How to Please a Lady (14 page)

Charlie nodded shakily. He hated that a strange man, no matter how qualified, was with her, touching her. She might be frightened. “If you don't mind, I'll go up. I . . .” Charlie looked to where the butler had been standing moments before. “I feel so damned helpless and I feel partially to blame. She was feeling ill on the boat, but I let her convince me she was well enough to find her own way to your home. And then she was robbed. She's not used to being in a city, never mind alone. I never should have let her go without me.”

“You say she's ill? I had no idea. I do apologize, I thought you asked for a physician only as a precaution, not from any real concern.”

Charlie nodded, his throat feeling queer and thick, as if he'd swallowed a large bit of bread and it was stuck. “There was a woman on board ship. She became friends with Lady Rose and they spent quite a bit of time together.” He was finding it difficult to breathe, never mind speak. “She died, you see. And now Lady Rose is ill and . . .” He couldn't finish, could not move any more words past a throat gone so tight, he could hardly swallow.

“I see,” Cartwright said softly. “Why don't you wait outside her room so you can speak with Dr. Landsdowne when he is done with his examination.”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “Yes, I will.”

“Mr. Avery.” Something in the way Cartwright said his name stopped Charlie. “You love her.”

Charlie let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Of course I do,” he said, then headed out the door and to the second floor.

 

“You'll wear out the carpet, you will,” Mrs. Fitz said not unkindly as she left Lady Rose's room for the second time, shaking her head when Charlie lifted his head in question. Charlie got the distinct impression the staff was a bit excited to have a real English lady under their roof. Despite the fact Charlie's clothing clearly proclaimed him a working man, they were polite and deferential. He gave another begrudging point to Cartwright. A well-run staff that appeared happy could only have a kind master who paid well. He didn't want to like Cartwright, but he found it was impossible
not
to like the man. He was pleasant, polite, and measured. Lady Rose and he would get along quite well. Hell, just thinking of them together nearly drove him to his knees. But this home, that man, they were where Rose belonged, not in some two-bit rooming house, which was all Charlie could afford.

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Dr. Landsdowne emerged. He was younger than Charlie expected, neatly dressed and sporting a well-groomed and rather impressive mustache and muttonchops.

“How is she?”

The doctor started, unaware that anyone had been waiting outside. “And you are?”

“A friend.”

“Mr. Avery works for Lady Rose's family and I expect he'll want to report to them,” Cartwright said easily as he approached the two men.

“Ah, Mr. Cartwright.” The doctor seemed almost relieved to see the other man walking toward them.

Charlie felt his hands curling into fists. He didn't very much like being ignored, as if he were nothing—even though, to these two men, that's exactly what he was.

“How is she?” Cartwright asked, glancing over at Charlie as if he were well aware he was repeating Charlie's exact question.

“She has influenza,” he said in a clipped British accent that bespoke his origins. “And being out in this storm weakened her to a point that I am not certain she will survive the night.”

Charlie felt the blood leave his head and he staggered, held upright only by the wall. The doctor looked at him curiously, as if unaware how very devastating his words were.

“I've given her jaborandi and so she'll sweat quite a bit. Do try to have her drink. It won't do to allow her to get too dehydrated. Her fever is dangerously high, her breathing labored. I am sorry, Mr. Cartwright, but it is in God's hands.”

Charlie listened to the physician's words, spoken without inflection. He might have been talking about a tree that had been damaged in the wind and would have to be cut down.

“No,” Charlie roared. “You do something. She has not traveled all this way to die. You do something, you cold son of a bitch. You're talking about a young girl in there, a girl who left home frightened and desperate, and she is not going to die tonight, because you are not going to let her.”

The smallest bit of emotion flickered in the young doctor's eyes, there and gone and perhaps just imagined. “I am not God. And I am not immune to her suffering,” the doctor said calmly. “But I also know from experience that her chances of survival, given how gravely ill she is, are not good. Would you rather I lie and tell you she is well?” he asked, as if truly curious about Charlie's answer.

