Anita Mills (16 page)

“She’s back?” he asked Mrs. Creighton as he removed his dripping cloak.

“If she is, I am sure I haven’t seen her,” the housekeeper sniffed. “And Cook is holding supper.”

“Mrs. Creighton, has she any friends in the neighborhood—anyone she visits or who visits here?”

Rivulets ran from his wet, plastered hair to stream down his face, and it was obvious that he was chilled to the bone. But she could see he was truly worried, and she relented slightly, shaking her head.

“There’s none I can think of. She busied herself here most of the time, except when she went to London, of course, and other than the tradesmen and the riding instructor from Tetwell, who does not come anymore, I cannot think she knew anyone. She has not been feeling quite the thing lately,” she added significantly.

“She never paid calls?”

“No.”

“Stubbs?”

“No.”

“Well, she cannot have gone far,” he rationalized, trying to tell himself that she had to be all right. “Ten to one, she’s sought shelter. If she’s not back in another hour, we’ll take the lanterns out and try again.”

She gave the horse its head, letting it run a half-mile or so, heedless of the fact that riding astride exposed her lower legs. It didn’t matter anyway, for her attempts at being a grand lady had come to naught. The misty rain cooled her bitter, painful anger slowly, and as she reined Two Harry to a walk, that anger was replaced by despair. Richard’s homecoming had not been as she’d planned it. For months she’d dreamed of his returning to find her, not asleep in a chair, but rather as mistress of his house, exquisitely gowned and coiffed, presiding elegantly over dinner, exhibiting all those qualities she’d striven so hard to achieve in the six months past. Instead, he’d discovered an ungainly, plain woman far gone with child. In the fantasies of her mind, she’d expected him to be surprised, pleased even, and eager to make amends, she supposed. But it hadn’t happened. Far from pleasing him, her presence had angered him, and the hurt she felt again was almost too much to bear.

She had no notion of how far she’d ridden when at last she realized she was very cold and it was nearly dark. Turning back, she feared herself lost, and she doubted Two Harry knew the way either. It was all of a piece, after all, another thing she’d done wrong. But as darkness descended like a blanket over the hilly, tree-covered countryside, and the rain came down harder, she reached the familiar road from London. Spurring Two Harry lightly, she urged him onto the well-traveled carriage lanes.

Well, Richard might be displeased, angry even, to have her at Richlands, but he could scarce want to cast himself in the terrible light of having thrust her out. And surely he would want the child, for had he not said he wanted children? Recalling again her mother’s adage about spilt milk, she resolutely determined to attempt a reasonable accommodation with him: she would offer not to interfere with his life in exchange for his recognizing her position and his heir. And later, after the babe was born, she’d try again to be fashionable and elegant, perhaps even going so far as to set up an establishment in London.

The rain came down in sheets now, soaking her cloak and the gown beneath. Shivering from the cold, she saw the road diverge toward Richlands. The horse plodded, his hooves sinking in the muddy mire of the lane through Richlands’ park. Her cropped hair dripped, then streamed, nearly blinding her, and her hands were almost too cold to hold the reins. Ahead in the distance, barely visible, was the faint glow of lights from the house. Thinking to cross the field rather than follow the winding road, she nudged Two Harry toward the hedgerow.

He balked, unwilling to jump even the low thicket, and she, thinking he needed a run at it, pulled back. He reared, nearly unseating her, but she held on.

“Come on, we are nearly there!” she urged him through the now driving rain. Spurring once again, she headed him for the field.

He ran straight, gaining speed, but unused to jumping, stumbled against rather than cleared the row. For an awful moment she rose in the saddle, caught her foot briefly in the stirrup, and pitched forward as she and Two Harry went down. And her last thought before she hit the ground was that she’d destroyed Richard’s horse. Then the pain of impact was followed by oblivion.

