Lois Menzel (5 page)

Trained never to question an order, Wylie responded, “Very good, miss. The blue velvet is here. It is simple and flattering.”

“That will be fine, Wylie, thank you.” Celia stepped into the dress and allowed herself to be buttoned up. She collected the accessories she had used the last time she wore it and made her way downstairs, but the confidence she had felt earlier in the day had been soundly shaken.

When she arrived in the drawing room, Anthony and the countess had already returned. Anthony was elegant in a dark coat and embroidered waistcoat. Celia smiled at him then went to sit near his mother. She listened while Lady Walsh enumerated some of the entertainments she had planned for her female guests while the men were out “slaughtering birds.”

“Then in the evening when the gentlemen are with us, sometimes we play at charades. That is always great fun. Ursula Browne is especially good at them. You met her, I believe, when you were last here.”

“Yes, briefly.”

“You must get to know her better. She is a delightful girl, so good-hearted and generous. I often invite her when we have company; there is so little entertainment for her otherwise.”

“Does she never go to London?”

“I do not believe so. Hers is a family of modest means.”

“She also says she has no use for the ton,” Anthony added. “Considers London’s social whirl a waste of both money and time.”

Celia decided that Ursula Browne was a fool. She was a handsome girl, but she would never be noticed tucked away in the Chiltern Hills. Lavinia Demming was fond of saying that wares collecting dust on the back of the shelf would never catch the buyer’s eye. Beautiful things had to be dusted off and pushed to the forefront where they could be noticed, appreciated, and acquired.

Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Distant muffled voices grew louder and soon a disturbance moved close to the drawing room doors. Celia turned her head with curiosity. When a voice was raised in exclamation, Anthony stood. He had taken only one step toward the door when it was flung open and the butler stood there.

“What is it, Leech?” Anthony asked, clearly annoyed at the butler’s indecorous behavior.

“Excuse me, sir, but it is a miracle!” This burst of excited speech from a man who never raised his voice and routinely responded in a monotone, brought Lady Walsh to her feet.

When Leech moved away from the door, Celia observed two men making rather slow progress across the wide marble floor of the great hall. As they entered the drawing room, they stepped from the relative darkness of the hall into the circle of light from a candelabrum on a table near the door.

“God be praised!” Lady Walsh whispered weakly as she swayed. Celia moved quickly to steady her.

At exactly the same moment as the countess spoke, Anthony cried, “Robert! I knew you were alive! I knew it!” He crossed the room in a few quick strides and enveloped his brother in an embrace.

Lady Walsh appeared to be struck dumb. Celia stood beside her, supporting her and staring in disbelief herself at the apparition that Anthony was greeting with such joy. She could not doubt that this was Robert, Viscount Wexford, but she was staggered by his appearance. He was tall, as tall as Anthony, but appeared much thinner. His fair hair was long and unkempt, much of his face obscured by several days’ growth of beard. He appeared to be wearing peasants’ clothing: brown trousers and a loose shirt of cheap, coarse cloth. The trousers were too short, ending above his ankles and exposing a pair of shabby farmers’ boots. His blue wool coat was out at the elbows and none too clean. The young man who stood beside him, supporting him, was dressed in similar fashion.

Wexford blinked and then smiled when his brother embraced him. Celia noticed that he did not look at Anthony, however, nor did he seem to notice his mother a few yards away. His eyes were bright blue and piercing, but they seemed to focus on some distant space.

“Tony,” he said, his voice warm with emotion, “it is so good to be home. I have much to tell you, but first you must meet Pierre Amay. I owe him my life.”

Pierre seemed taken aback when Anthony bowed formally to him, but he returned the gesture as Anthony said, “You have my gratitude, sir, and that of my entire family.”

“I am afraid he has little English, Tony,” Wexford said.

Anthony repeated his words in French. Pierre nodded and smiled but said nothing.

Anthony took his brother’s free arm. “What happened to you? What is the injury to your leg? Where have you been all these months?”

Wexford smiled at this barrage of questions as he limped forward. “Whoa, there! All of your questions will be answered, but first things first. How is Father?”

“Much the same as he was when you left, though he asked after you just yesterday.”

