A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (20 page)

Arabella Winston grew up in privilege and even now, with her mother dead and her stepfather penniless and in disgrace, she still had enough titled family to relaunch her into society. Nevertheless, she’d chosen a life considered beyond the pale for any woman of rank. Though Miss Nightingale was of good family herself, there were plenty of drawing rooms in London where she would never again be welcomed simply because of her profession.

Michael considered the fates that had befallen each of the young ladies known as The Furies. He’d expected Araby to return the next Season after her flight from London. Even with her pride in tatters she could still have managed some sort of decent match with a second, or third son, even a wealthy cit. She hadn't returned though, and while he'd thought of her occasionally – when he happened upon a flower cart, or the firelight illuminated his cognac in just the manner to resemble the color of her eyes – he’d resisted considering what had become of her. It was just as well that she'd been out of his reach after he'd learned of Drew's injuries.

In hind sight, Araby had gotten off considerably lighter than the other two Furies. Lady Katherine's family had suffered financial hardships after the death of her illustrious father and Lady Bellwood had been forced to marry off her pedigreed darling to the wealthy, if somewhat ruthless, industrialist, Jonas Rutledge. He’d hoped to use her to widen his social connections. The marriage had been a disaster from the beginning, resulting in Lady Katherine's exile.

The fate of Sarah Jane Melbourne still pricked Michael's conscious, though. True to his word, Rafe Kingsford had publicly ruined the girl. She'd fled to the Continent in disgrace. Michael believed young Sarah hadn't deserved her fate. Her only real sin had been in befriending the two young women who'd conspired against Damaris Kingsford Wentworth. He thought perhaps Rafe regretted his actions against the girl, though at the time he'd couldn't be dissuaded from his path. It was almost as if....

Michael turned his mind back to the matter at hand, toying with various methods of ridding the house of Araby Winston as soon as possible. He could have her arrested for theft. Hell, he didn’t need to involve the law for that matter. He owned a fleet of ships. It would be simple enough to have her abducted and delivered to any number of foreign ports. He considered the fate awaiting a beauty like her in such a situation and his chest tightened. Not even he could consign a woman like her to that life.

Docks. Ships. An image of the wharf at Balaklava stirred in his memory. As soon as he’d met Duncan Gillian he’d recognized him as the doctor he'd seen climbing onto the ambulance that day. His head snapped up and he swore as he made the startling realization that the woman who'd been with Gillian, the one whose face he hadn't seen, but whose movements had reminded him...dear God, it had been her. Tall, graceful, but painfully thin. She'd been right there in front of him that day.

Michael crossed to his desk and sat down heavily in his chair as another realization struck him. She'd left with Gillian on the ambulance to return to the battlefields. The doctor said Miss Winslow had been at Sevastopol during the siege, but until this very moment Michael hadn't fully comprehended that it had been Lady Arabella Winston who'd been on the front lines and under fire not some faceless young woman named Annabelle Winslow. She’d been at Barrack Hospital as well. Michael expelled a large breath of air. She should have been safe in some country hamlet, if not London. What the hell had happened to put her in places like that? The answer came in two haunting words
.
I happene
d
.

Suddenly, the door to his study burst open and the his mother rushed in. “Stowebridge,” she cried twisting a lacy handkerchief between her hands, “have you seen what Gillian has done? He’s brought that wicked creature into this house! I won’t stand for it!”

Michael avoided his mother even when he was in the best of moods. Today he should have barred the door to her. “I see Tully has been amazingly efficient, as usual,” he said smoothly.

His mother ignored the remark. “How can you tolerate this? She practically drove my son to his death!”

“The fact remains that Drew is upstairs and very much alive, despite the care he received under your supervision.” His words had the desired effect. Her face blanched and she fell silent. Michael was not a forgiving man and he insisted that his mother be accountable for her actions. Her interference, no matter how well intentioned, almost killed his younger brother.

“You know what I mean,” Lady Stowebridge continue in a subdued voice. “It’s only by God’s grace Drew didn’t die in the Crimea.”

“By God’s grace and the assistance of one Annabelle Winslow according to Dr. Gillian. He vouches for her skill, even if he can’t convincingly vouch for her character. No matter my personal feelings, or yours, she will stay.” He regarded her sternly. “You will not interfere. Do you understand me, Madame?”

