The Earl Takes All (19 page)

As Marlow left to do her bidding, she looked back at Edward and prayed that quickly as possible would be soon enough.

“
Y
ou
need to prepare yourself, Lady Greyling,” Dr. Warren said solemnly as he turned away from the bed. He reminded her of a dog that had been kicked. “It's unlikely your husband will survive.”

He might as well have bludgeoned her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't feel her fingers, her toes. “There must be something you can do.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I'm sorry, but there is no remedy I can offer for this illness.”

“The woman he cared for, Mrs. Lark, did she die?”

“No.”

“Her son?”

“He recovered as well.”

“What did he do for her?”

“It doesn't matter what we do. Some people die, some don't.”

“Then what bloody good are you?” She spun away from him, trying to contain the tremors of anger and fear that were cascading through her. Whipping back around, she glared at him. “Be off with you.”

“I'm sorry—­”

“I don't want to hear it. Just go.” He shuffled out. She wanted to be sympathetic. He'd probably helplessly stood by while many died, but she could work up no sympathy when he wasn't even willing to try. She looked over at Marlow, who stood just inside the door, a silent sentry. “Fetch me a bowl of cool water, some cloths, ice chips from the ice box, and some fresh broth.”

He turned to leave, and she was struck with an idea. “And Mrs. Lark.”

He spun back around. “I beg your pardon?”

Unlike Dr. Warren, she did not intend to stand helplessly by while some disease ravaged this man who was far more noble than she'd ever given him credit for. In her mind, she'd accused him of fornication when he'd actually been caring for the ill. She was ashamed of the thoughts she had. She always expected the worst of him, but for nearly three months now he had shown her the best of himself. “Send a footman to the village to ask Mrs. Lark exactly how Lord Greyling took care of her. Have him write it all down. Even the smallest thing may be important.”

“My mum always recommended a hot toddy.”

Edward would certainly welcome that. “Thank you, Marlow. Fetch it as well.”

Leaving, he closed the door in his wake. She gave her attention back to Edward. He seemed to have drifted off. She couldn't help but believe that time was of the essence. And now that they were alone, she could address him far more intimately. “Edward, Edward, I need you to wake up for just a bit.”

His eyes fluttered, closed.

“Listen to me. I'm sending a servant to talk with Mrs. Lark. But can you tell me what you did to help her get better?” She shook his shoulder. He failed to respond. She shook harder. “Edward, can you tell me what you did?”

Opening his eyes, he blinked at her. “I killed him. I killed Albert.”

Chapter 18

S
he
would hate him now, hate him more than she already did, hate him as much as he hated himself. She would leave. He needed her to leave as much as he needed her to stay. “The story I told you about how . . . Edward died. It was how Albert died.”

“Yes, I assumed that,” she said softly.

He felt so hot and clammy he could be walking through the jungle at that very moment. He had to tell her. She had to know the truth, but it was so hard to think, so hard to focus. Yet the guilt had been gnawing at him. He couldn't take this truth to the grave. He would never tell her how Albert had suffered, suffered because of him. But she had to understand that what happened wasn't Albert's fault.

“I didn't tell you precisely what occurred. I, not Albert, was playing with the baby gorilla. Albert merely stood off to the side and warned me—­”

Don't get too close.

We're fine. She's a sweetheart. Look how eagerly she came to me.

“But as usual, I ignored his concerns. The huge ape that barreled out of the jungle was coming for me. I was his target, because he perceived me to be the threat. Except Albert stepped in front of him. Don't you see? It should have been me who was hurled about, who died. I never meant to take everything from Albert. Forgive me.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wrapped her fingers around his hand. Hers was cool, so very cool. He wanted it on his brow, his chest.

“There's nothing to forgive,” she said softly. “You were his younger brother. Of course he was going to try to protect you.”

“Younger by only an hour.” He swallowed hard, ignoring the pain in his throat. “I should have saved him. I never should have insisted he come on the damned safari with me.”

“He wanted to go. He wanted to be there. I'll read his journal to you, shall I? You'll see. He thought it a marvelous adventure. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. Every night he wrote fond remembrances of your time together.”

“Every night he spoke of you.”

“When you're well, you can tell me what he said.”

“He wanted me to take you to Switzerland.”

She blinked, shook her head. “Why would he want you to do that?”

“I assumed because it was someplace you wanted to visit.”

“Not particularly. Maybe he wanted to take me there as a surprise, but it's not anyplace I yearned to visit.”

Staring at her, he fought through the fog, striving to remember Albert's exact words. Had he misunderstood them? “Makes no sense.”