She revived slowly, conscious first of the pain in her back and then of the almost numbing cold. She was sprawled, her face turned from the wet grass and mud, her arms embracing the ground. And she could not move as the deep ache in her back spread forward, clutching her abdomen, tearing at her with such intensity that she could not breathe. She tried to scream, but the pain was so fierce that she could not hear herself. She was going to die undiscovered in the mud and rain.

Unable to eat, Richard paced before the waning fire, alternating between reassuring himself she’d taken shelter and the fear that she was still out somewhere in the rain. Already another search party was forming in the drive, but he didn’t have much hope for it. Resolutely he warmed his hands one last time and reached for the dry wool cloak O’Neal had found for him.

He was brought up short by the sound of shouts outside, and he allowed himself to think she’d come home. But before he could reach the door, Thomas burst in.

“The horse is back, my lord, and by the looks of it, ’tis trouble for the mistress!”

Pulling his cloak about him, Richard ran out as Cates held a lantern to Two Harry, examining him. “He’s taken a tumble, my lord,” the trainer noted, bending down to feel the animal’s forelegs. “ ’Tis knee-deep in mire he’s been, but naught’s broken.”

But Richard’s eyes were on the muddy saddle. “Never mind the horse,” he heard himself say, his voice strangely odd. He was in a nightmare.

“By the looks o’ it, she’s been thrown,” O’Neal murmured behind him.

“Aye.” Richard ran his hands over the wet saddle with sinking heart. “Get the rest of the lanterns. There’s grass and brush in the stirrup, so ’tis the fields.”

“ ’Tis too dark,” someone mumbled.

“My lord—”

“We’re going to cover every foot of ground between here and the main road, d’you hear me? Simpson, you will go with Ames … Collins, you take Blake … Keighley, follow Edwards and Robbins! And—”

“I’d go with you, my lord,” Thomas interrupted curtly.

“Beggin’ yer honor’s honor, but I’d go with ye also,” O’Neal decided.

“You?” Richard’s eyebrow lifted. “All right. Stubbs, you will tell Mrs. Creighton to warm the bed and have a fire laid for Lady Sherborne—and send Wilcox for Dr. Paxton.”

Realistically, he knew they had not much chance of finding her in the dark and the rain, but he had to try. By first light of morning, she could well be dead from the cold. Pulling his cloak even tighter against the wet wind, he shouted, “Release the dogs!” and swung up into his saddle.

They divided, most of them fanning out over the park, their lanterns bobbing and glowing, illuminating the raindrops that slanted toward the earth. Richard, waving to O’Neal and Thomas to follow him, headed for the London road. He’d ride all the way out, then come back toward the house, crossing the fields between the turnoff and the park, praying that somehow he’d find her. But in the darkness and the mire, he could pass within yards of her and never know it. And that thought was even more chilling than the cold wind that cut through his cloak.

The ride was tedious, hampered by the water in the carriage tracks and the sodden turf, and the silence was broken only by the sound of the two hunting dogs sniffing and bugling and of the pelting drops that splashed in the ruts. Forcing his thoughts to the present, denying himself any reflection now, Richard strained to listen, hoping that she might hear the dogs and call out. From time to time he rose in his stirrups to shout, “Harry! Harry! Harrrrryyy!” And each time, his words seemed to disappear into the blackness and die.

“My lord, there’s somethin’ over there!” Thomas shouted, spurring his horse toward a shape that moved along the ridge of a hill. And then he called back, “Nay, ’tis naught but a dead branch blowin’!”

After several such missteps, all three men were disheartened. They’d ridden nigh two hours, and with each passing minute it seemed less like they’d find her. Finally Richard turned to Thomas. “You and O’Neal go back and warm yourselves. If there’s any word of her, send someone back to me.”

“And you?”

Richard gestured in the direction of the house. “I mean to take Molly and cut across this last field. You take Samson back with you.” He stood in his saddle once more and peered grimly into the blackness. “Maybe with but one dog to bark, I can hear something.”