The her mouth quivered. “I don’t care what she calls herself. She’s still responsible for Drew going to war in the first place. I’m going to see my son,” she whispered. Her careless words shouldn’t hurt after all this time. Michael learned long ago that his mother only had the capacity to love one of her sons. “Afterwards I shall write to my friends. Perhaps one of two of them will come to stay at the abbey to lend me their support. Their strength has been invaluable to me during the dark days of Andrew’s illness.” She blotted her cheeks artfully with handkerchief, turning her face to catch the light streaming in from the window behind Michael’s desk. How did she manage to so skillfully stage the perfect picture of herself as a tragic heroine – a long-suffering martyr?  It was quite a talent, Michael allowed, but there was one outstanding difference between his mother and Joan of Arc. His mother had the better wardrobe.

“I agree with you, Madam. The support of your friends in this difficult time can only do you good,” he said softly. “That is why you will be accompanying Dr. Gillian back to London tomorrow.”

Lady Stowebridge gasped. “I will not leave Drew when he needs me most, not with that woman in the house! Even you can’t be that heartless,” she began.

“Oh, I assure that I can,” he replied with a steadiness he didn’t feel. “You shouldn’t be surprised either.” He smiled his best crocodile smile. “Isn’t it you who constantly decries me as a villain to every society matron you meet?” His mother turned her face away from him, but not before he saw her mouth quiver. Good, he thought, she should be worried. “You should have thought of the consequences to you before you countermanded my orders to the staff today,” he said sharply. “You are still refusing to listen to the doctor and I will not have you endangering my brother with your foolishness. You will go to London tomorrow and remain there until the Season is over. If you haven’t regained your common sense by summer, Madam, you will attend the usual round of house parties before heading for one of the northern estates.”

“You're the reason your brother ran off to war in the first place, you and that slut!” she said, spitting the words out at him in her fury. Her mouth contorted into an ugly sneer and her eyes glowed with rage at being denied a position at the center stage of Drew’s illness. Gone was the martyred Madonna and in her place stood the angry shrew of Michael’s youth, the version of her that emerged whenever anyone dared to thwart her plans, or her desires. “You are a cold and unfeeling man,” she hissed, “even worse than your father.”

“It’s nice to know you think I excel at something, Madam,” He said flatly and turned away from her. “I am what life has made me, after all.” The countess left slamming the door behind her.

***

London

He hated gin – the smell, the taste, the way it made his stomach burn. He hated it almost as much as he hated her right now. A woman brushed against him, jostled by the raucous crowd in the Rookery tavern. She gave him a knowing grin that had more than one tooth missing from it. The sight and smell of her made his stomach knot worse than the gin. She was a pox-riddled whore – one of her eyes already cloudy from sickness. And she thought her customers would be too stupid to know what evil she carried. He contemplated taking her into the alley and slitting her foul throat, or perhaps just beating her until she couldn’t move. Until she was dead. No one would miss her and she’d never infect another man with her filth, another man like him.

It was her fault, Araby’s fault that he’d come to this. Araby – too perfect, too beautiful to be real. He should have cut off her nose, or carved his initials in her cheek that night. Given her something to remember him by in the years to come. A gin-scented tear rolled down his face. He couldn’t have done that to her. Not to his Araby. He’d taught her a lesson that night, to be sure, but no more than that. Perhaps in his zeal he’d hurt her too badly, but in her heart she knew he loved her best. They’d taken her away from him that night and he’d lost her. Araby. In his mind's eye he saw her descending the staircase of the London house – all glittering perfection. The house was gone now, like everything else. She would have been his fortune, his mistress and his love. Instead, he’d run, leaving everything he was behind him, including her.

Paris had been a nightmare without friend or family to recommend him. He’d used the last of his resources up in short order and had been reduced to petty crimes just to survive so that one day he could return for her. Now he couldn’t find her. No one he talked to knew what happened to her and likely those who did know something were the ones that never let him past their front doors. Still, he wouldn’t give up.

