The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (131 page)

“Oh, dear, what message? What’s going on?”

“She could be dead, Gray. Oh, God. The messenger went first to your town house in London, then came here. At least a day was lost.”

Jack was hanging on by a thread. He knew it, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He raised her hand and lightly rubbed her palm against his cheek. “It’s possible,
but it won’t help to dwell on it. You’re the most optimistic person I’ve ever met, Jack. Don’t turn into a doomsayer now.”

“She’s so little, Gray, so very little. There’s no one at Carlisle Manor for her, no one at all. She has Dolly, who’s been her nanny since Georgie was born, and the other servants who care for her, but no one who really loves her. Thank God my stepfather even bothered to tell me. I wonder why he did.”

“He did it to torment you.” He gathered her against him, kissing her hair. “We’ll be at Carlisle Manor by this afternoon. Then we’ll see.”

“He ignores her, Gray. I swear he doesn’t even know she’s there in his house.”

The carriage was moving slowly along Church Street, past the grand clock tower, straight down West Street to Kings Road and the pier. It was a beautiful sunny day in Brighton. The smell of the sea was sharp and exhilarating, the breeze off the water billowing up a lady’s skirts as she walked with her children along the pier.

“My father brought me to Brighton when I was ten,” Jack said. “He said the Prince had just had the Pavilion interiors decorated in the Chinese style.”

Gray rolled his eyes. “My father cursed every time anyone mentioned the Pavilion. He said the cost would eventually drive England into the sea.”

“I should love to visit it.”

He shaded his eyes to look out over the channel. There were at least a dozen ships coming toward land. “We will. It’s enchanting. The Prince always serves such splendid banquets that you leave the table with your stomach bulging.”

He stopped cold. She was crying, silently, the tears gathering and just rolling down her cheeks.

19

“I
T
’
S ALL
right,” he said against her ear. “It will be all right.” He thought of the message on that damnable piece of foolscap he’d so hurriedly unfolded:
Your sister is very ill. If you want to see her before she dies, you’d best come immediately. HWS
.

What was one to make of that? He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the comfortable squabs. He held her until it began raining. She straightened, looking out the window. “Perhaps he lied.”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s possible, given the few times I’ve met your stepfather. Remember you said that he’d do anything against us now, for revenge. Calm yourself. Relax against me, Jack. I like the feel of you.”

They arrived at Carlisle Manor late that afternoon. Sir Henry was riding with Mrs. Finch, they were informed by Darnley, the hollow-checked butler who’d taught Jack how to polish the silver fourteen years before.

Jack grabbed his sleeve. “My sister, Darnley. How is Georgie? Please, she’s still alive, isn’t she?”

The old man looked surprised. “Of course your sister is all right,” he said. “She’s ill, that’s true, but it isn’t grave. At least Dr. Brace hasn’t indicated that it’s grave. He worried a bit that the cold could go to her lungs, but that hasn’t happened.” He paused a moment, then his face spasmed. “Oh, dear, is this why you’ve come in the middle of the day without warning? You believed Miss Georgie to be deathly ill?”

“That was the letter my stepfather sent us, Darnley. He said she was dying.”

“No, no, Sir Henry mistook the matter. He must not have listened carefully to Dr. Brace. However, she is ill enough that Mrs. Smithers is with her now, as well as her nanny, Dolly. I’m dreadfully sorry you’ve been so worried, Miss Winifrede.”

She looked ready to crumble. Then, just as quickly, she looked ready to kill. She said to Gray, “He did lie, for revenge. I’m going up to see her now.”

Gray watched her gather herself together, stiffen her spine, and walk up the wide staircase. Halfway up, she turned to look at him. “Gray, I’ll be back in a while.”

“Do you want me with you?”

“No. If you would see Sir Henry when he returns. I really can’t face him just yet.”

“Don’t worry, Jack. It would be my pleasure.”

“Don’t kill him, Gray, unless you’re very certain you won’t hang for it.”

“I will consider all consequences before I act, Jack.”

“My lord, I’m very sorry about this news Sir Henry sent you. I’m certain Sir Henry labored long over whether to interrupt your wedding trip with Miss Winifrede—or rather, her ladyship. Lady Cliffe. What a pleasant ring that has to it. None of us ever wanted her to be Lady Rye. It is not a pleasing thought. Ah, but Lady Cliffe, and you a
pleasant young man who doubtless has a blameless reputation, despite the things Sir Henry was yelling about you. It is a pity Sir Henry interrupted your sweet time together for no reason.”

