Angel in Scarlet (17 page)

“You're much better, Pumpkin. You're going to get well. Doctor Crandall left some more medicine. You must take it.”

“I—I can't. I don't want to—to—”

“You've had a bad fever, my darling.”

He said something else, but I didn't hear him. I drifted away into the darkness, and when I opened my eyes again the room was dark and an owl hooted in the night and I was ravenously hungry. I tried to sit up, but I couldn't manage it. Sunshine warmed my eyelids and they fluttered and opened and the room was bright and the owl was gone and birds were twittering in the trees. I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Solonge came in carrying a tray. The haze was gone. I could see her clearly now, see the relief on her face when I sat up and brushed a limp wave from my brow.

“Thank God,” she said. “I've brought some more of Marie's soup, and I do hope you can eat it without assistance. I've been spooning soup down you for the past week, and it's bloody boring work, love.”

“You—what day is—”

“You've been in bed eight days. Doctor Crandall said it was a fever of some kind. We were very worried. You look a sight, love. I wasn't cut out to be a nurse,” she added, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Can you eat it yourself, or shall I spoon feed you again?”

“I—I think I can manage. Solonge—”

I hesitated, afraid to ask the question, afraid of the answer. My stepsister arched one smooth brow, waiting.

“Did—did they catch him?” I asked.

“Catch who, love?”

“Hugh—Hugh Bradford. Lady Meredith claimed he tried to steal some of her jewels, and—and—” My voice broke. I gnawed my lower lip, turning to look out the window.

“They haven't caught him,” Solonge said. “He's probably already left the country by this time.”

“He—he probably has,” I whispered.

She looked at me, and I knew she suspected, but she didn't ask any questions. She sat down by the side of the bed and put the tray across my knees and chatted about inconsequential things as I ate. Father came up later on, puffing a little from the climb. He looked very old, very tired, I thought. He smiled and handed me a bunch of flowers he'd picked from the garden and a box of sweets.

“You had us all scared there for a while, Pumpkin,” he told me. “How are you feeling?”

“A—a little weak,” I confessed.

“Doctor Crandall's coming by again later on this afternoon. You'll be right as rain in no time.”

The doctor came and said I was making swift improvement and left a bottle of foul-tasting medicine which I had to take every four hours. I stayed in bed for the next three days, though I was able to bathe and change into a fresh chemise. On the fourth day I was able to go downstairs and sit out in the garden for a while. My face looked drawn. I had lost weight. I was extremely weak, and then I saw a calendar and realized it was past my time and I grew even paler. I hadn't thought about that. It hadn't entered my mind. I was filled with dread as another day passed, then another, and still there was no flow. I was five full days overdue now, and I knew I couldn't endure seeing Father's face when he found out. What was I going to do? Why hadn't I died? Why hadn't I just slipped away during the fever?

Hugh Bradford was gone. I would never see him again. He had never intended to marry me, I realized that now. That had been mere illusion on my part, and all my illusions were gone now. How could I have been so foolish, so incredibly naive? He had had to flee, yes, but one full week had gone by before that fatal argument with his father, and he had made no effort to see me during that time. I loved him. Oh yes, I loved him still, I felt sure I always would, but I knew now that as far as he was concerned I had been just … just another lay, so easy, so very gullible, and now I would pay dearly for it. I tried to tell myself that he would get in touch with me somehow and ask me to join him, but I couldn't delude myself any longer. He was gone, and I had no one to blame but myself for what had happened.

You've grown up at last, Angela, I told myself, and it was true. Sometime, perhaps during the fever, that naive girl with her head full of childish fancies had vanished forever.

The next morning I felt miserable, aching horribly, and the flow finally came. For once I welcomed the cramping and discomfort. I was vastly relieved, of course, and that particular anguish was lifted, but the other was still very much alive inside me. I got better. I grew stronger. Color returned to my cheeks and I was doing my chores again and life resumed its normal pattern, but the anguish was there and at night, when I was alone in bed, when I no longer had to pretend, I didn't think I could possibly go on living without him.