He glared at the poxy whore again. His joints hurt all the time now and he had skin ulcers that wouldn’t heal. The light had started to fade and go grainy in one of his eyes, as well. He wouldn’t give up though. She was out there waiting for him somewhere. She ached for him as well – he knew it. The loneliness must be eating into her like it did him. No one understood her like he did. No one appreciated who and what she could be. She belonged to him and he would find her no matter how long it took him. He would have to punish her, of course. He licked his lips with an almost giddy sense of anticipation. Yes, not as badly as that night on the wharf, mind, or she’d be of no use to him. She’d pay though, oh, yes, she’d pay dearly.

Chapter Fifteen

Surrey

During the next several days Belle and Paddy worked at a feverish pace to care for Drew. They cleaned his room – furniture, floor, walls and ceiling with the solutions they used in the hospital. The rugs were removed, cleaned and stored away so that eventually Drew would be able to move himself about the room in a bath chair. They took down the draperies for beating and aired them in the bright, spring sunshine. Every day there was a fresh mountain of laundry to do and Drew required close to constant attention. The severity of his bedsores required that they change his position in bed at least every two hours. Fresh dressings needed to be applied, herbal salve and tonics had to be prepared and their patient monitored for the slightest indication of fever. Belle and Paddy took turns watching him, but Belle insisted on handling the majority of the nights herself. They both slept catch as catch can, but for no longer than two hours at a time.

Despite the earl’s threats though, nursing at Stowebridge Abby was luxurious compared to some of Belle’s other assignments. No one was shooting at her – at least not yet and she wasn't scrabbling with vermin for her food. Mr. Hodges came to the room twice a day to receive a report from Belle which he passed on to the earl. During that time, Drew’s brother never visited him. Doubtless, Mr. Hodges had been told to scrutinize both patients and sick room looking for any sign of negligence in his care. For her part, Belle preferred the earl’s absence, but she knew the situation could not continue. Drew needed his brother and for both their sakes Michael had to stop letting Drew push him away.

By the end of the second week both Belle and Paddy were exhausted, but Drew’s condition had improved significantly and the staff began to take notice of Belle and Paddy’s efforts. At first their acknowledgment came in the form of tea and cakes sent each afternoon for Drew’s nurse and orderly, then suddenly, without request, maids brought supper trays for all of them each evening. Both Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Babcock stopped by each evening as well to make certain Belle had everything she required for the long night ahead. Slowly, she’d managed to change the staff’s perception of her – not an easy task given her history with the brothers. She wished she'd had half as much luck with the master of the house.

The earl avoided direct contact with her, but he was always watching, always aware of her movements, though he kept his distance. Even when Belle didn’t see him, she sensed him. He seemed to particularly enjoy watching her toil, hauling slop buckets to the garden privy, or wrestling with the huge laundry baskets as she tackled the daily washing. Normally, a house of the size of Stowebridge Abbey would have assigned maids-of-all-work to help with sickroom chores, but according to one of the more talkative maids the earl had given Mr. Hodges specific instructions that Belle, herself was to handle every aspect of Drew's care. Paddy helped as he could, but Drew couldn't be left alone for more than a few moments, so much of the stillroom work fell on Belle's shoulders. Unfortunately, the long hours of care, the cleaning, the laundering and then the preparation of medicinal tinctures and ointments began to take its toll on her.

One afternoon, as she grappled with a large laundry basket filled with wet linens, Belle's exhaustion got the better of her and she stumbled over her own feet. Down she went to end up sprawled across the path from the laundry house. The freshly washed linens tumbled into the dirt. There was no hope for it, Belle realized. They would have to be washed again. She picked herself up, kicked the basket for good measure and without considering who might be in earshot, let loose with a string of profanity that would do an infantryman proud. She heard a crack of laughter from behind her and turned to see the earl trot by on his horse. She glared at him and growled under her breath, willing him to keep riding. Of course, as her luck would have it, he stopped.

The earl pulled his black, brute of a horse to a halt, though he didn't dismount. He also didn’t offer assistance, or ask if she were injured, but then again Belle would hardly expect that from him. He did, however, look her over in that same leisurely and thoroughly insulting fashion of his and for just a moment she wondered if he ever thought about the intimate moments they’d shared in the Malberry’s parlor with anything more than gloating satisfaction. Belle recoiled from the thought as if someone had tossed a poisonous serpent at her.

