A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (16 page)

“What are you staring at, Stowebridge?” Rafe asked as came to stand beside him and follow the line of his vision. “Did you see someone you know?”

Michael shook his head as he continued to watch the ambulance make its way up the dock towards the village. “No,” he said quietly. “I'm just chasing phantoms.”

Chapter Ten

London,

March, 1858

Anger and indignation served to shield ones pride, but shielded little else. They did nothing, for example, to shield one's clothing from the encroachment of foul weather, or to shield one's shoes. Belle's half boots, survivors of the battlefields around Sevastapol, as well as numerous repairs, were saturated almost past the point of redemption from the rain water that collected into grimy puddles along the street. She shifted the weigh of her valise and medicine box in her cold, aching arms and conceded that she'd made a serious error by letting her pride get the best of her. She should have waited for the hackney. “Pride goeth before a fall,” Belle muttered darkly.

The rain and wind continued their vicious attack. Within blocks of leaving Lord Isley’s home Belle’s cloak had given up all pretense to dryness and her gray, merino gown clung wetly to her shoulders. She kept moving down the street grimly calculating how much farther it was to Nettie's rooms. Hiring her own hackney was a luxury at this point and she would have to forgo luxuries to preserve her meager resources. Another lesson life had taught her was the importance of frugality. She’d also learned the value of self-reliance – if only she’d learned that lesson earlier, perhaps her mother and herself.... Belle stopped the thought before it finished forming. Regret was a bitter companion at the best of times and couldn’t change the past, only mar the present and the future. The sodden brim of her bonnet chose that moment to collapse against her forehead, causing icy water to dribble down her face. Belle grumbled an oath that no respectable woman should know, much less say and pushed locks of her wet, black hair out of her eyes.

Thankfully, Nettie's street came in sight. Her friend's landlady greeted her with a faltering smile that no doubt stemmed from concern for her floors as Belle's gown and boots left a watery trail in their wake. Only Nettie's position as the house's most illustrious resident and Belle's position as her regular visitor kept the woman from banishing her to the kitchen. Belle murmured an apology as she tromped up the staircase to Nettie's rooms. In short order Nettie's dresser and companion, Mrs. McTavish, affectionately known as Mrs. Tav, had Belle towel dried, changed into a warm dressing gown and seated before the fire, a hot cup of tea in her hand. Only then did Belle sigh with relief and allow herself the privilege of venting her outrage.

“That woman will be the death of her son, Nettie. Larkin is healing, both in mind and body. He grasped my hand in gratitude, that's all, and that woman was so terrified I was trying to lure her son into marriage she ordered me thrown out of the house.” Belle took a fortify sip from her cup. “Lord Isley let her get away with it too. I thought he had more sense. Apparently I wrong.”

Nettie shrugged as she reached for her own cup. “You’re a lovely woman in what many still regard as a scandalous occupation, Belle. Your motives will always be suspect when it comes to handsome young lordlings and their doting mamas.” She smiled at her friend's sullen glare. “That's something I happen to know a great deal about, I might add. Both of us have placed ourselves beyond the pale as far as good society is concerned, you in your way and me in mine.” She took a bite from her piece of shortbread and Belle watched as her eyes briefly closed in pleasure at the sweet, buttery taste of the biscuit. “What frustrates the gentry more than anything,” Nettie continued, “is that they can't do without our skills, though they'd rather not have to suffer us in their homes. That's not difficult to avoid in my case, but you are another matter. You're fit to tend their sick and infirm and therefore allowances must be made. Just never forget your place, or that they consider your true nature to be coarse and indelicate.” She punctuated her remark by tossing the remains of her shortbread into her mouth.

“They might be right about that,” Belle allowed as she stretched her feet towards the fire. “There’s not much call for drawing room etiquette on the battlefield.”

Nettie eyed her pointedly. “You learned your etiquette long before the Crimea, love, just as did I. Needs must and all that.” Belle shrugged not wishing to be drawn into a conversation about their pasts. Nettie twisted a blonde curl idly around her forefinger. “The ton considers me good enough to sing and dance for them when they feel daring enough to attend such lowbrow entertainment and to – well, let me be frank – to teach their young men how to use their twig and berries.”