It is said that time heals such wounds, but time passed, and I felt little lessening of grief. That part of me that Hugh Bradford had brought alive had shriveled away. I was no longer whole. I tried to hate him. I couldn't. I couldn't cry, either. I was a woman now, no longer a sensitive, naive girl, and I knew I would go on and make a life for myself somehow, but I would never get over Hugh Bradford, nor would I ever fall in love again. I was certain of that.

October came and the leaves took on autumn hues and it grew colder, skies more gray than blue. Solonge received an engraved invitation from the Duke of Alden, requesting her presence at a dinner party at Alden House, and Marie was very upset that Janine hadn't been invited as well. Solonge tossed the invitation aside. Marie had one of her fits and said of
course
she must go, even if Janine
wasn't
invited. Janine stifled a yawn and said she found all that lot at Alden House dreadfully tedious. Marie told her to shut up. Two weeks later the elegant carriage came for Solonge. She returned late the following afternoon and coolly informed Marie that she could forget all about the Aldens. There would be no more invitations.

“What
hap
pened?” Marie demanded.

“Nothing,” Solonge said.

“What do you mean?”

“Precisely that,
Maman
dear.”

Solonge refused to discuss the dinner party, but I knew Bart had already left on his Grand Tour, and I strongly suspected she had been the Duke of Alden's only guest. She confirmed this suspicion a few days later when she and I happened to find ourselves alone in the front parlor, Janine having gone up to her room for a nap before dinner. Solonge informed me that she had indeed been the only guest, that her host had served a fabulous meal with oysters in wine sauce and pink roast beef thinly sliced and eggs in aspic, all this with the finest champagne.

“And?” I inquired.

“And then he handed me a long black velvet box and I opened it to find a diamond bracelet the like of which I've never seen. The dazzle almost blinded me. I've rarely felt such temptation.”

“You—gave it back?”

Solonge nodded. “He's remarkably virile for a man his age. Tall, lean, bony, with thick silver hair and piercing blue eyes and a small goatee. He's an elegant dresser and has courtly manners and, of course, an immense fortune, but I prefer to select my own men. I thanked him for the invitation, thanked him for the meal and told him I was flattered by his attentions but not interested in becoming his mistress.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He smiled a thin smile, told me I should give it more consideration and suggested we have some more champagne. Later on I retired to my own room and we had a late breakfast the next morning and he ordered a servant to have the carriage brought round to take me home.”

Solonge smoothed down her pale yellow skirt and settled back against the sofa cushions, observing me with careful scrutiny. I got up and stepped over to the fireplace to turn the logs with the poker, for it was late October now and already quite chilly.

“You're looking much better these days,” she remarked. “I suppose it's safe to assume you're not pregnant.”

I felt my cheeks pale. “How—”

“I spent a lot of time watching over you when you had the fever, and you babbled quite a lot about Hugh Bradford and the haystack and the stars, love. I didn't need a crystal ball to know what happened.”

“Did—did anyone else hear—”

“That's one of the reasons I spent so much time playing nurse. I didn't want Janine or
Maman
or your father to hear any of those extremely indiscreet phrases you kept muttering in your delirium. No one else knows. You'll survive it, Angie,” she added, and her voice was unusually kind.

I put the poker back in its holder and brushed a chestnut wave away from my cheek. “I suppose I will,” I said.

“And you'll be much better off, darling. Believe me. I know you aren't able to see it now, but—men like Hugh Bradford bring nothing but anguish to any woman foolish enough to love them. I know whereof I speak. They're devilishly appealing, yes, but they're dangerous, destructive. You're no longer your own person. You get so caught up in their moods you—” She cut herself short, frowning.

“You loved him, too,” I said.

“I thought I did. You're too good for a man like him, Angie. One day you'll be able to see how lucky you were things—turned out the way they did.”

“I—I thought he meant to marry me. I was—Oh, Solonge, I was such a fool.”

Solonge stood up and came over to take my hand. “We're all entitled to make our mistakes, darling,” she told me. “Even you.”

She let go of my hand then and grimaced, as though disgusted with herself for stepping out of character. She sighed and became the cool, self-confident beauty, all worldly poise, and neither of us ever referred to the conversation again.