“And where is Mother?”

Anthony stopped walking and swung around to gaze at his brother. Celia watched as his puzzled frown resolved into a look of alarm.

Lady Walsh, who in the first moments of the brothers’ reunion had remained silent, now stepped toward her elder son with her arms outstretched. “I am here, Wexford. You cannot see me.” It was a statement, not a question.

He embraced her, and then bent to kiss her cheek. “No, Mother, I am afraid not.”

As Lady Walsh’s eyes filled with tears, Celia took her arm and led her to a chair while Anthony helped his brother to a couch near the fire.

“Don’t despair, though,” Wexford added, his voice hopeful. “I saw a doctor in London earlier today who is highly regarded in his field. He said there is a good chance that my sight will return.”

“But I do not understand,” Lady Walsh said. “Why did you not write to let us know that you were alive?”

“I could not write. I’d had this ghastly blow to the head. I was unconscious for days. When I did wake up, not only could I not see, but I had not the least notion who I was. As time went by, little pieces of memory came back slowly. Then one morning just four days ago, when I woke up, I knew my name and remembered where I lived. I suspected I could get here as fast as any letter could, probably faster. So I asked Pierre to bring me, and here we are. Which reminds me. There is a coach outside waiting to be paid.”

While Anthony rang for the butler and sent him to pay the coachman, Wexford continued, “Pierre and I financed our entire journey on the proceeds of that signet ring I was so fond of. It was the only thing of value that I had. Fortunately, the money lasted until we reached London.”

“Did you stop at the house?”

“Only long enough to find it closed and not a single coach team in the stables. I cannot imagine what convinced the coachman we hired to bring us here without pay, for I don’t think he believed me when I told him who I was.”

“Robert,” Anthony said, “there is someone else here in the room that I should very much like you to meet.”

Celia had tried to remain discreetly in the background, feeling like an intruder during this dramatic family reunion, but as Anthony held out his hand to her, she came forward to join him.

“I have recently become engaged,” Anthony said. “This is my betrothed, Miss Celia Demming.”

Wexford’s eyebrows rose in surprise and, Celia thought, pleasure as well. “You cunning devil!” he remarked to his brother. “Congratulations!”

As he started to rise unsteadily to his feet, Celia said, “Please, my lord, don’t stand. You are not well.” Now that she was closer, she decided that he looked very ill indeed. His face was extremely thin, and his complexion held a sickly pallor. There were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Ignoring her protests, he stood awkwardly and achieved a creditable bow.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Demming. I must apologize for my appearance. I am in no proper state for my mother’s drawing room, and well I know it. I know you all have questions, and I promise to answer them, but right now I am longing for a bath.”

“And you shall have one,” Anthony agreed. “With your permission, Mother, I will have Leech put dinner back one hour. Will that give you enough time, Robert?”

“It should. Mother, if you will excuse me, I will return as soon as I may. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Demming.”

“And you, my lord,” she replied as the brothers left the room together, closely followed by the silent Pierre.

Lady Walsh watched her sons until they disappeared into the great hall. Then she turned to Celia. “I have prayed unceasingly for the safe return of my son. Today those prayers have been answered. I should like to go to church, my dear. Will you come with me?”

“Certainly, my lady, I shall be happy to.”

A message was sent round to the stables for a closed carriage, while a maid hurried to fetch the ladies’ cloaks. The coach collected them within fifteen minutes and shortly thereafter deposited them at the Little Graydon church.

The nave of the church was dark and cold, but the pale light of the evening sky passing through the high windows allowed sufficient light for Lady Walsh to make her way toward the front of the sanctuary. Celia let her go alone while she herself sat in a back pew.

It was only then, in the quiet church, that the whole picture presented itself to Celia. Anthony and Lady Walsh were filled with thankfulness that their dear Robert had been restored to them. But Celia’s future was no longer so rosy, for with the return of Lord Wexford her chance of ever becoming the Countess of Walsh had become an extremely remote possibility.