“And if you honor’s horse was t’ stumble …” O’Neal shook his head. “… tomorrow ’tis you we’re lookin’ for.”

“I am not c-cold, my lord,” Thomas maintained stoutly, despite the decided shiver of his hunched shoulders.

“No—go on, both of you,” Richard ordered. “Send word if any of the others have found her.”

He reined in and waited. Finally O’Neal sighed and reached across to Thomas’ reins. “Come on, me boy, ’tis bound and determined to wallow in guilt he is. Thinks if he was to make himself sick, ’twould be justice.”

“One of these days I shall turn you off, and you’ll have to learn your place as a valet,” Richard growled.

There was no question about it—he wanted to be left alone. He waited until they were about a hundred feet away before he turned toward the hedgerow, thinking to follow it to the next field and then back across.

“Come on, Molly,” he murmured, more for himself than for the dog. “We’re not done.”

The hound, which had lain down beside his horse’s feet, lurched upward when he clicked the reins. Moving ahead, she sniffed along the tight, dense hedge, jumping game. Birds and rabbits flapped and scattered. And then Molly dropped her back haunches slightly and howled.

“Molly! Not now!”

But she wouldn’t budge, not even when he rode a few yards on down the row. Disgusted, he came back, thinking to leash her, and dismounted. But as he held the lantern up, he could see the piece of sodden cloth caught in the brambles where it had torn.

“Harry! Harry!”

There was no answer other than the rustling of dying leaves in the wind. He bent to buckle the leash onto the collar and pull the dog away, when Molly edged closer to the hedge, pushing her nose under it, whining.

“Ten to one, ’tis naught but something you think I’d like to shoot,” he muttered, leaving her to remount his horse. Then, moving back to give the animal room, he took a run at the hedge several feet down from where the dog still lay, and cleared it easily.

“Oh, God … Harry! O’Neal! Thomas! Over here!” He yelled for them so loudly that his lungs felt raw. “Over here!”

Sliding down from his saddle, he knelt at the sodden tangle of body and clothing, his heart pounding in his throat, his mind terrified of what he’d found. Her eyes were closed, her skin wet and cold and muddy where he touched her face, and for one awful moment he thought she was dead.

“Harry …” He worked frantically, lifting her, rubbing her face with his hands, trying to warm her cold body. “Harry, you are found!” he cried, cradling her against him. Tears rolled, mingled with the rain, and slid off his cheeks. “Oh, God, Harry, I came back for you … I did not want…”

O’Neal dismounted and walked over to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Here, now, yer honor—there’s not the time,” he murmured gruffly.

Richard slid his hand along the slick mud, feeling her neck and finding the thready pulse. And then he began working in earnest, chafing her hands with his. Looking up at the valet, he managed to choke out, “She’s alive.”

Thomas brought his lantern closer, holding it to her ashen face. “We’ve got to get her inside, my lord.”

Nodding, Richard rose to his knees, still holding her, and slid his soaked cloak off his shoulders. “I’ll lift her, and you try to wrap this around her—’tisn’t dry, but it’s warmer from being on me.”

“I dunno if we should move her.”

“ ’Twould take an hour and more by the time you rode back to the house, got blankets and oiled cloth, and came back. And that’s not to say that we could get a carriage in here. No, we’ve got to move her.”

It was like wrapping deadweight, but the two servants managed to get the cloak around her, with O’Neal muttering, “ ’Tis yer honor that’ll take sick too, don’t ye know?”

“Do you think you can hand her up—between the two of you, I mean?”

Somehow they managed. Richard remounted, and the Irishman and Thomas lifted and pushed until they had her in his arms. Then, with O’Neal leading his horse, Richard held her against him, curving his back to shelter her from the wind.

“Praise God you have found her!” Mrs. Creighton breathed as Richard carried Harriet into the house. And then, peering more closely, she gasped, “Oh, my!”