Belle laughed aloud at the idea of Nettie consenting to teach any young lord about sexual congress for any amount of money. Circumstances may have forced Nettie to make her own way in the world, but she was no man's mistress – at least not any longer. Any man she chose to take to her bed these days was there strictly at Nettie's invitation and if he so much as hinted about offering her carte blanche he would promptly find himself uninvited. Nettie Pomeroy was the toast of London's premiere music hall and as such, had her pick of lovers from the wealthiest and most handsome men in England. She just would never be introduced to their families.

“This isn't about their treatment of me, Nettie, rude and irritating as it was,” Belle stated. “It doesn't make me angry to be consigned to the servants stairs by the Lord Isleys of the world. We both know I'm more free there than I would ever be living in the grandest home in Mayfair. I'm angry because the Isleys and their ilk believe that any woman forced to earn a living must be lacking in moral character unless she's of good family and ekes out her living as a poorly paid governess, or a lady's companion. How many such positions do they think exist and how does one obtain such a post without letters of character?” Belle picked up a piece of shortbread for herself and pointed it at her friend to emphasize her point. “Do you know the worst of it?” Nettie wisely remained silent. “Larkin still needs care and that is of secondary importance to their moral objection to me.” Belle slumped back against her chair. “Who's going to care for him now? As I was leaving Lady Isley swore she'd never ‘tolerate another creature like me in her home.’ ”

Nettie set down her cup and moved to kneel beside Belle. “Duncan will make them see reason, don't you worry. They want him to take care of their son badly enough to follow his dictates.” She chuckled softly. “If I know our mad Scot he'll not only get another nurse into the house within a week, but also secure you an apology. Don't fret, Belle. You've done all you could do.” She hugged her friend tightly, then crossed to the small writing desk set in one corner of the parlor. “I almost forgot. I have letters for you. One arrived just this morning and I suspect it's from Duncan. At least you didn't have to wait for me to send them on to you.” She winked saucily as she retrieved the letters and handed them to Belle. “Would you like some privacy to read them? I have to begin getting ready for the theater soon anyway.”

Belle glanced at both letters and smiled. “No, Nettie.” She held one aloft. “This one is from Katherine and as you surmised the other is from Duncan. I'll happily share their contents with you.” As eager as Belle was to secure new employment, she was more eager for word from Katherine. Belle learned upon her return to England several months ago that Katherine's husband had exiled her to the north country. Rumors claimed that she's been locked up in an asylum for attacking her husband's mistress. Others claimed that she'd been such a shrew her husband had sent her to live on one of his remote estates, while still more insisted he'd put her to work in one of his own factories. Like all rumors, there were some facts buried amid the speculation, not many mind you, and all of them distorted. Belle tore open Katherine's letter taking a moment to digest the contents before speaking.

“Well?” Nettie asked anxiously.

“She is managing. Our letters will be allowed to continue as long as we make no further attempts to send her funds or rail tickets.” Belle looked levelly at Nettie. “He is having her watched and all her letters are read.”

“This is outrageous, Belle! He can't get away with this!”

“Yes, he can, Nettie. He's her husband and he can do whatever he wishes with her short of all out murder,” Belle answered darkly, “and I'm sure he's wealthy enough to get away with that if he chooses.” Her stepfather hadn’t been wealthy at all and he’d easily escaped the hangman. “She asks us not to interfere and says that should her situation improve she might be allowed visitors at some point.”

“Allowed visitors! What is she, a prisoner that she may b
e
allowe
d
to see the people who care about her? Surely her mother won't tolerate this situation.”

Belle folded Katherine's brief letter before replying. “Lady Bellwood is still traveling abroad and her influence amongst the leaders of the ton has significantly diminished during the past few years, or so my sources tell me. Her ladyship is notorious for keeping her own counsel though, so I doubt she has said much to anyone.”

“That woman is so proud she asks to see God's references before saying her prayers,” Nettie shuddered and turned away to stare out the window, her expression bleak. Belle understood her upset. A woman far more vicious than Katherine's mother had destroyed Nettie's life simply for the crime of being born.