“Neither does blaming yourself for his death. He would be bitterly disappointed if you continue to do so. It happened as it happened. It's no one's fault. There were a thousand steps along the way where a different choice would have changed everything. We always believe a different path would have brought something better. But the reality is that it could just as well have brought something worse.”

She was right, and he could be bringing her something worse at that very moment. “Please don't stay in here with me. If you fall ill, if Allie does—­”

“We won't. I won't allow it. Neither will I allow you to die.”

He could not help but give his lips an ironic twist. “My words.”

“Your words. Now don't make me a liar.”

She wasn't going to leave. He cursed the weakest part of himself that was glad, that wanted the last thing he saw to be her face, the last thing he heard to be her voice, the last thing he knew to be her touch.

Today we saw a magnificent waterfall. The thunder of the water crashing down was remarkable. We were standing at the edge of a cliff, just watching its incredible power, when Edward suddenly said, “Wouldn't Julia love that? Wouldn't you like to share such beauty with her?”

I could not help but think that he'd left unsaid that it would pale beside you.

While I miss you terribly, I have enjoyed this journey and have no regrets that I decided to take it. You were correct. Once our child is born, I would never discard my responsibilities for something as selfish as this, and yet it is an experience I will look back on with great fondness.

It's the oddest thing, Julia, but every night we speak of you. At first, I shared some of my favorite memories of you because I thought if Edward could see you as I do, then he would care for you just as much.

Yet as we sit by the campfire talking late into the night, if I don't mention you, at some point he does.

Looking up from the journal entry she'd been reading aloud, Julia studied the man lying so motionless on the bed. She'd forced him to eat ice chips and broth. The hot toddy he'd taken without complaint. No surprise there. But he seemed to grow weaker with each passing hour.

Beyond the windows day fell to night, dawn emerged, night returned. Occasionally she napped for a few minutes in the chair. She opened a window to bring in some fresh air—­how could the staleness of the room be healthy? Sometimes she stood there inhaling deeply, considering what she had learned of how he'd cared for Mrs. Lark and her son. The widow told her footman that Edward had made them drink until she thought they'd drown. Purchased oranges for them to eat. Boiled up a soup with chicken and assorted vegetables. She couldn't help but wonder how much he might have learned during all his travels, what he might have done for himself in order to survive. He would survive this.

Sometimes he was awake while she read, but mostly he slept. She'd arrived at the very last entry in the journal, the final night when Albert had dipped pen into inkwell and scratched his thoughts over the parchment. She couldn't read these words aloud. She needed some that were for her and her alone, and she couldn't help but believe that he'd written these only for her.

I'm beginning to suspect that he doesn't dislike you at all. But I have yet to determine why he makes such a grand show of pretending to do so.

I have to admit to being rather relieved by the discovery. I've put off drawing up a will, as I was concerned he might not see after your care as well as I might. I knew he would take offense if I did not name him guardian of my heir, and yet based on his reckless behavior the past few years how could I place those I love in his keeping?

I'd considered Ashe, but while he is a brother of my heart he is not of my blood. He would take on the burden I hoisted upon him without complaint. My father passed our care on to a friend, who did not do poorly by us, and yet I forever longed for Evermore.

I did not wish that for my child or for you. But for you, I want more than a roof and food and clothing. I want you to have happiness.

I feared under Edward's care, you would find naught but misery.

But now I am of the belief that I could leave you in no better hands.

She traced her fingers over the final words. Had he truly known that he would not return to her? Or had he merely been speaking in generalities?

Even knowing nothing had been written on the next page, she turned to it. The sadness that engulfed her was nearly overwhelming. She wanted more words, more insight, more absolution that he would not find fault with her for having these confusing feelings toward his brother.

I could leave you in no better hands.

She read permission in those words. In his entire journal she had read love. He had loved her just as she'd loved him. Had wanted her happiness. To find it without him seemed at once impossible and a betrayal. Yet it was almost as though he expected it, was encouraging her to be happy, to find love again, to move on. He knew what she was just discovering: She had to do as he wanted if she were to be the best possible mother to Alberta.

Setting the journal aside, she closed her hands around the linen resting in a bowl of water on the bedside table, wrung it out and began to wipe it over Edward's brow, neck, and shoulders. He went so still, so quiet, his breathing so shallow as to be nonexistent. His skin was so hot to the touch that it was nearly frightening. Leaning in close, she whispered, “Fight for me, Edward. Albert would want you to. Would insist on it, in fact. And fight for Allie. She needs to know how the story ends.”