There, beneath the blazing light from the entrance-hall chandelier, Richard looked down and realized that the pool forming on the floor wasn’t entirely water. The hem of the gown that hung beneath his sodden cloak dripped blood.

The doctor, emerging from Richard’s library, where he’d waited with a glass of heated punch, took one look at the inert form in the viscount’s arms and went into action. “Put her to bed, and roll a blanket beneath her. Have someone bring a basin and water. I’ll need laudanum if she wakes.” One after the other, he issued terse orders as he followed Richard up the stairs. He needed towels, he needed a warming pan for the bed, he needed someone to be ready to hold her down if the need arose.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” Richard asked anxiously as he laid her across the folded blanket that Millie thrust into the bed.

“Haven’t looked at her yet,” Paxton snapped. “If anything’s certain, though, ’tis that she’s going to lose the child. As for the rest, I’ll just have to see.”

Paxton came out briefly to report on what he’d discovered. Richard, still in wet clothes, paced the carpeted hallway, a glass of the heated punch in his hand.

“Well, naught’s broken that I can tell—’course, ’tis early times yet, and I don’t know about the back. Ankle’s badly sprained where it twisted when she fell. And she’ll be fortunate if she don’t contract a lung inflammation from this.”

“But she
will
be all right?”

“Hard to say at this juncture—have to wait and see.”

With that, the physician disappeared back inside, leaving Richard to worry about countless imagined dangers. Another hour passed before O’Neal was able to persuade him to bathe and change into dry clothing. But as Mrs. Creighton had just emerged to bustle past him down the stairs, brushing aside his questions with impatience, there seemed to be little else to do. All he’d gotten out of Creighton was “ ’Twill be a long night, I fear.”

“But has she awakened?” he’d asked.

“Now and again, but between the laudanum and the pain, she’s not knowing anything,” was the short reply.

Finally, most of the household went to bed, leaving him to remove downstairs to his library, where he tried to drink a brandy and read. But his powers of concentration were gone. He threw another large log on the fire himself and thought he’d never again be warm. But that was, he admitted freely, nothing to what must be happening to Harry.

Dawn filtered through the many-paned windows, bathing the room with an unnatural rosy glow. The silence was broken only by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel, a ticking that seemed suddenly overloud. And still there was no word from above, nothing but the occasional shuffling of tired footsteps.

The clock read twenty minutes past the hour of six. For eight hours and more, he’d been left to wonder and worry, and there seemed no end to it. All manner of things went through his mind, not the least of which was guilt. Like everything else she’d faced in the fourteen years he’d known her, Harry faced this alone also.

“My lord?”

His heart rose into his throat until he realized it was Thomas. The footman was still buttoning his coat, and he looked as though he’d not slept either.

“O’Neal asked me t’ tell you to come up.”

Hope flared briefly, but the somberness of Thomas’ voice dashed it. “Is there a change then?” Richard wanted to know.

“As to that, I’d not say, for I wasn’t told. But I believe you were asked for.”

Despite the heavy thudding of his heart and the sickening dread that knotted his stomach, Richard climbed the stairs quickly, pausing to knock at the chamber door. As if expecting him, the doctor stepped outside and into the hallway. His voice low, he moved close to Richard and explained, “The babe was born an hour ago, my lord, but I saw no reason to wake you, for it did not, could not live, and the struggle was to save your wife. She bled copiously, I am afraid, and I—”

“No! I’ll not believe it! ’Tis not right!” Richard choked in anguish. “Harry—”

“She has the will, but—”

“Ten thousand pounds and she lives … Anything …” he offered desperately. “Send to London, anywhere…”

“My lord,” Paxton cut in tiredly, “if you would but let me speak, I pray you. ’Tis in the hands of God now, not mine. The hemorrhage has lessened, the afterbirth appeared normal and intact, but I know not if she has the strength to survive. What I could say to you is that I have done my best and there’s naught else to do—money is meaningless now.”