“I hardly think that particular expression is bandied about in polite society
,
Miss Winslo
w
.” His lips curled into a sneer. “I suppose it’s one you picked up in the army barracks you frequented.”

His implication was clear and though she'd heard such insinuations before, this one stung worse coming from him. Belle was in danger of letting her temper speak for her. She forced her features to remain impassive as she began gathering the laundry. “Barrack Hospital, actually,” she said coolly, “or any number of campfires. I really don't remember which.” He frowned as if his remark hadn’t gotten the desire effect from her. The notion pleased her.

He quickly dismounted and came to stand in front of her, his expression both angry and accusing. “I saw you with Gillian on the wharf at Balaklava. Did he tell you? Of course, I’d no idea it was you at the time.”

“Yes, he told me,” she replied, striving for a casual air. She'd felt sick when Duncan had told her how close she'd come to discovery that day, but she remained grateful for the supplies the earl had risked his life to provide for the field hospitals.

“How did you get there?” he demanded suddenly, his curiosity temporarily overcoming his dislike of her.

“By boat,” she answered archly.

“You know what I mean,” he snapped. “What the devil were you doing in the middle of a war and at the Siege of Sevastopol, no less?”

Belle straightened from her battle with the laundry basket and linens to meet his glare.  “A siege?” she asked in feigned surprise. “Is that what that was? I thought it seemed terribly loud for Brighton.”

The earl blinked, momentarily stunned by the absurdity of her remark. Perhaps it was her exhaustion, or his incredulous expression that made everything suddenly so funny, but Belle began to laugh and for a moment all thoughts of war, her history with Michael Lassiter and Drew's condition melted away. The earl smiled in spite of himself, but all too quickly it faded away taking her own humor with it. Everything returned to its proper order. The war had happened, Drew needed her help again and the earl, Michael, was still her bitterest foe.

He pointed his riding crop at the basket. “Leave it. I'll have a footman carry it to the laundry. Your energies are better expended in the sick room than on endless washing.” He cleared his throat as though his concession annoyed him. Belle wouldn't make the mistake of thanking him.

“As you wish, my lord.” She gave him a short curtsy and hurried off to the safety of the stillroom.

Belle quickly set a double boiler filled with plantain leaves and castor oil to heat on the small, iron stove in the stillroom. Once the herb had infused the oil, she’d strain it and add a few drops of eucalyptus, lavender and geranium oils before carefully reheating the mixture and melting in just enough beeswax to create a salve for Drew’s bed sores. While the oil heated, Belle began preparing a small amount of the sulfur and pine tar paste Duncan had ordered to be used on the worst of the sores. The treatment would add to Drew’s discomfort, but valerian tincture and willow bark tea should ease some of his distress. Both Belle and Duncan liked to reserve the use of laudanum for night time to ensure that a patient slept well despite the pains of sickness or injury. Limiting the use of opiates lessened the chance of a patient remaining dependent on it long after the need for pain relief ended. Belle had seen men who continued to ‘chase the dragon’ simply because of the overuse of laudanum for their injuries.

No matter how preoccupied her work in the stillroom kept her, Belle still found herself thinking about Michael and wondering what he’d experienced during his time at Balaklava. How strange that in the entire world fate should conspire to place them both in the same location not once, but twice during the Crimean campaign. What would have happened if she’d turned towards him that day on the wharf and he recognized her, or if he’d gone to the British Hotel and found her at one of the tables catching a quick meal before heading back to the field hospital? Would he have denounced her before everyone? Few would have cared given the situation. Perhaps he would have quickly come to understand what drove her to aid the soldiers on the battlefield. He probably wouldn’t have been understanding at all if he’d seen her in Scutari, not with his brother lying immobile on a stretcher, but in Balaklava he might have thought of her differently, thought her a little better than the girl he’d known in London.

No sooner had she finished with the paste than Mrs. Babcock bustled in, concern easing her usual reserve. “Miss Winslow,” she began, “Cook brought me this tea her ladyship sent for Mr. Andrew. Her instructions were to brew him a pot every afternoon.” She held out a leather pouch for Belle’s inspection. “She doesn’t wish to go against her ladyship’s orders, mind you, she also doesn’t want any part of going against you...or, his lordship.” Belle knew the housekeeper had added the earl as an afterthought and she smiled. Paddy had a penchant for storytelling and now the servants found her more intimidating than the earl.