November came, then December, and although the terrible grief was there, aching inside me, it wasn't nearly as pronounced as before and I found myself actually smiling, laughing as I watched a big brown dog skittering about over the ice outside. Heavily bundled up against the cold, I went to gather holly and ivy to decorate the house for Christmas. I actually forgot about him for several hours, and I took that as a very good sign. Maybe … maybe soon I would be able to go to sleep without seeing that face, without remembering that night under the stars.

Shortly after New Year's Day I was in the kitchen, helping Marie prepare dinner. Solonge and Janine were spending the weekend with friends at a house party, and we were going to have a simple meal. Marie took the meat pie from the oven. I was finishing up the salad. I heard Father coughing even though he was in his study, the door closed. I paused, listening. It was a dreadful cough, much worse than usual … louder. There was a cry then. Marie dropped a plate. It shattered on the floor. I was already rushing into the hall.

I flung open the study door. Father was at his desk, his face as white as chalk. He was clutching a handkerchief soaked with blood, and there were flecks of blood all over the papers in front of him. He was trembling. Marie rushed past me and yelled for me to go fetch Doctor Crandall, as quickly as possible. I stared at my father, stunned, too stunned to move, and somehow he managed a weak smile. Marie was helping him to his feet. “Go!” she yelled, and I raced down the hall and grabbed my heavy cloak and hurried out into the night, running through the darkness and the cold toward Doctor Crandall's cottage, praying fervently, possessed by panic, and then I was pounding on the door and when the doctor opened it, I couldn't speak, words wouldn't come.

He wasted no time trying to question me. He got his coat and his black bag and then we were walking rapidly back toward the cottage. My stepmother had managed to get Father into bed in his room, and the doctor said he needed to be alone with his patient and ordered both of us out of the room. Marie protested, but he placed a palm on the small of her back and gave her a gentle but firm shove toward the door. We went into the parlor and waited, and Marie's face was sharp and shrewish, pale beneath the heavy makeup, her thin red lips pressed into a tight line. Her eyes glittered with anger, but I knew that was merely a defense. She clasped and unclasped her hands, genuinely worried.

It seemed hours before the doctor finally came into the parlor, his expression grave indeed.

“How bad is it?” Marie asked.

“Bad,” he said. “Very bad. I gave him some medicine, and he's sleeping now, but—” He didn't finish the sentence.

“He's going to get well,” I said. “Isn't—isn't he?”

Doctor Crandall didn't answer. He and Marie exchanged looks. I knew I had to face the truth. My father had consumption. I had known it all along, of course, but I had refused to acknowledge it. Like Father, I had pretended nothing was seriously wrong. There could be no more pretense now. Tears streamed down my cheeks in tiny rivulets, but I didn't sob. I didn't give in to the terrible grief. I was going to be strong. I had to be, for Father's sake.

“There's nothing more I can do now,” Doctor Crandall said. “I'll come back tomorrow, Mrs. Howard.”

Marie nodded. Doctor Crandall left. I made a pot of strong tea and insisted my stepmother have a cup. I told her I would sit up with Father, and she nodded again, for once letting someone else take control.

January was bitterly cold, a hard crust of ice covering the ground, icicles hanging from all the windowsills. Father was very, very weak, his complexion like thin, pale parchment, but he ate all his broth and drank his liquids and smiled at my light, pleasant remarks. We kept his room as warm as possible, and I spent hours with him each day, sitting at his bedside, talking to him, holding his hand. Often I read aloud to him. He enjoyed that a great deal, although he always grew weary and drifted off to sleep after I'd read no more than a few pages.

Marie spent hours with him, too, and Solonge and Janine made brief, polite visits to his room each day. He seemed to grow stronger after a while. Some of the color returned to his cheeks, and his eyes seemed brighter. His coughing spells weren't as bad as before, nor did they last as long. He was able to sit before the fire for short periods while we changed the bed linen and tidied up, and he began to eat a few solids. Doctor Crandall came three times a week, and he agreed that there had been a definite improvement. I began to hope.