Gray merely nodded and followed Darnley into the long, narrow drawing room, quite a charming room, with floor-to-ceiling windows at the southern end. It was a lovely prospect outside, an expanse of finely scythed lawn blending into a maple forest.

“Will you and Miss Winifrede be staying at Carlisle Manor, my lord?”

Gray hadn’t even thought about that. What else should he be doing? “Yes, if Sir Henry doesn’t object, which he might, I suppose.”

“I will take your valises to the Oak Room,” Darnley said. “I don’t imagine that Miss Winifrede would like to stay in her former bedchamber.”

“Why not?”

“Sir Henry tied her to a chair in the middle of that bedchamber and left her there for three days. She escaped by tying her bedding together. We were all quite pleased with her ingenuity. Now, my lord, I will see it done immediately. Then there will be no question. I will inform Mr. Potts that there will be two more to dinner.” He added, more to himself than to Gray, “I must remember not to speak of Sir Henry in such a manner as to make one believe me unapproving of his actions.”

“Thank you, Darnley.”

When Darnley returned, Gray asked, “Oh, yes—who is Mrs. Finch?”

“She,” Darnley said, drawing himself up, “is a widow who recently bought the Cit Palace over in the village of Brimerstock.”

“Cit Palace?”

“I believe it is still called Curdlow Place by folk who are steeped in its local history and regard the past twenty years as the present and not at all history. However, since your lordship has your left eyebrow raised in further question, I would add that an ironmonger named Greeley from Newcastle bought it some twenty years ago and moved in his family, which consisted of thirteen children, all of them ill-bred boy louts and muffin-faced girl chits. Iron seemed to fall into decline and Mr. Greeley was forced to sell to Mrs. Finch. I would have to say that the lady is an improvement.”

Although he didn’t want to say it, Gray thought, wondering about Mrs. Finch. Darnley paused, hearing his master’s voice from the entrance hall. “Excuse me, my lord. I believe Sir Henry and Mrs. Finch have returned. Please, wait here.”

While Gray waited, he reviewed a possible course of action—a fist straight to Sir Henry’s jaw, a knee to his kidney, an elbow to his neck. No, if he ended up selecting one of those satisfying options, it would only be fair to let Jack select her preference first.

Sir Henry had locked her in her bedchamber for three days? Amazing that in modern days such a thing could still happen. It was odd to remember that Gray had known her for fewer than three weeks. It was perhaps even stranger to realize that he had grown quite fond of her in a very short time, that she had a fighting spirit that pleased him.

He turned to look up at the portrait of a very lovely woman above the fireplace. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five when the portrait was painted. The angle of her head, yes, that reminded him a bit of Jack. Her mother, then. Whereas the woman looked exotic with her dark hair, golden complexion, and brown eyes, Jack was
fair, blue-eyed, with white, white skin. There was no portrait of Thomas Bascombe, Jack’s father. Had he been as fair as Jack? Probably so.

Gray turned at the sound of heavy boots. The door opened and Sir Henry strode in. Behind him was an older lady who looked flamboyant and very sure of herself. She was nearly as tall as Sir Henry, showed a plentiful bosom, beautifully swathed in dark blue satin, and looked as if she knew just about everything that would make a man slobber in his brandy.

“My lord,” Sir Henry said after a moment of staring at Gray. “This is Mrs. Finch. Maria, this is Lord Cliffe, my stepdaughter’s husband.”

Gray bowed over her hand. She gave him a smile that, had he been in a brothel looking for skill and utter complaisance, would have hardened him on the spot.

“We finally received your message, Sir Henry, in Brighton. Jack is upstairs with her sister.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Finch said, stripping off her gloves as she walked toward the sideboard. “Poor little creature. Ah, well, it is probably for the best, Sir Henry. Who would like a brandy?”

Sir Henry nodded. Gray just shook his head.

“Who is Jack?” Mrs. Finch asked as she placed the brandy snifter in Sir Henry’s large, smooth hand.

“Jack is my wife and Sir Henry’s stepdaughter.”

“Oh? I thought her name was Winifrede.”

“Things change,” Gray said. “Now she’s Jack.”

“How perfectly hideous,” said Mrs. Finch and laughed, which was meant to remove the sting but didn’t.

“Who cares?” Sir Henry poured the brandy down his throat. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Whoever or whatever she is now is of no concern to me.”