“I told her that unless you personally approve of this blend it was not to be served to Mr. Andrew under any circumstances,” Mrs. Babcock continued sternly. “The young man is much improved lately and we all know it’s because of your care.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Babcock, but Dr. Gillian and Paddy may have helped as well,” Belle said wryly. She opened the pouch and poured a little of mixture into her hand, then rubbed it around her palm before inhaling the scents of the various herbs.

“Her ladyship use to give this to the young master when he was a lad. Tonic Tea she called it. She brewed some for him when he got a little too excited. Mr. Andrew was a colicky baby and prone to nervous sickness as a boy if he got himself too worked up.”

Belle caught the smell of chamomile and mint with a touch of lemon balm and perhaps a hint of catnip – nothing harmful, just relaxing. There was another scent as well. “Did the tea help him?” she asked. 

“Somethings it would hold off the sickness, other times it wouldn’t and then he’d be in bed for a week of two,” Mrs. Babcock answered. 

Belle poured more of the tea into her hand and studied the dried leaves. It wasn’t uncommon for families to make their own blends of herbal teas to treat their offspring. Many such concoctions helped and some did no good whatsoever, though you could never convince a worried mother that was the case. Few teas did any actual harm.  She recognized the herbs that she’d identified by smell, but there were also some darker, waxy looking pieces that she couldn’t identify. Although the other herbs would do no harm, and in fact might help, common sense dictated that Belle refrain from giving him this particular blend until she’d identified the other component. She placed a small piece of the unknown herb in her mouth. It wasn’t bitter, nor was its taste particularly strong.

“I think I’ll keep to the teas I blend myself, Mrs. Babcock. Tell Cook not to worry. If either the countess, or the earl questions the matter simply refer them to me.” The other woman nodded with satisfaction, clearly pleased to have made the right decision in consulting Belle.  “If you don’t mind, I’ll hang on to this, Mrs. Babcock.”

“Of course, Miss Winslow.” The housekeeper turned to go but stopped at the doorway. Her manner was hesitant as if she were unsure about the reception of what she was about to say. “One of the maids said she heard you cry out in your sleep the other day, Miss.”

Belle smiled in what she hoped was an easy manner. The last thing she wanted was for her nightmares to become the subject of downstairs gossip. She didn’t have them often anymore, but being here, seeing Drew and Michael again had brought them back. Thankfully, she’d not suffered any of the worst ones. “Just some odd dream or another, I expect,” she remarked as casually as she could. “I hope I didn’t disturb anyone.”

Mrs. Babcock gave her a gentle smile filled with kindness and concern. “Don’t you be worrying about that now, Miss. We’ll wake you if necessary and no one will ever be the wiser. I promise.” Belle nodded her gratitude, unwilling to trust her voice. She was not used to such consideration from near strangers. Mrs. Babcock nodded in response and left the stillroom.

A sudden, hot smell from the stove warned Belle that the double boiler had gone dry. She tossed the pouch into one the drawers in the work table and hurried to add more water to the pan. Researching the herb would have to wait as she had her own mixtures to make. Perhaps she could send the tea to Mary Seacole, because if anyone could identify the mystery component, Mary could.

Later that night, as the sickroom lay in quiet shadows, Belle sat at the small writing desk that occupied a corner in Drew’s room. The fire had long since burned to embers allowing a chill to permeate the air. She pulled her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders as she carefully recorded every detail of Drew's care in her patient journal. An oil lamp illuminated her pages, but did little else to dispel the deeper shadows around the room. In concession to the darkness Belle had placed a small, spirit lamp by her patient’s bedside. She tapped the end of her stylus against her jaw in thought. The journal was a habit ingrained by Miss Nightingale’s scrupulous training and in it Belle recorded every variance in her patient’s condition, no matter how small, or seemingly insignificant. She preferred working in the wee hours before dawn. It gave her the opportunity for peaceful reflection. Besides, nightmares lived in the shadows of sleep, not in the shadows of the sickroom. This was familiar terrain for her, one that held her ghosts at bay, well, most of them at any rate.