Lois Menzel (6 page)

“It was bizarre discovering myself and my life bit by bit, day after day. I remembered your face, Mother, and Father’s, and Tony’s—and your names, too, before I remembered my own.”

Anthony, seeing his brother’s plate untouched, said, “If you don’t care for the fowl, is there something else you would like?”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“You must eat, Wexford,” Lady Walsh stated. “How else will you regain your strength?”

As he turned to his mother and smiled once again, Celia watched his eyes. She felt they mirrored the frustration of their owner. She saw indulgence for his mother’s solicitude, but she also saw sadness, impatience, and above all, weariness—not only in his eyes, but in his whole face, the movements of his hands, the sagging of his shoulders. She suspected he was still in considerable physical pain.

“I think you look exceedingly weary, Lord Wexford,” Celia commented. “And I believe we have tired you.”

“I must admit, Miss Demming, that I desire nothing so much as my bed.”

“Then to bed you will go, and straightaway,” Anthony said, rising from the table and waiting to take Wexford’s arm.

“I will look in on Father when I go upstairs,” Wexford said, “and I will see you ladies tomorrow.”

As the gentlemen left the room, Celia reflected on how tragic a simple statement like “I will see you tomorrow” could be, when uttered by someone who had lost the gift of sight.

“He is so thin,” Lady Walsh said mournfully, “and he ate nothing.”

“We must remember, my lady, that he is no longer accustomed to rich foods,” Celia said. “He will need time to adjust. And remember, too, that it is difficult to eat without sight. Perhaps if you—” She broke off suddenly, afraid she was being presumptuous.

“Perhaps what, my dear? What was it you were about to say?”

“It is not really my place, Lady Walsh.”

“Nonsense, child. If you have a suggestion that may help Wexford, please share it with me, for I have no experience with such a situation.”

“I thought that perhaps you could have your cook send up some cold things for Lord Wexford. Perhaps some cold meat that he could eat with his fingers, without an audience.”

Lady Walsh frowned at the thought of anyone eating such food with their fingers, but had to admit that Celia’s words made sense. “I wish you would speak to Cook for me, my dear. I suspect you will know much better than I what would be appropriate. And if you will excuse me, I believe I will retire. I know it is early, but the day has been eventful.”

“I think that is an excellent idea, my lady. I am tired myself, and thought perhaps I would take a book to bed after I have bid Anthony good night.”

Upstairs, Celia waited for Anthony outside Wexford’s rooms, which were directly across the corridor from her own. When he joined her there, she said, “Your mother has gone to bed, and I am going, too. I wanted to say good night first.”

He took her hands, and she smiled at him. “I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am,” he said.

“You don’t need to. I can see it in your face.”

“These last months have been hell, not wanting to believe he was dead, but with each day and week that passed, fearing the worst. I am so relieved.” He laughed lightheartedly. “I feel so unburdened, so light, as if I could fly.” Then suddenly his voice and his eyes grew serious. “Between finding you, Celia, and having Robert come home, I believe I am the luckiest man in the world.”

After Anthony left his brother’s room, Wexford’s valet helped him to undress and prepare for bed. Wanting to be alone, Wexford soon dismissed the man. “You need not come in the morning until I ring, Gregson.”

“Very good, my lord. I have set the fire screen. There are three candles burning by the bed. And may I say it is good to have you back, sir.”

“Thank you, Gregson. It is good to be back, and I will remember the candles. Good night.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Wexford moved toward his bed, sat down on its edge, and sighed. The reunion with his family had taken what little strength he had remaining after the strain of the journey home from Louvain. He was weary to his bones.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Annoyed, he bid the knocker to enter.

“I have brought you a tray, my lord, from the kitchen.”

The voice was that of the butler; Wexford motioned him into the room.

“Do I see my mother’s hand in this, Leech?”

“No, my lord. It was Miss Demming who asked me to speak with Cook.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, my lord. She has ordered cold chicken, bread, and cheese. She said she felt these things would be more like those you are presently accustomed to. There is also a glass of . . . a glass of—”

“Have you suddenly developed a stammer, Leech? A glass of what?”