“No,” Charlie ground out.

“I am sorry you do not like to hear the truth but, good sir, it is indeed the truth,” Dr. Landsdowne said.

Charlie stared at him, his eyes hot, his nostrils flaring, breathing like an angry bull about to rush toward a red handkerchief. Then he shook his head, calming himself. “If I were to perform a miracle this night, what would I need to do?”

Dr. Landsdowne looked away briefly before answering. “Keep her calm, give her whatever liquid you can.” He reached into his bag and brought out a small jar filled with a white powder. “This is aspirin with a special agent that makes it easier on the stomach. It's a little concoction I borrowed from my good friend Mr. Gerhardt.” At the two men's blank stares, Dr. Landsdowne furrowed his brow. “He's quite a well-known chemist. At any rate, give her a half teaspoon every three hours.”

Charlie took the bottle and shook it a bit. “What does it do?”

“It should ease her pain and lower her fever. I've just given her a dose, so”—he pulled out his pocket watch—“don't give her another until eleven this evening.”

“Anything else?”

The doctor looked at Cartwright. “Pray. Good evening, gentlemen. I will try to stop by tomorrow.”

 

“She
what
?”

“Wants to marry me.” Daniel watched with some amusement as his lover's eyes nearly bulged from his head. “And now that I've gotten used to the idea, I have to say it's not an all bad one.”

James looked at him as if he'd gone mad, and perhaps he had. Because the idea of marrying had always been slightly distasteful, and not for the obvious reasons. Daniel had always felt that to get married, he'd have to trick some poor unwitting girl into thinking he loved her in all ways a man should. He didn't have the stomach for that kind of deception. But he had thought about it, especially lately. The rumors, the sly jokes, the questions. He'd tried, God above knew he'd tried, to be normal. He'd prayed, he'd even been to a doctor who'd given him electrical shocks to set him straight. Finally, he'd just given up. Or rather, James had made him give up, because every time he tortured himself, it hurt James terribly.

“So, you think I'm an abomination, is that what you think? Because if you think you're an abomination, that must be what you think of me.” Those had been James's words, spoken in anger and pain.

Daniel didn't think James was an abomination. He loved James. It was all so damned complicated. And here was this gift, this girl who had been hurt and who had traveled across an ocean to ask him to marry her. He had a very strong suspicion why Lady Rose had suddenly decided he would be a good husband. No doubt she'd heard the rumors, the same ones that had held back his career, the same ones that had men, some of them his good friends, looking at him askance.

But if he were married, all those rumors would stop.

“It wouldn't be a
real
marriage. I suspect she
knows
.”

James snorted. “How could she possibly know?”

Daniel shrugged. “I haven't the slightest idea, but I suspect she heard something. This will end up ruining my career, you know, unless I do something about it.”

“But marry? It seems a rather drastic measure and not at all fair to her. Can you trust her?”

Daniel gave this some thought, and nodded. “I can. I'm sure of it. Her servant didn't know, you see.”

“Servant?”

“The man who brought her here. He was her head groom and on his way to America, and she tagged along. She didn't tell him. He thinks she just wanted to get far away from her fiancé and I seemed a good candidate for a husband.”

James slumped on the chair, one leg dangling off, and pouted. “I don't like it.”

“Nothing would change,” Daniel said softly. “It might even be better. If I'm married, you become just a friend in the eyes of the world. They'll say, ‘Oh, I guess I was wrong about that Cartwright fellow.' Don't you see? It could be grand.”

James shook his head. “She might die, so don't get your hopes too high,” he said sullenly.

“You know, James, sometimes you can be a real ass.” Daniel stalked from the room, not even knowing why he was so angry at James's callous words. Or maybe he did. The poor girl had crossed an ocean thinking he would keep her safe. How could he say no to that?

