Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (33 page)

Mrs. Morris,
 

He’s bad—we all were along the retreat, sick and cold and hungry, but of course our Captain isn’t one to complain. The only action was a trifling skirmish, a little thing. Wasn’t even mentioned in the dispatches. But Captain got a nick below his knee and of course the only thing we regretted was the ruin of a good pair of boots. A clean cut, so he didn’t get stitched until we arrived at Ciudad Rodrigo, and then it was already festering. He’s too fevered to write or understand a word anyone says and he sweats and rattles with chills and shudders so bad I think he’ll knock out his teeth.
 

I’m doing my best, as I promised, but can’t say as he’ll outlast the fever. He’ll need help if he does, but he’d never ask you for it, even if he could. I’ve been with him a good many years though, and I know what he wants. Figure there’s nothing wrong if I ask for him. I’m guessing you’re the kind that likes to know. And I’m guessing you want to keep him on this side of the great beyond too. He’ll want to see you. I’ve sent on the letter I found in his jacket pocket. It’s at least a few days old, cause he’s been too sick to write.
 

This explained the scuffed appearance of Alistair’s love letter. Anna swallowed, trying to understand this unfathomable cruelty—rejoicing one moment in her beloved’s confessions, and the next discovering he might already be a dead man, nothing more than old ink on dry paper.
 

She curled over her plate, struggling to breathe, watching tears spatter on the china and drop onto her uneaten toast. For minutes or seconds, she couldn’t say—it felt as if the world had stopped and she was the only animate thing left in it. A stupid delusion, and one she must dismiss. Time was advancing, even if she couldn’t feel it, and dripping all over the table wasn’t going to help. Lord Fairchild hadn’t appeared—a small mercy, and one she must use. She might be able to hold up in front of the servants, but not a friendly face. Anna rose from the table and hastened upstairs.
 

Lucy Plunkett was surprised to hear of the sudden change in plans—“I’m taking Henry to see his Grandparents today”—but didn’t question Anna about the early hour. She was used to Anna’s eccentricities. If she’d stayed to see the methodical assembly of two valises though, she would have wondered. Anna and Henry made their whispered way down the stairs and out the door.
 

“It’s a secret,” she told him. “We’re going to join Captain Beaumaris.”
 

“Then why are you crying?” Henry asked, reaching up to wipe her nose.
 

She’d give him the truth soon, but she couldn’t manage it now. “We’ll miss Lord and Lady Fairchild.”
 

“Not that much,” he said, skipping ahead of her on the pavement.
 

When the hackney dropped them at her parents’ house, Anna just made it through the door and into her mother’s arms. Tears came, and this time they were sobs, so it was some time before she could make herself understood. She gulped at a bottomless cup of hot tea, spilling her story, while her mother and father listened silently and took turns chaffing her hand. Then she cried again, because her father wanted to go with her.
 

“Papa, not in winter,” Anna said, begging him to be sensible. His shoulders were stooped and his hands arthritic, the fingers swollen and veering sideways. “We must ride through the mountains and—” Her voice broke. “What if we don’t reach him in time?”
 

She couldn’t say that he would slow them down, but he understood. “I’ll take you to Portsmouth, at least,” he said. “Henry?”
 

“I can’t leave him,” Anna said. “And if I did, Frederick would snatch him.”
 

Some parents would argue and insist she be sensible, but hers didn’t question. They understood this was a time for practical action. Handwringing never saved anyone. Her mother oversaw the packing, transferring the valises into two compact trunks, adding stores of bandages, basilicum, and tinctures she thought Anna would need. Her father drove into the city to change her remaining money from paper to gold and to buy her a pistol. “Not much good with them myself, but if you at least learn to hold it right and keep it by you, you should manage.”
 

Traveling to Portsmouth by post-chaise, he sat with Henry on his knee, drumming advice into Anna’s ears and explaining to Henry how sailors were expected to behave. “It’s your first adventure,” he said to his rapt grandson. “Think over everything carefully and it won’t be your last. You want enough to fill a lifetime.”
 

He saw her to Portsmouth, found her a ship and didn’t blink when she told the captain that she was journeying out to nurse her husband. “Wise idea,” he whispered to her, when they were private. “Didn’t realize you’d kept the ring.”
 