“Milk, my lord.”

“Milk?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And pray what am I to do with that?”

“I believe she wishes you to drink it, my lord, for she said she felt it would do you much more good than wine on an empty stomach.”

“I expect she may be right about that. Give it to me.”

With wide-eyed, openmouthed disbelief, which unfortunately the viscount was not able to appreciate, Leech put the brimming glass into Wexford’s hand, then stared in astonishment as his lordship tipped the glass and drained it to the bottom.

Wexford instructed the butler to leave the tray and then dismissed him. After Leech had gone, he made a fair meal of the “finger food” Miss Demming had thoughtfully provided for him.

Celia woke very early the following morning. She had spent a restless night, disturbed by the momentous events of the previous evening. Knowing she would sleep no more, she rose, dressed carefully in a simple gray morning gown, and went downstairs. The house was quiet. Only the servants were about, cleaning the grates and laying new fires.

She went into the salon where a large fire already warmed the room comfortably. The curtains had been swept back from several sets of french doors that faced toward the east. A thin mist lay over the gray-green parkland that rolled away beyond the windows. Orange and yellow leaves drifted down from the trees to settle in thick layers on the carefully scythed grass. Celia opened one of the doors a crack to breathe the sweet autumn air.

The sound of voices speaking French came to her. To her left where the carriage drive met the great front portico, a coach had pulled up before the house. Wexford and his Belgian friend stood beside it, engaged in quiet conversation.

“You are up very early,” Anthony’s voice came from behind her. She turned her head to smile at him, but stayed by the windows as he crossed the room to her.

“I retired early,” she said. “It is a beautiful morning.”

“When this mist burns off, we should have a bright day.”

“It appears as if Lord Wexford’s friend is leaving,” she said. “Will you have the doctor attend your brother?”

“I have already sent for him, though Robert won’t be pleased.”

“My mother says that we often do not like what is best for us.”

“What sage advice,” Anthony answered. “If Robert objects too strenuously, I shall impart your mother’s words to him.”

Celia watched as the two men outside said their final farewells, then Amay entered the coach and it started off down the drive, passing before the doors where she and Anthony stood.

“I believe your brother grew quite attached to Monsieur Amay during the time they spent together.”

“I think you are right. Wait for me. I will tell him we are here.”

As Anthony left the room, Wexford continued to stand in the drive until the sound of the coach faded away. When he turned, Celia saw that he had the ebony walking stick in his hand. He used this to feel his way to the bottom of the wide stairway rising to the front door. As he ascended the stairs, he disappeared from her view.

A few moments later the brothers crossed the hall together; Anthony was speaking. “Aunt Mary is arriving today. There is no way I can forestall her. But we shall send word to the others and put them off.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tony. There is no reason to cancel because of me. Let our friends come. Let them enjoy themselves.”

As the men entered the salon, Anthony said, “Here is Celia.”

“Good morning, Miss Demming,” Wexford said. “What do you think of Tony’s plan to put off his shooting party?”

“I think he should do whatever will make you most comfortable, my lord. You are not fully recovered from your wounds, and you need rest.”

“Having people to stay will not keep me from resting. I want you to proceed with your plans, Tony. But please do not include me in them. I am not yet eager for company.”

Anthony and Celia exchanged glances, and when she nodded at him, he said, “All right, we will let them come.”

When Wexford returned upstairs, Celia and Anthony adjourned to the breakfast parlor. Afterward, when Anthony was called away to meet with his father’s gamekeeper and Lady Walsh went to sit with her husband, Celia found herself with nothing to do.

If she were in London, she would be at home to a string of morning callers, or go shopping in Bond Street, or study fashion plates and endure endless dress fittings. Even in the country she had a daily regimen prescribed by her mother: French and Italian lessons in the morning, practice on the pianoforte, calls to the neighbors, daily meetings with the housekeeper during which she was to listen intently while her mother held forth on housekeeping concerns, upcoming menus, and future dinner parties.