“We will do what we can for Katherine. We will find a way to help her, Nettie, you'll see. In the meantime let's be thankful that neither of us is under any man's yoke.” Nettie nodded as she continued to watch the wind blow rain harshly against her windows. “Let's see what Duncan has to say, shall we?” Belle made her voice cheerful in an effort to draw Nettie away from her memories.

Belle opened Duncan's letter with equal parts excitement and trepidation. She knew where he was and though part of her longed to be there as well, she knew it was the last place on earth she would be either safe, or welcome. She unfolded the thick vellum and began to read.

Dearest Belle,

You must come at once. I would never ask this of you were the circumstances not dire. Andrew needs you. Otherwise, I doubt his survival. The earl is occupied elsewhere, so you need have no fear of crossing either paths, or swords with him. I've enclosed funds for a rail ticket in hopes that you will agree to, once again, come to the aid of our friend. I'm arranging for your replacement in Lord Isley's household, hoping that you will forgive my presumption. I trust Nettie to see this letter reaches you quickly and that I will see you before the end of the week. I am in your debt, my friend.

Yours Affectionately,

Duncan

Belle pressed her lips together and carefully folded the letter.
‘
In his deb
t
,’ indeed. She knew blackmail when she read it. Belle owed Duncan much more than she could ever repay him and he knew it. Andrew Lassiter was another matter. She’d believed her debt to him paid in full. Apparently, that was not the case. She shivered and told herself it was simply the result of being soaked to the skin earlier. She managed a tight smile at Nettie. “It would seem our mad Scot has made me an offer near impossible to refuse,” she said. “Just my luck that I’m not otherwise engaged.”

***

Surrey

The Earl of Stowebridge, closed the door to his brother’s room and motioned Dr. Gillian to accompany him farther down the hall. “He gets more frail each day. He’s given up on ever walking again. Do you honestly believe there's anything you can do to help him?” It was a question Michael must have asked half a dozen times since Dr. Gillian’s arrival yesterday, but he needed the man’s assurances, damn it. He’d pay anything, do anything to save Drew.

Duncan Gillian met the earl’s gaze straight on. “It won’t be easy. The bed sores are of particular concern and over all, his care during the past few months has been poor. His muscles have been left to atrophy and there’s no strength in them even though the initial injury has healed significantly. More disturbingly, I believe you’re right. The fight has gone out of him. Medicine can only do so much. Andrew must want to recover.”

“He was noting like this when I left for America, or I assure you, I never would have gone. What the hell did she let happen to him?” It was a rhetorical question, one Dr. Gillian clearly felt comfortable leaving unanswered. “And you’re convinced this particular nurse will make a difference for Drew?”

He nodded. “Miss Winslow and Andrew have a...singular relationship. She was one of his nurses at Barrack Hospital.”

Michael frowned as they continued walking down the hallway. “She worked with Mary Seacole, you say?”

“Yes, she did,” Dr. Gillian answered. “Miss Winslow took her initial training under Miss Nightingale at the Hospital for Invalid Gentlewomen on Harley Street. She accompanied Miss Nightingale to the Crimea, but left Scutari to work on the front lines outside of Sevastopol. She's an exceptional nurse. Mother, that is, Mrs. Seacole taught Miss Winslow a great deal about medicinal herbs, poultices and such. I’ve met with success using some of her less orthodox treatments, myself. I’m hopeful that some of them will prove beneficial in Andrew’s case.”

“Would Mrs. Seacole consider coming here to care for Andrew herself?” Michael would pay her anything she asked if it increased his brother's chances of recovery. He’d rather have the teacher than the student any day. Doctor Gillian stopped to regard him. Michael knew what the man saw. It was the same image that stared out at Michael from his own mirror each day. He looked like what he was, a desperate, shell of a man – hardly the sort of impression a peer should make regardless of the circumstances. Michael prided himself on appearing intractable and he narrowed his gaze to make it clear that any of the doctor’s observations should be kept to himself. Gillian had only one patient in this household.