“Then you are telling me she dies,” Richard decided heavily. “You are telling me she is too weak to live.”

“I am telling you I do not know.”

“Knighton—”

“Would tell you the same, I fear—as would any reputable physician. Were I you, I should pray.”

“Is she conscious? I’d see her.”

“She lapses between sleep and wakefulness, is often confused from the laudanum, and she does not ask for you. In this case, I should not recommend it.”

It was as though numbness descended with the doctor’s words, and Richard, too stunned to speak, turned and walked slowly down the hall. Having practiced his religion much as any other buck of the
ton,
he was not even certain of his standing with the Almighty. Reaching the chamber he’d taken, he slumped into a chair and tried to compose his thoughts. Any of the prayers of his childhood seemed woefully inadequate, and after a brief review he simply began to talk to God. It was not right that she should die before she’d truly lived. It was not right that it should happen now, not now that he’d come home to her. Much of her life, she’d been lonely and neglected; she must not leave this world feeling so now.

His fervent thoughts were interrupted by the slight thump of Athena landing on his leg. For a moment he started to brush her off, to tell her to go away, and then he recalled just how much Harry’s cats had meant to her. His arms closed convulsively about the tabby, holding it close. It struggled to stand on its hind legs, reaching to lick at his face, cleaning up the tears that flowed unnoted.

Harry must not leave this world feeling alone and neglected … Harry must not leave this world feeling alone. Lifting the cat off, he lurched from his chair and hurried back down the hall. She wasn’t alone, and he meant to make her know it. She wasn’t going to die alone.

The room was as silent as a tomb when he slipped into it. Mrs. Creighton and Millie dozed in chairs near the bed, and Dr. Paxton moved about noiselessly, cleaning the instruments of delivery. The body of the infant, washed and swaddled in fresh linen, lay in a basket just inside the door. Richard stopped momentarily and stood staring down into the still, tiny face. Its skin was so thin, parchmentlike, and its head no bigger than a child’s fist. The deep imprint of forceps marred an otherwise perfectly formed face.

Paxton looked up briefly. “It was a boy. He did not survive the fall.”

He’d always wanted a son, but now that wanting paled beside the fear that he’d lose Harry also. Drawing away from the child he’d gotten of her, he turned to the great four-postered bed, unprepared for the sight of her. She was pale and bloodless, her skin as alabaster as a statue, and she was so still, so motionless, that his breath caught. Her cropped brown hair curled in wild disarray, her eyes were but dark shadows beneath their lids, and her face was utterly devoid of expression. For a moment he thought he’d come too late, but then, beneath the arm that crossed her breast, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked so small lying there, not much larger than a child, or so it seemed.

“Harry.”

He dropped down to sit on the bed beside her, and reached to possess himself of one of her cold hands. Rubbing it gently between his own, chafing it as though he could somehow infuse her with his own warmth, he leaned closer.

“Harry.”

“ ’Tis doubtful she can hear you, my lord,” he heard Paxton say.

Ignoring the doctor, ignoring the two women who still slept a few feet away, Richard tightened his clasp on her hand and spoke low and evenly to her. “Harry, whether you hear me or no, there’s much that I mean to tell you. Did you know that I can still remember the first time I saw you? You were but a little girl—though we were of an age, you did not quite reach my shoulder. And you were wearing a white dress with a pink sash, as I recall it. ’Twas when my aunt wed your father. I doubt you could forget that. And I remember your first words to me when I said we were to be related—you said you did not mind me, but you’d as lief not have Hannah.

“But do you know what I think of most when I think of then, Harry? You were such a lively, taking little thing. Do you remember climbing that tree so that I would not find you? Do you remember winning my father’s watch fob by daring to cross Rowe’s Ford? You were game for anything, as I recall. And even though you warned me about your papa’s bull, you followed me into the field anyway. I thought we were both going to die that day. But as it was, you were birched for knowing better, and I was excused. And your papa would not listen to you or me in the matter. I think ’twas then that you began to change. Oh, it was slowly at first, and then with each passing year you were quieter and quieter, until I’d begun to think Hannah had taken all your spirit from you.”

