He had awoken several times, but had fallen instantly asleep. According to Braman, the fact that he had awoken already was a very good sign. However, if he had noticed anyone or anything, he had given no indication of it.
Blake had remained beside Jon ever since the accident. Now he stared at his brother’s face. Two days’ growth of tawny beard covered his cheeks and jaw, but his pallor was still very remarkable. Blake knew, with all his heart, that Jon would recover fully—that in time he would be as good as new.
Violette’s image slipped into his mind. He stiffened, unable not to feel a rush of hot anger whenever he thought about her. Suddenly Jon’s door opened. Blake looked up as Catherine glided into the room.
She smiled slightly at Blake but only had eyes for his brother. She sat down on the bed by Jon’s hip; Blake had pulled up an ottoman. She reached for Jon’s hand and held it tightly.
Blake reached out and brushed his knuckles over Catherine’s face. She looked exhausted; dark circles rimmed her eyes. Since the accident, she had been haunting Harding House. Blake thought, but was not quite sure, that she had moved into a guest room on the third floor.
“He opened his eyes two hours ago and looked at me,” he said quietly. His voice sounded unusually loud in the deathly silent bedroom.
Catherine’s smile was fleeting and wan. “Did he recognize you?”
“I think so,” Blake said. Then he hesitated. “I am not sure. Our eyes met, but only for a moment.”
Catherine nodded tearfully, and Blake watched her lift Jon’s hand to her mouth and kiss it. Then she held it in her lap. His own vision blurred. But he told himself for the hundredth time
that Jon would mend completely. He just knew it. There just was no other possibility. He bent and brushed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, just below the bandage, as if his older brother were a small child.
Suddenly Jon sighed. Both Catherine and Blake tensed.
Jon’s lashes fluttered, and suddenly the lids opened. His irises were huge, the pupils mere pinpoints. And for the first time since the accident, the light in Jon’s blue eyes slowly turned lucid. He was gazing at Catherine. Suddenly he smiled.
“Hello,” he said. “I thought it was terribly inappropriate for a lady to be in a gentleman’s bedroom—much less in his bed?” His words seemed a bit slurred, but no more so than if he had been terribly drunk.
Catherine clutched his hand to her breast, tears falling down her face. “My dear,” she whispered. “I guess I am ruined.”
“Mm.” Jon smiled. “Does this mean I have to do the honorable thing?” A twinkle appeared in his eyes, one so familiar and characteristic that Blake felt his own eyes grow moist.
Catherine laughed, but the tears kept spilling down her cheeks.
Blake wiped his own eyes with his shirtsleeve.
Jon looked at him. “Why are you both crying?” Suddenly his smile faded. “Am I drugged? God, I feel drunk, high as a kite. What’s going on?”
Blake gripped his shoulder. “You have been dosed with morphine, so yes, you must be high, higher than a kite.”
“Morphine?” Jon blinked. “Am I floating? I can see the bed, but I cannot really feel it.”
“You are in bed,” Blake said, somewhat cautiously. “Do you remember the accident?”
Jon blinked at Blake, then at Catherine. His smile began to fade. “Good God. The damned second-floor railing broke. Stanhope and I went over it.”
A silence greeted his words. “Yes,” Blake said quietly. “You did.”
Catherine continued to hold his hand. “Stanhope is dead. You are lucky to be alive, Jon. You suffered a blow to your head, which is why it is bandaged. But you also suffered a broken back, which is why you have been medicated.”
Jon stared. No longer smiling. “A broken back,” he repeated, appearing shocked.
“Don’t worry,” Blake said quickly, rubbing his shoulder.
“You are well on the way to recovery.” He smiled brightly.
Jon stared at him, and then at Catherine. “Is a broken back not serious?”
Blake said, “Of course it is. Your period of recuperation shall be long and difficult.”
Jon looked only at Blake. He did not say a word. He stared, grim.
A frisson of unease filled Blake, but before he could speak, Catherine said cheerfully, “How do you feel, Jon, all things considered?”
He turned his intense eyes upon her, and still did not speak. He failed to smile, too.
“Jon?”
Jon’s face hardened. His expression turned strange and unfamiliar.
Blake quickly glanced at Catherine.
And she cried out. For Jon had squeezed her hand—Blake saw the whitened knuckles on his brother’s hand and realized what he had done. “Jon?” he asked uncertainly.
Jon’s chest began to heave. “I feel the pillow behind my head, and the bed beneath my back.” His stare was wide.
“That is wonderful,” Catherine began.
But Jon cut her off. “But I cannot feel my legs.”
Blake froze. Catherine lost all the color in her face.
“Christ,” Jon cried. He pulled his hand free of Catherine’s and, staring down at what he was doing, he laid his hand on his thigh, rubbing it. “Oh, God,” he said. “I have legs, but I cannot feel them—and I cannot move them. Blake!” he cried.
 
The stone floor was cold and hurtful beneath Violette’s knees. In fact, Violette was numb. She had spent most of the past two days in the small twelfth-century church, praying for Jon’s full, miraculous recovery.
She was exhausted. Dazed. Last night, between prayers, she had fallen asleep on the church’s cold stone floor. Today she was so stiff that she did not know if she could actually stand up.
Violette realized that she had stopped praying, but for how long, she did not know. Jon’s prone image remained engraved there, as did Blake’s hostile, accusing gaze. Violette’s stomach curdled. Last night she had had a horrible nightmare. She was homeless again, a beggar on the streets. She had been so cold, so cold and so hungry. And she had been alone.
And then Blake had driven by in his sleek black phaeton. Violette had screamed at him to wait, stop, take her with him, but he had stared at her with undisguised hatred and continued on by.

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