Anna frowned at the jeweled band Anthony had given her as if it were a fetter. Her father put an arm around her and squeezed. “Too much my girl to throw away anything valuable. Tell me, has it been hidden away in the back of your bureau all these years?”
 

“Under the chamber pot.”
 

He laughed. “You remember what I said to Henry. Think everything over before you act, and choose where to put your trust mighty carefully.” Anna turned and put her arms around his neck, remembering when his bones had been padded with a thick layer of muscle. “Thank you, Papa.”
 

His voice turned gruff, as it was wont to do when any of his family kissed him. “Yes, well, you’ll be all right.”
 

As a younger man, he’d confronted chaotic docks, gales, and foreign navies, reducing all to neat lines in a ledger. That counted, of course, but it was mostly because he was her papa that Anna believed him.
 

Lady Fairchild was entertaining callers, wishing Anna Morris would finally choose to appear. Her mother arrived instead, in a gown so plain she might have been taken for the housekeeper.
 

“Lady Fairchild. I am sorry to interrupt, but I have some news. I’m afraid Anna was too upset to think of informing you.”
 

“What happened?” Lady Fairchild asked, forgetting for the moment that her visitors were almost as gossipy as she was.
 

Mrs. Fulham settled herself tidily in the nearest chair. “Captain Beaumaris has been wounded, gravely I fear. His man wrote Anna and held out little hope.”
 

Lady Fairchild set aside her cup of tea, keeping her face turned to the table, resting her chin on her hand to still her trembling. These things happened all the time. Handsome young men went to war and died, even though they still looked like the irascible boys they’d been not long ago.
 

“What happened?” she asked again.
 

“An injury to his leg—not a large one, but it’s become inflamed. He’s sick with fever.”
 

Lady Fairchild held back a shudder. Nothing scared her more. She could remember, clear as if it were yesterday, how her baby boy had sweated and thrashed, then turned limp and dry, his lips cracking, his skin painfully hot to the touch. It was torture to watch, but better than what had come after, when he had turned empty and waxen and cold, as lifeless as the box they had to put him in. Georgiana shut her eyes and pressed her fingers hard against her mouth. This wasn’t the same. Alistair was older, stronger. Even if he died, she would not have to watch it—but she didn’t need to. Her imagination was far too good.
 

The walls wavered, like the room had filled with water. “Does Anna wish to stay with you?” She would want comfort through this difficult time.
 

Mrs. Fulham rearranged her hands. “No. She’s going to Spain. Left for Portsmouth already. Captain Beaumaris needs her, so she’s gone to help him.”
 

Edging away from Mrs. Fulham’s sharp gaze, Georgiana shrank beneath memories of her frequently voiced objections: the time she’d called Anna a pretty face with empty pockets, and a girl with baggage and no breeding. The truth of these assertions didn’t excuse her. They were ungracious and unkind. Silence pressed on her, but Georgiana couldn’t speak. A hundred sniffs, slights and snide remarks made it near impossible to breathe. Why couldn’t she have treated Anna with compassion? She’d been petty and proud, unwilling to acknowledge Anna’s better qualities, namely that she fought for the people she loved. Georgiana realized, prickling with shame, that no fortune or pedigree could equal that. Bravery and commitment were more important, and Anna had both.
 

She should have been kinder. Then Anna might have told her, or asked for help. Instead, her treatment of Anna had earned her the humiliation of hearing this predicament afterward, when it was too late offer comfort or aid. And in front of guests . . . .

“Is your husband with her?” Georgiana asked, flushing.
 

“Just as far as Portsmouth. He’ll help her find passage. Anna felt, and it is the truth, though we wish it were not, that my husband wouldn’t fare well in the journey through the mountains. She didn’t want to leave Henry.”
 

“She’s taking him to Spain?” Fear doused embarrassment, leaving Georgiana clammy and cold. She could have kept Henry, protected him, if only she’d given Anna the least reason to trust her.
 

“It’s not quite the Sahara,” Mrs. Fulham said calmly, but Georgiana’s head was spinning. Mountain passes in winter, infested with brigands and the British Army—thousands of layabout rogues culled from the slums of England. Even the officers were not to be trusted.
 