R
ose, her long hair loose and still damp around her head, lay motionless in a bed covered with a thick layer of blankets. Her cheeks were flushed and small beads of perspiration formed near her hairline. Charlie walked toward her and around the bed, lowering the flame on the lamp by her bedside so that the room was nearly completely dark but for a small halo of light. Her hands lay atop the covers, unnaturally still.

“Rose,” Charlie said, his voice low. Her eyes fluttered opened. “Hello,” he said, grinning, happy beyond reason that she was able to open her eyes. Such a small accomplishment, but it gave him hope.

“Hello,” she whispered. “I feel quite unwell. How did I get here?”

“I found you huddled on someone's steps and I carried you here.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don't remember. The doctor says I'm in Mr. Cartwright's house?”

Charlie nodded.

“These covers. Too hot.” She weakly pushed at the blankets, at least four, covering her, so Charlie took two and peeled them down.

“Better?”

“No. All, please.”

Charlie hesitated, wondering if she would be too cold without any covers, even though the room was quite warm.

“So hot,” she muttered. Indeed, her face was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. When he'd first brought her in, she'd been shaking uncontrollably. If she grew too cool, he'd simply pull the covers back up, he reasoned, drawing down the blankets.

“Holy God.” He immediately averted his eyes. She was wearing only a thin cotton gown and was quite drenched with sweat, which allowed him to see things he oughtn't. Things he'd dreamed about seeing, but things at the moment—at any moment, really—he had no business seeing. “Perhaps one cover,” Charlie said in near desperation. Her nipples, brown and lovely, were completely visible; it was a sight Charlie never in his life would have dreamed he would see. Her full breasts, her flat stomach, the dark hair between her legs, all there for him to gaze upon if he chose to. He tried not to look down, tried not to be tempted to look, but not being a candidate for sainthood, he did look—right before he drew up one of the blankets.

“I don't want you to become too chilled,” he said. “The doctor says you should drink as much water as you can. Here.” He brought a glass to her lips, placing one hand behind her head to help her lift it so she could drink.

“Thank you, Charlie. What would I do without you?”

That was the last lucid sentence she said that night. After she fell into a gentle sleep, Charlie sat in a nearby chair and allowed exhaustion to overtake him. The chair was large and sinfully comfortable, with a winged back that was perfect for laying his head against. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Her scream woke him up.

He jerked awake, his heart slamming painfully against his chest, and got up so quickly, he nearly overturned the heavy chair. “Rose,” he said, surprised to see her sitting up.

She looked at him, her eyes glassy and unseeing, her breathing labored. “Where's your head?” she asked, looking terrified. “Your head is gone. Charlie, your head is gone!”

Charlie rushed forward and she moved back, as if he was indeed an apparition without a head. “No, no, love. I'm fine. I still have my head.”

She refused to look at him, apparently convinced he was headless. He gently put his hand on her upper arm, withdrawing, shocked at how hot she was.

Mrs. Fitz came into the room in her dressing gown, her graying hair in a long braid and topped with a ridiculous nightcap, a frilly thing that contrasted with the woman's serious countenance. “Oh, the poor dear is burning up,” she said, hurrying to the bedside.

“Mother? What are you doing here?” Rose asked.

“She's out of her head,” Charlie said unnecessarily, his voice shaking. “What time is it? I was supposed to give her medicine to keep her fever down. And I was supposed to make sure she drank water.”

“It's just past midnight, Mr. Avery,” Mrs. Fitz said soothingly, but she gave him a long, searching look. No doubt she'd never seen a servant nearly go into hysterics because his employer was ill. “You can give the lady her medicine now.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, knowing he was showing far too much emotion. It wouldn't do to allow the servants to know how much he cared for his mistress; it wasn't a natural thing and would embarrass Lady Rose if word got round to the house staff. Just being in this room with her was highly improper, given he was nothing but a head groom and she a lady. But he'd be damned if he let propriety dictate whether he watched over her or not. He felt fully to blame for her being so ill. “I fear I feel a bit responsible for her welfare, given she's so far from home.”

