Anita Mills (17 page)

The wind howled, carrying sheets of rain that sprayed the dead leaves like shot, echoing eerily through the family graveyard. The water swirled at the feet of the small group gathered to witness the interment. The vicar, come to Richlands for the sad ceremony, spoke but briefly, his words for the most part carried away on the wind. And then the little casket was slid into the opening inside the Standen vault as tiny Henry James Standen joined three generations of his ancestors.

Henry James Standen. It had been left to Richard to choose what name, if any, the infant carried to eternity, for Harriet was far too ill to discuss the matter. Well, “Henry” was appropriate, he decided, since both his father and his son had been killed in falls from horses. And both needlessly. But where the elder Henry had known what he risked, the babe was but an innocent victim. For that Richard blamed himself. If he’d not forced the stupid, foolish quarrel on Harriet, she’d not have stormed from the house.

“Faith, and ye’ll take sick yerself, milord,” O’Neal chided him, laying a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “And then ye’d be no good t’ her, now, would ye? I’m thinkin’ ’tis only yerself that can aid her mend.”

But Richard had begun to doubt that. Ever since she’d regained consciousness, Harry had done naught but stare at the wall when he attempted to talk with her. Telling her she’d lost the child had been but the worst of it, for then she’d turned away, dry-eyed, unable to cry even. How she must hate him now. Her last words before the accident still haunted him, and probably would forever.
I loved you once… you abandoned me.
And the irony of it all was not lost on him: he, Richard Standen, buck of the
ton,
had realized he loved his wife too late.

Squaring his shoulders, he nodded. “I suppose I’ll have to let her know ’tis over.”

“Aye.”

The loss of the child and the illness of the young mistress cast a pall over the entire household. As he trod the stairs to see Harriet, Richard thought the hushed silence almost more than he could bear. Had it not been for an occasional brangle over who took precedence in the ordering of things upstairs between O’Neal and Millie, there’d have been no noise at all. As it was, they’d even reached a sort of truce in the three days since he’d returned to Richlands.

“Harry?”

She was lying, her back toward him, facing the wall, and he couldn’t tell if she were awake or asleep. Dropping into a chair beside the bed, he reached to touch her shoulder. Rubbing his fingers gently over the bony ridge, he leaned forward to talk.

“Can you hear me?”

Stony silence.

“Harry, ’tis done. The Reverend Mr. Wilcox came over from St. John’s and spoke, and Mrs. Tilford in the village made him a dress, and …” His voice broke for a moment, and then he recovered. “I named him Henry for my father, Harry, and James for your grandfather. I did not think you would wish it to be John, you know.” His hand closed more tightly on her shoulder, and his eyes closed. Swallowing hard, he tried to go on, but faltered. “Oh, God, Harry, I know not what to say. I’d give anything if—”

“It was not your fault,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

“I wish I had known—I would have done things differently, believe me.”

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, stiffening beneath his hand.

“Harry …” Her silence was more devastating than anything she could have flung at him. Finally he released her shoulder and leaned back.
“Do you hurt? Are you in pain? Would you have Dr. Paxton?” But there was no answer from the bed. “I’ll get him,” he sighed, rising in defeat.

She heard the door close behind him, and all rigidity left her. Stifling a sob with her knuckle between her teeth, she rolled into a ball. “I hurt, but you cannot know how much,” she whispered again.

Through her folly, she’d lost her child, and it did not seem right that she had lived. And Richard’s kindness now was that of guilt or pity, she was certain. Well, she did not want his pity—she’d not wanted it then and she did not want it now. If he could not love her—and after what had happened, she knew he could not—well, then there was naught else to be said. Besides, she had a surfeit of her own guilt and self-pity, and did not need any more.

All she’d done had been for naught—the coming to Richlands, the learning to run his house, the new clothes, and the babe. But it was the babe that hurt the most. At first, when Dr. Paxton had told her she carried it, she’d considered it one of life’s cruel jests, but then as it grew within her, it had become a child to love. And she’d dreamed of it, cherished it, and planned for it. And she’d lost it.

“Lady Sherborne?”

“Yes.”