Celia and Lady Walsh had returned from church and were waiting in the drawing room when the men came downstairs nearly an hour later. A bath and a change of clothing had done much to restore Wexford to the semblance of a gentleman. His dark blond hair had been washed and brushed back from his high forehead. His face was clean-shaven. Celia noted that even though his coat was well cut and in the first stare of fashion, it hung loosely from his shoulders. He had shifted the weight of his bad leg to a walking stick, and held Anthony’s arm in a casual way, allowing himself to be guided around obstacles of furniture as if he had been unsighted all his life.

Celia felt great pity for him. What if the doctor was wrong and his sight never returned? How tragic that would be.

“Your friend Pierre is not joining us, my lord?” Celia asked as they made their way into the dining room.

Wexford’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head toward the sound of her voice. “No. Tony tried to persuade him, but he insisted he would be more comfortable eating in the kitchen. Perhaps he is right. Considering that his home has only two rooms, it is understandable that he would find this pile intimidating.”

Earlier, while Wexford had bathed and changed, Anthony had withheld his questions, knowing that the others would wish to hear all his brother had to say. Now, as the butler served soup to the ladies, he could no longer contain his curiosity.

“How did you meet Pierre?”

“He was in the Dutch-Belgian army, and his wife was helping to tend the wounded at a field hospital.”

“If you were taken to hospital, why is it that I could not find you?”

“Patience, Tony. It is a complicated story, and I am not even certain I have it all untangled. But I can tell you what conclusions I have drawn from the facts I have been able to piece together.”

Leech carefully placed a bowl of soup before Wexford as he said very quietly, ‘‘Your soup, my lord. The spoon is on the right.”

Celia, sitting directly across from Wexford, watched as he moved his fingers cautiously across the table until he encountered the spoon handle. He picked it up. With his left hand, he felt carefully for the edge of the bowl, then slowly ladled a spoonful and brought it to his lips. She looked away, ashamed of herself for staring. After a few moments he put down the spoon and spoke again.

“I’m sure you have heard the details of the battle by now. I was involved for most of the day. I’d had a few minor wounds, nothing that slowed me down much. I don’t remember being hit, or even where I was at the time. I must have been near part of the Dutch-Belgian contingent, however, because I ended up in one of their hospitals. Pierre’s wife was working there. Since my uniform had been cut away, and I was covered with a Belgian army blanket, she assumed I was part of their army. I was unconscious for days. When I finally woke up, I could not see, I could not speak, and I did not know who I was.”

Lady Walsh’s eyes once again filled with tears, and her hand reached to cover his where it lay on the table beside his soup bowl.

When he felt her fingers touch him, he turned his hand over and took hers in a reassuring clasp. He turned his head toward her and smiled. “It’s all right, Mother. I know what you are thinking. And you are right. It was terrifying. Most of the people around me were speaking French, and for a while I think I thought I was French. But all of the thoughts in my head were in English, so I was confused. I could not understand where I was or why. Then I started to remember the battle . . . and I wished for a long time that I had died there. I was so close to dead anyway, surely oblivion would have been better than the confusion, the darkness, and the pain.”

Wexford carefully inched his hand toward his wineglass. Anthony picked it up and said, “Here it is,” and placed it in his brother’s hand.

Wexford took a generous swallow, and then set the glass down cautiously. “When both my head and leg wounds had healed enough for me to leave the hospital, they did not know what to do with me. Most of the wounded had family or friends who would come to claim them, but they did not know where I belonged. Pierre was a volunteer and had already been discharged, so he and Marie took me home with them to their little cottage east of Louvain. They have next to nothing, but they shared all with me.”

He paused and began slowly to spoon his soup. When he finished, the butler removed the bowl and replaced it with a slice of guinea fowl.

“As the days passed, and I sat outside the cottage in the sun and listened to the birds and the sounds of summer, memories started to come back to me, slowly at first and then more quickly. I remembered the battle, the faces of my fellow officers and the men in my command. I saw their uniforms, and finally I remembered their names. Then I knew for certain that I was English. I remembered fishing in the Thames as a boy; I remembered attending Oxford. As the concussion or whatever it was healed, my speech returned. The first words I said were in English, and Pierre and Marie were astonished. They wanted to go immediately to the British authorities in Brussels, but I asked them to wait, and they agreed.