Mrs. Fitz gave him an uncertain smile. “There's no predicting these things, Mr. Avery,” she said sensibly. “No one is to blame for an illness.”

Rose was agitated, worrying the blankets almost frantically. “Where am I? Where am I?”

“The Cartwright home,” Mrs. Fitz said, straightening the blankets efficiently. “Now, you lie back down and we'll give you some medicine to make you feel better.” Mrs. Fitz gently, but firmly, pushed Rose so she was prone, ignoring the younger woman's protests.

“Lady Rose, you must be calm,” Charlie said, and his words seemed to have an instant effect. Mrs. Fitz helped him to administer the water and aspirin powder, and soon Rose was quiet, her eyes closed.

“Has Mr. Cartwright shown you where you may sleep for the night?” the housekeeper asked pointedly.

“He has not, Mrs. Fitz, and I feel it is my duty to remain with Lady Rose until I am assured she is well. No doubt you would do the same should Mr. Cartwright fall ill.”

Mrs. Fitz pursed her lips but didn't contradict him, though he suspected if Mr. Cartwright did fall ill, she would leave his care to one of the maids. She left soon after, with a palpable reluctance, probably thinking he would do something unsavory as soon as she departed the room. Old bat.

An hour later, Mr. Cartwright entered the room, inquiring about the patient. Rose lay still, too still; the only way Charlie knew she continued to breathe was the slow rise and fall of the covers. Charlie didn't like the way Cartwright's eyes lingered thoughtfully on Rose's face, almost as if he were seriously considering what it would be like to have her as a wife. Such a marriage was for the best. Charlie knew this in his mind, but his heart rebelled at the thought of another man touching Rose, never mind marrying her and all that entailed.

“Mr. Avery,” Cartwright said before leaving. “May I offer you some advice?”

“Of course, sir.”

“You might find it to your benefit if you could somehow control how very transparent your thoughts are. You are aware, I am sure, how improper your feelings for Lady Rose are. Some might find them abhorrent.”

Charlie clenched his jaw. “And you, sir, do you find them abhorrent?”

Cartwright gave him an odd smile. “I'm perhaps the last person on earth to judge a man for his feelings for another. No, Mr. Avery. But I'm also a realist with a realist's view of society.”

Even knowing he shouldn't, Charlie allowed himself to look at Rose, unable to disguise what his heart felt.

“Does the lady know how you feel?”

“No, sir,” Charlie said, feeling a familiar humiliation wash over him. “And she never will.”

His answer seemed to satisfy the man, who nodded grimly. “Please do have one of the servants fetch me if I'm needed here.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlie watched the man walk out of the room, hating him and admiring him in equal measure. He knew most men would not have allowed a servant to attend to his mistress. And he also knew another man might have found his love for Rose ridiculous, as ridiculous as Quasimodo's love for Esmeralda.

When Cartwright was gone, Charlie pulled the wingback chair close to the bed and rested his arms on the bedcovers, not touching Rose but close enough to feel her warmth. He lay like that for hours, listening to her breathing, and thinking,
If she lives through the night, then she will not die.

The top cover was pretty, a delicate pattern with lilacs and dark green leaves. He traced his finger on one flower, feeling overwhelmed with fear. Rose was not getting better. In the last hour, her breathing had become more difficult, rattling in her chest, and her breaths less frequent. It was almost as if she were slowly winding down, until eventually, she would stop breathing altogether. And there was nothing he could do other than try to spoon water into her mouth. At first, she'd reflexively swallowed, but now even that had ceased.

She was dying. The reality of it hit him like a black force he could not stop. He picked up one of her hands, listless and small in his calloused one, and pressed it against his lips as if he could draw the sickness out of her and into himself. “Please, Rose.”
Don't die
.