“Lord Sherborne believes you in pain.” The doctor pulled the chair Richard had used closer and peered into her face. “Where does it hurt? The ankle … the back … or your lower limbs?” But even as he spoke, he held out the cup. “I have mixed some laudanum to ease you.”

“No.”

“Even though I do not think you have broken any bones, you have sustained bruises and sprains sufficient to cause you distress for some time. And you are very weak.”

“My child is dead,” she said simply.

“Laudanum, dear lady, will ease mind and body whilst you heal.” He waited for her to struggle up and then he held the cup for her. “Though you do not think it now, you are young and this will pass. And had it not been for the unfortunate accident, the birth would have been perfectly ordinary, so you must not despair of another child.”

“Two Harry?” she asked dully. “Is Two Harry dead also?”

He was surprised by her interest in the animal that had nearly caused her death. “The horse? No, not at all.”

“Then perhaps he will forgive me that which I cannot forgive myself.” She lay back weakly and turned her head away. “I should rather have that than false love.”

Richard met the doctor when he came out. “Did she speak to you? Were you able to ease her?”

“I gave her laudanum to make her sleep. Time, my lord—’tis time she will need.” And then Paxton shook his head. “Poor lady—she asked of the horse. Other than that, her mind wanders, I fear.”

“I cannot like opiates,” Richard murmured.

“They soothe like naught else. Perhaps your lordship—”

“No. The sooner she is weaned from it, the better, I should think.” Then, almost by afterthought, he added, “You can tell her, should she ask again, that she need not worry for the horse.”

As the doctor turned back to tend his patient, Richard continued on down the hall. He ought to do something about Two Harry, he supposed, but he couldn’t bring himself to even look at the animal since the accident. The pride and pleasure Two Harry had given him was gone, lost in a soggy, bloody field.

To Harriet, the month following her baby’s death was but a blur. Lost in her own mourning and drugged with laudanum whenever she waked, she slowly began to accept it, but she still could not face Richard. Hurt and guilt intermingled to make even the smallest discourse painful. Even as he sat patiently beside the bed, telling her of this and that, she knew in her heart that he did not want her, that he had to blame her for the death of his heir, that his kindness was but his own guilt over leaving her. But she endured his attempts at conversation as punishment for what she had done.

“Are you still hurting?” he asked one day when she was feeling particularly uncommunicative.

“No.”

“Then you will have to rise from your bed, Harry, else you’ll not regain your strength. If you are up to it, I should like to bundle you into the carriage and take you for a drive out in the air.”

“I don’t—”

“Then at least attempt to walk in the park with me,” he coaxed. “ ’Tis brisk, but if you are warmly clad—”

“I think I should rather read, Richard, and perhaps nap.”

“No. I’ll not leave you up here to dose yourself with an opiate again, Harry,” he told her flatly, his blue eyes meeting hers, his expression sober. “I had Millie throw out the bottle this morning. Now, if you truly would read, I’ll help you downstairs and we can sit in the library. You need to be up, Harry, else you’ll not mend.”

She wanted to scream at him that she’d never mend anyway, but she doubted he would understand. Instead, she looked away. “All right.”

“The park, the road, or the library?”

“It does not matter.”

Her apathetic response was daunting, but he wasn’t letting her retreat within her self-pity again. “Alas, Lady Sherborne, if you will not choose, then you’d best not complain. We shall take a walk then, and if you become too tired, you may lean on me.”

She knew he was doing it because he was irrevocably tied to her, and he had no use for an invalid wife. But it didn’t matter. If he wished to walk, she’d walk, and then he would leave her be.

“All right.”

To her discomfort, he remained in the room while Millie and Alice dressed her and brushed her hair. The gown hung on her, a reminder of how much weight she’d lost. She weaved slightly and wished for the laudanum. “Perhaps a few drops…”

“No. I have told Paxton that I think the stuff robs you of your mind, Harry,” he answered quietly. “What you need are food and air.”

She moved stiffly, nearly falling twice on the stairs, but he kept a firm grip on her arm, supporting her. At the bottom, he stopped to pull her cloak closer over her pelisse. “With two outdoor garments, you shouldn’t be too cold, do you think?” His fingers worked the frogs, then straightened her bonnet, tying it beneath her chin.