She made her way to the drawing room where the pianoforte sat. It was an excellent instrument, finer than the one she played at her own home.

Nearly an hour later, weary of this occupation, she decided to find Lady Walsh and ask if there was some needlework she could do. Perhaps there were some handkerchiefs to monogram. She knew she would very much enjoy doing such a task for Anthony. As she walked through the great hall, she collected the London papers that had arrived with the morning post. If Lady Walsh had no work for her, she would take them to the morning room and occupy herself with society news.

On her way to the stairway she passed near the study door, which was slightly ajar. She heard Wexford’s voice raised in exasperation, “For God’s sake, Leech, will you stop hovering over me! I am not an infant! Go away. And don’t come back unless I ring for you.”

Celia could hear no answer from the chastised butler, but she could clearly hear his footsteps approaching the door. She paused in the hallway as Leech exited the room and closed the door quietly.

“Good morning, miss,” he said as he noticed her.

Embarrassed for having overheard, Celia said, “I am sure he does not mean to be short with you, Leech, but it must be difficult for him, not being able to see. And he is still in pain from his wounds.”

“Of course, miss. Is there something you need?”

“No, thank you, Leech. I was just passing by.”

“Very good, miss.” The butler then bowed briefly and walked away.

Celia continued on her way for a few steps and then stopped suddenly. No doubt Wexford was as bored as she was. Perhaps he would like her to read to him. She had the latest papers in her hand. All the London news he had not heard for months. She stepped back to the study door and knocked.

Wexford’s gruff “Who is it?” did not dismay her, for she knew he was out of sorts, annoyed with his butler.

“It is Miss Demming, my lord.”

There was a silence of perhaps ten seconds before he gave permission for her to enter. She opened the door briskly and left it standing wide as she entered the room. Lord Wexford stood before a large chair near the fire. In front of the chair sat a footstool, and beside it on the floor lay a quilted lap rug.

Impatient with his strict adherence to the rules of etiquette, she said, “You must not leap to your feet, sir, only because custom requires it. How will your leg heal if you do not have a care for it? Please, sit down.”

As he reseated himself and leaned forward to lift his leg back to the stool, she picked up the lap rug and rearranged it.

“Has Tony left you on your own?” he asked.

“He has gone off to be sure all the birds are as they should be for your guests,” she said, seating herself near him.

“And my mother?”

“She is with Lord Walsh.”

“Does she spend much time with him?”

“Yes, she does. She talks to him, tells him about her day, about you and Anthony, the neighbors and so forth. She is convinced he understands her. And perhaps she is right, for he recognized her a few days ago.”

“Did you want something specifically from me, Miss Demming?”

“Yes, indeed. I have brought the London papers. I thought I could make myself useful by reading to you. What should you like to hear?”

She had been unfolding the paper, but when he did not answer, she glanced up at him. He had grown quite still, gazing intently in her direction.

“Why did you really come in?”

“I was passing the door, and I heard what you said to Leech.”

“You think I was harsh with him.”

“It is not my place to comment on your behavior, my lord.”

“I would appreciate your opinion, nevertheless, Miss Demming.”

“My mother has taught me that I should never offer any opinion on the behavior of gentlemen.”

“In general, I would consider that excellent advice,” he said. “I would, however, in this instance welcome your comments as a relatively objective observer.”

After a few moments’ pause, Celia answered carefully. “I think Leech is devoted to you and concerned for your comfort and well-being. I also think that if you are frustrated or angry and wish to snap at someone, it should be at Anthony, or even me, rather than the servants. We will not take it as personally as they do.”

“And what makes you think I am angry?”

“It is just a feeling I had last night, while you were relating your experiences of the past few months. I had the impression you were leaving the most important things unsaid.”

She paused then and waited for his reply, but the moments lengthened uncomfortably before he finally answered. “If you will excuse me, Miss Demming, I would appreciate, as I told Leech, being left alone.”