Outside, he could hear the first birds begin their songs. It was still dark, but the East hinted at the sunrise, a faint glow, hardly discernible, and the birds somehow knew another day was soon beginning. He looked at Rose; pale, dark circles marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. The blanket was hardly moving anymore. “Please, God.”

He began to cry, overwhelmed by the pain of watching her suffer. He hadn't cried since he was a boy, and these tears were wrenched from him, as the purest agony he had ever felt burned his chest. Holding her hand, he lowered his head to the blanket, completely overwhelmed by grief. This was the torment and anguish Roger Browne had felt, helplessly watching his wife die.

All through the night and into the next day, he stayed by her side. When he left, even for a few minutes, the fear that she would die alone nearly overwhelmed him. At some point, the doctor came, but his visit was brief and not at all satisfying.

“She still lives, but she is far weaker than she was last night. I cannot give you hope for there is no hope to give,” Dr. Landsdowne said with his maddening calm. “It is unlikely she will survive another day.”

The man never directed his comments to Charlie, rather waiting for Cartwright to appear before speaking. “Is there nothing we can do?” Cartwright asked. He'd been in and out of the room several times to check on Rose, never staying more than a few minutes.

“Do continue to try to get her to drink water.” Dr. Landsdowne let out a sigh, then frowned, as if angry with himself for showing even that much emotion. “I cannot do more.”

After the doctor left, Charlie kept up his vigil, refusing to leave even to eat. He knew he was causing comment below stairs, but if the doctor's prediction came true, nothing would be harmed by his staying with her. And he had to stay with her.

For long hours, Charlie listened to her breathing, watching her chest move up, move down, and prayed as he had never prayed in his life. This was all so wrong, so unfair. Rose should not die so far from home, with only her servant by her side. Cartwright had telegraphed her parents, telling them that Rose had arrived safely, but had fallen ill, and promising to telegraph again when there was news. He couldn't imagine their reaction upon learning Rose was across an ocean and ill. Would they come immediately? Even if they did, it would be too late. She was too far away. They would be coming to take her home in a casket.

As the sun went down, Charlie's hopes darkened with the sky. He held her hand again, as he had most of the day, and laid his head by her side. He wished he could hold her, but that was not possible. It was bad enough he was holding her hand; he'd seen the look of censure in Mrs. Fitz's eyes but he didn't care. Even though Rose seemed unaware he was there, perhaps she did feel his hand on hers and was comforted. God knew, her hand comforted him.

Exhausted, Charlie fell asleep, the top of his head pressing against her side.

“Charlie?”

At first he thought he'd imagined her voice, but then he felt her hand on his head, trailing her fingers through his hair as she had done so many times before. He lifted his head and saw that her brown eyes were open and studying him.

 

Rose couldn't remember ever feeling so weak. Just lifting her hand to touch Charlie's soft curls had been a major effort. A lamp was lit nearby, making his hair glow unnaturally bright in the dark room. Charlie was looking at her so oddly, as if he hadn't seen her in years.

“Where am I?” she asked, frowning when she heard how her voice sounded. She was hardly able to speak and felt purely awful.

“In one of Mr. Cartwright's guest rooms. Do you not remember anything?”

She furrowed her brow. “I remember getting off the ship and meeting your uncle. Oh! And that horrible person who stole all my things. The cabbie wouldn't take me. How did I end up here?”

“You tried to walk but were so ill. Why didn't you tell me? I found you in the snowstorm, huddled on a step, half dead, and I carried you here.”

She smiled weakly. “So strong, Charlie. I'm glad.”

Charlie stood up abruptly and dug his hand into his trouser pocket. “Look. I've recovered your things.” He held up her grandmother's necklace, grinning.

“Good for you. I feared it was gone forever.” Her voice trailed off. She was so very tired it was nearly impossible to keep her eyes open. “Sleepy.”