His eyes slowly fluttered open. “Top right drawer of my desk. The story is there, written out, waiting for her.”

Would he forever make her think that he couldn't hear what she was saying? “You went so still that you gave me a fright.”

He smiled slightly. “I know you want to know how it ends as well. I could see the edge of your skirt from where I sat in the rocker in the nursery.”

So she'd been caught, had she? She angled her chin. “Could have been a servant's.”

“Why didn't you come in?”

Averting her eyes from his, she pressed the cloth to his neck. “I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing I was interested in your silly story.”

“They were all for you, you know. All the stories I told in your parlor.”

She studied the familiar contours of his face, wishing he didn't look so haggard, and wondering how it was that although he looked exactly like Albert, when she looked at him she didn't see Albert. She was somewhat mystified that she ever had. “Get well and I'll invite you to tell more.”

“Don't go to the Cotswolds.”

“This is neither the time nor the place.”

“I'm weakened, have your sympathies. It's the perfect time.”

Needing something to do, she dipped the cloth into the water again, wrung it out. “I haven't decided what I'm going to do, and I won't make a promise to you now that I'm not certain I can keep. I would appreciate, however, if you would hasten your recovery.”

“And give up having you in my bedchamber?”

She snapped her attention back to him, grateful to see a twinkle in his eyes, when she had feared for two days now that they would dull as the life left him. “You're being inappropriate.”

“You like that I'm inappropriate.”

She did, damn him. “You must be feeling better.”

“Somewhat.” He closed his eyes. “I'm not going to die, Julia.”

“The staff will be relieved. They've met your cousin who would inherit.”

He chuckled low. “You'll be relieved as well.”

“A little I suppose.” She placed the cloth on his chest, near his heart.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “I'm sorry I didn't tell who I was right after Allie was born. That was wrong of me. I want you to know—­I need you to understand—­that if things between us that night had gone further, Edward would have remained buried.”

She sank back, not certain what to make of that. He'd been willing to be Albert for the remainder of his life, in order to have her. Perhaps she should have been flattered. Instead her temper was pricked. She would have been unwittingly caught in a deception. “I should have the choice.”

“With English law there is no choice.”

Because a woman could not marry her deceased husband's brother.

“We always have a choice. To live within the law or to break it. You should not presume which I would choose.”

“You're right. I was thinking only of what I wanted and how best to keep you happy. I can see now that it was unfair to you.”

“It was unfair to us both. Would you really want to live with a woman who thought she was giving her love to someone else?”

“I've never loved anyone before. I'm not wise in its ways.”

She was his first. Of all the women he'd been with, he'd loved none of them. She found it both sad and flattering. “I think it would have been a hard lesson. Eventually you would have resented both me and Alberta, and your life and mine would have become miserable.”

“I'm so sorry.”

She placed her finger against his lips. “It doesn't matter any longer. What matters is how we move forward.”

“Will we move forward?”

“I suppose you'll have to recover in order to find out.”

“Unsympathetic wench. Will you not even give me hope?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

That seemed to satisfy him as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. She was half tempted to crawl into bed with him, rest her head on his shoulder and succumb to slumber, but she feared that if she didn't remain vigilant he would slip away when she wasn't looking. She remembered that both her parents had seemed on the mend, talking with her, assuring her all would be well. In both cases, they were gone by morning.

His fever broke near dawn. She nearly wept with relief. After summoning Edward's valet to assist him as needed, she walked into the bedchamber across the hall and fell into the bed, certain she'd never been more tired in her life.

F
or
two days straight she slept. Then she bathed twice. She looked at Allie from the doorway as Nanny held her up. She didn't dare stand too close, just in case she was on the verge of becoming ill. She would give it a week, after which she would hold her daughter close for two days straight.

She enjoyed a hearty breakfast, ate until she could barely move. But movement was in order. Gathering her cloak about her, she walked to the mausoleum. Within these marble walls, she had poured out her heart and soul to Albert, wept uncontrollably, wiped away tears, cursed him, cursed herself, cursed Edward.

Now she knew he had died not because he was careless enough to play with a wild creature, but because he'd been intent on saving his brother. She placed her hand on his effigy. “I finished reading your journal. You thought of me every day as I thought of you. I still think of you every day. I wake up and think—­he's already gone down to breakfast. Only you haven't. You never will again, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“It's difficult to believe that it's been a little over seven months since we parted, since I last kissed you or held you or spoke to you or looked at your beloved face. The grief over losing you hasn't lessened. I don't know if it ever will. It's a fact of my life now, no matter how much I wish it otherwise.