He was right: it was chilly. The damp November air hit her face and turned her breath to steam. And the turf of the park in front of the house was soft and springy as her soft kid shoes trod over it. But it all smelled fresh rather than musty, and the air was invigorating. For a moment she forgot her misery, forgot that beneath his civil facade he must hate her, and she breathed deeply of the cold fresh air.

“The trees are bare, of course, and the grass more than half brown, but there is still a barren beauty to the place, I think,” he murmured conversationally, drawing her hand into the crook of his elbow. “But then I must suppose you have explored the place when you first arrived.”

“No. I had not the time.” Then, surprising herself, she unbent to add, “Your Creighton and Stubbs were rather daunting, you know, and it took a full month ere they would accept I had the right to tell them anything.”

“I found your lists, Harry.”

“Oh.”

“No, actually I was impressed. I should never have thought to go about it that way, but it was very effective. ‘Billy Mills—mucks out the stables and tends the horses; Will Gannett—repairs tack and the vehicles; Johnny Johnson—trains the animals, has ill wife, Mary, and two small sons; Betty Sims—tweeny, an orphan; Martha Green—’ ”

“Stop it,’ she protested, embarrassed.

“You know, until I found your lists, I had no notion I employed so many people here.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “There’s not been one of them who has not come to inquire about you these past several weeks, Harry.”

“ ’Twas kind of them.”

“And that’s not to mention the tenants. Did you realize that Bertha Gray has sent two puddings and a loaf of currant bread? Or that little Sammy Smith has brought me no fewer than six dead rabbits ‘for the mistress, yer unnerstan’—thought mebbe ’er could ’ave a pasty of ’em’?” he mimicked the boy’s manner. “The tenants have dashed near fed the household staff while you have been ill, my dear.”

“Mrs. Gray could not afford it, Richard—you will have to see she is paid.”

“Me? I shouldn’t like to insult her, Harry.
You’ll
have to see what can be done in the matter.”

“I…” She shook her head and dug in the soft, damp earth with the toe of her shoe. “I don’t think so.”

“Harry …” He spoke gently, softly, and there was a coaxing inflection in the word. “As cold as you must think me to say it, life does commence whether we wish to go with it or not. And so long as we are here, we must continue with the business of living. Whether you wish it or no, we are wed, and we have to reach an agreement as to—”

“Can you not leave me alone?” she cried, bursting into tears. “You left me. Why did you come back?” Then, before he could stop her, she’d turned and started back for the house, stumbling as she tried to run.

He stood, stunned as stone, until he saw her fall. And then he ran after her, reaching her as she struggled to her feet. “Silly goose! You have not your strength for that! You’ve got to tread lightly until you are well, Harry.” He caught at her hands, examining them. “ ’Tis just mud,” he muttered, relieved. His arm slid under hers, supporting her. “Come on, we’d best get back before you are chilled to the marrow.”

Much later, after she’d returned to her bed, he sat at his desk and considered what could be done for her. And slowly, ever so slowly, he determined a plan to woo his wife back to living, back to loving him. Even if he had to prod her unmercifully, he was going to make her care again.

His mind decided, he trod the steps up to the guest chamber, stopping briefly to tell Millie, “Since Lady Sherborne is no longer to be drugged on laudanum, tell her I shall expect her at dinner. And see to it that she wears something fetching, will you?”

A conspiratorial smile spread over the girl’s face. “Of a certainty, milord. And shall I tell her ye’ll be needin’ yer own chamber also?”

“Do you think she is up to the move?”

“Well, ’twould give her somethin’ t’ do besides grievin’, wouldn’t it?” the little maid reasoned. “But don’t ye fret none, for me and Mr. O’Neal’ll see to it.”

“Millie …” For a moment he hesitated, well aware of the gap between master and servant, and then he sighed. “ ’Twill not be an easy task, I fear, but I mean to make Lady Sherborne go about more. I do not want her sitting blue-deviled in her room. Do you understand me? When she complains of things, I don’t want you to sympathize with her any more than absolutely necessary.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon?”

“I’d rather endure her fury than her apathy.”

A glint of understanding brightened the girl’s eyes. “I was a-wonderin’ how long ye meant to let old Paxton make her ladyship into an invalid. ’Tis right glad I am ye mean to do somethin’ about it.”