“Her reputation—” Georgiana gasped, glancing at her guests and realizing it was too late. “They’ll never reach him—and even if they do, he might be already dead! Who will protect them?” How could the Fulhams have let her go alone, taking the boy? The peninsula was no place for a lone woman and four-year-old child. Someone must go with them. William or Jasper or—

Cyril. Of course. Yes, it should be him, because if Alistair was gone, someone must marry Anna and bring her home. Georgiana knew she’d have all manner of difficulties bending Jasper to her will, but she was confident of succeeding with her weakling nephew.
 

“She’s gone already, you said?” Georgiana asked, rising from her chair.
 

“Yes. To Portsmouth. She’ll sail to Oporto and go from there to Ciudad Rodrigo.”
 

“Forgive me. I must go.” She and Mrs. Fulham could wrangle over the handling of this crisis tomorrow. They might as well become acquainted, since Anna was going to be part of the family one way or other. If Georgiana was to fix things, she must act now, before Anna and Henry got too far ahead. The poor girl needed someone to help her. If Frederick Morris ever learned of this, he would have every right to take her son back.
 

“Where’s Lucy Plunkett?” Georgiana demanded, striding into the hall. She couldn’t see Jenkins, but she trusted he would appear, sensing her need.
 

He didn’t fail her. “She may be in the kitchen,” Jenkins said, materializing at her elbow. “But I’m not certain.”
 

“Watch her. Don’t let her leave the house.” Anna might pay her wage now, but Georgiana didn’t forget that Lucy had been hired by Frederick Morris first and couldn’t be trusted. William was out—gone to Tatersalls—but Georgiana wouldn’t wait. She ordered the carriage brought round.
 

“Take me to St. Audley Street,” she said.
 

It was early enough in the afternoon that she found Cyril at home. “Just tell me where he is,” she snapped at the butler, unwilling to give her nephew the luxury of a warning. He wasn’t, as she expected, foraging at the sideboard, assembling a late breakfast. He was in the billiard room, lounging over the table. She glared at him, at his too long hair, at the cue in his loose fingers, his foaming cravat and his tasseled boots. Cyril’s other hand was sliding over his watch fob, trying to tuck it out of sight.
 

“Don’t bother. I’ve already seen it,” she said, and Cyril flushed, as well he might.
A naked woman! Really
! “Utterly tasteless,” she said.
 

He smiled weakly.
 

In crisp words, she told him what had befallen his brother. “Are you not concerned?” she asked.
 

“Of course I am!” Cyril set down the cue and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It grieves me more than I can say. All my thoughts and prayers are bent on his safety and recovery.”
 

Georgiana snorted. He should have known better than to tack on the last bit. Prayers indeed! She’d always known Cyril for a wastrel, but she hadn’t expected him to prove entirely useless in this moment of crisis—it was the fault of his father’s stock, no doubt. Her people were made of sterner stuff. “Prayers are very nice, I’m sure, but I’m more interested in learning when you depart.”
 

“Depart?” Cyril looked at her in surprise. He gave an uneasy laugh. “Just what do you think my going to Spain will do?”
 

She stared at him until he dropped his eyes. “For one thing, if you bestir yourself, you can ensure your brother’s intended bride does not travel wholly unprotected. I expect you’re useless in the sickroom, but if the worst happened, you could at least bring home your brother’s remains.”
 

Cyril shuddered. “Surely not. A tasteful plaque, in the family chapel . . . . ”
 

She slammed the flat of her hand onto the billiard table with enough force that the balls jumped. “You would leave him feverish and suffering, with only that ruffian Griggs to attend him?” She leaned closer. Overriding Cyril’s protests that Griggs was a frighteningly capable fellow, she backed him to the opposite end of the table, punctuating her opinions of Cyril, his ancestors and what he deserved with an emphatic forefinger.
 

“You are a sorry, weak, addle-brained excuse for a man, who ought to be strung up by his heels and beaten. I’d like to think the experience would cram some sense into your head, but I own to few hopes. You would get what you deserve at least, and we needn’t fear damaging your faculties, such as they are.” He opened his mouth to protest as she drew breath, but she jabbed her finger an inch closer, silencing him. “You will cease your depredations on the family fortune. You will give up these ridiculous waistcoats and that atrocity you attempted to hide in your pocket. And you will arrange forthwith to help your brother, or God help me, I’ll administer the beating myself!”