Mrs. Finch said, moving just a bit closer to Gray, “I understand you were just married.”

“Yes,” Gray said. He looked down at his fingernails, then over at Mrs. Finch. “As you said, Mrs. Finch, the poor little creature.”

“I wish she’d taken ill when she was with my sister in York,” Sir Henry said. “I don’t like to see the servants as overworked as they are now. Everyone is unsettled. My meals are late. My valet nicked my neck shaving me this morning. I don’t like it. It isn’t comfortable.”

Gray smiled. “I can see how that would disturb you, having your throat cut.”

“I suppose you and Winifrede want to remain here until the little girl either dies or manages to survive?”

“Yes, if that won’t disaccommodate you further.”

“It will, but no one seems to care about me. That old fool Darnley was already smiling and nodding because Winifrede was back. Doubtless Mr. Potts will prepare a delicious dinner since Winifrede is here.”

“I understand that Dr. Brace is more optimistic than you appear to be on the child’s condition.”

Sir Henry shrugged. “Brace is a fool. I heard the child coughing hard enough to bring up her guts. If she doesn’t die of this, it will be a miracle.”

Gray wanted so badly to smash his fist into Sir Henry’s mouth that he was nearly shaking with it.

“My lord,” said Mrs. Finch, “you and Winifrede were on your wedding trip? In Brighton?”

“A short wedding trip. Yes, we were in Brighton.”

The drawing room door burst open. Jack ran in, yelling, “Gray! Hurry—oh, God, hurry!”

He was on her heels in an instant. He shortened his step when they reached the upstairs corridor.

“She can’t breathe, Gray. She’s been coughing, her
lungs seem filled with liquid, but she can’t spit it up. I don’t know what to do. Neither does Mrs. Smithers or Dolly.”

He was the last resort. He was terrified to his toes. He followed Jack into a large nursery at the end of the east corridor. There in the far corner of the room was a small bed. Standing by the bed was an older woman holding a small girl, shaking her, then pressing her against her bosom, crying, saying over and over, “You must spit it up, Georgie. Come, child, you must try.”

The little girl was wheezing and struggling. She wasn’t breathing well at all. Gray could hear the horrible liquid sounds with each breath she managed to suck out.

It was as if she were drowning. If she didn’t get her lungs clear, she would suffocate. Gray grabbed the little girl, slammed her against his shoulder, and pounded her back. The wheezing was deep and raw. He didn’t have much time.

He kept pounding that small back, saying over and over, “You can do it, Georgie, come on now, breathe. Breathe!”

He pounded her again, harder this time, then yet again, and a flood of dark gray liquid flew out of her mouth. He hit her back again, and more waste came out. Again and again, until finally the small body shuddered and collapsed. He felt her small chest expand, heard her suck in precious air, heard that her lungs were clear. Then she was still.

“Oh, God, Gray! No!”

“No, Jack, she’s all right. She threw up all the waste that was clogging her lungs, choking her.”

“We tried to get her to cough it all up, but she couldn’t.”

Mrs. Smithers was staring at the young man who’d just saved Georgina Wallace-Stanford. “Are you a doctor?”

Gray smiled. “No, ma’am. I’m just a very lucky man. She sounded just like a little boy I knew who almost drowned. I pulled him out of the pond and banged on his
back until he vomited out all the water. Let’s pray she got everything up. Perhaps now she can recover. She’s sleeping. Come here, Jack, you can hear her breathing. Everything sounds clear, thank God.”

But Jack, his pillar of strength, had fainted quietly at his feet.

When Jack opened her eyes a few minutes later, she looked up to see Gray seated on Georgie’s bed, the little girl still in his arms.

“Hello. Georgie’s fine for the moment. What happened?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange. I fainted, didn’t I?”

“No wonder,” said Mrs. Smithers. “We both believed she was dying, my lord,” she added to Gray. “Here, lovey, drink some of this nice tea. Dolly just fetched it for you.”

“Is Georgie truly breathing easily now, Gray?”

“Yes, she truly is. Mrs. Smithers sent one of the footmen for Dr. Brace again. We’ll see what he has to say after he examines the mess that came out of her lungs. Now, drink the tea, Jack, then you can hold her and feel her lungs going in and out. That will convince you.”

Quiet, sloe-eyed Dolly, Georgie’s nanny, said, “It was just like his lordship said. Miss Georgie was drowning from the inside out.”