He talked on, droning almost, speaking of things long past, recounting almost everything he ever knew of her, all the way to their ownership of Two Harry, and their brief marriage, talking until he was hoarse. “I guess what I am asking, Harry,” he said finally, “is that you become that child once again, that you learn to live before you die.” His voice broke. “I’d like to say ’tis my unselfish self that speaks, but ’tis not. I don’t know whether it came from the fear that I might lose you, but I have learned much these past hours. Harry, I love you, and I don’t want to let you go. I want to begin anew with you. I don’t care about why we wed, I don’t care about Hannah or Uncle John. I don’t care about Two Harry or anything else. I just don’t ever want you to be alone again—I want to be there with you.”

“My lord—”

“Oh, God, Harry, can you not hear me at all?” Richard groaned as Dr. Paxton pulled him back.

“You’ve got to leave her be, my lord. ’Tis only rest and a cessation of the bleeding that will give her strength.”

“I’d stay.”

“You are but in the way,” Paxton insisted firmly. Then, speaking more kindly, he added, “But I will send for you as soon as anything changes—for good or ill.”

“I’d have her know I am here.”

“She cannot know it, my lord. The laudanum makes her sleep deeply.”

Richard hesitated, loath to leave and yet unwilling to do anything to harm her chances of survival. Paxton, taking advantage of his emotional exhaustion, pressed the matter. “If you would be of any use to Lady Sherborne, you should seek your own bed. If she improves, there is still the matter of her injuries, and the healing of body and mind will come slowly. You are more needed then.”

Standing, Richard ran his fingers through his hair, combing it as though that would somehow revive him. “All right,” he sighed finally. “But you will send for me.”

“Of a certainty.”

As he passed her, Mrs. Creighton’s eyes squeezed shut, but not before he saw the tears that streamed down her cheeks. Millie, on the other hand, stared up, stricken.

“Oh, sir, ’tis sorry I am. I thought ye didn’t have a care fer her,” she whispered.

“Why would you?” he managed back.

He sought his bed then and tried to sleep despite the lightness of the room, but sleep wouldn’t come. From time to time O’Neal came in, went silently about his business, and retreated. Finally Richard whiled away the hours by planning for Harriet’s recuperation. He’d take her to London, have her dressed by the finest modistes, present her to the
ton,
and give her all the things that Hannah had made her miss. By late afternoon he finally dozed.

“Faith, and she’s awake, or so they tell me,” O’Neal murmured as he shook his master. “Old Friday Face wasn’t wantin’ me to wake ye, but I knew ye’d want t’ know.”

“Huh?” Richard shook his head and rubbed at his full day’s growth of black beard. His body ached and his mouth tasted like Napoleon’s army had marched through it. “What time is it?” he asked, sitting up.

“Nigh six.”

Somehow it did not seem possible, and before he allowed himself to believe it, he wanted to be certain he did not dream.

“Lud. But she’s awake?”

“Aye.”

Unbelievable relief washed over him. He was to have another chance at happiness, another chance to love her as she ought to be loved. His heart in his throat, he could not help wanting to know, “Did she ask for me?”

The valet shifted uncomfortably and looked away. “Nay, but who’s t’ say ’wasn’t an oversight, I ask ye? What wi’ the nasty fall and all—faith, and I’d be surprised she’s thinkin’ any.” Then, raising troubled eyes, the young Irishman sobered completely. “ ’Tis sorry I am about the babe, milord.”

His hopes, so lately risen, plummeted now, but the pain Richard felt was not as much for the babe as for the fact that Harriet did not want to see him. That he’d bared his soul for naught.