Give All to Love (39 page)

He did not move, looking down at her in a way that caused her to grip his arm more tightly, and say with the swift surge of woman's intuition, “Mr. Dev? Is anything wrong?”

He smiled and said slowly, “No, m'dear. Nothing's wrong.” His gloved hand touched her cheek very gently. He murmured, “Bless you,” and walked quickly into the blustery afternoon, leaving her staring after him.

She watched the groom close the door of the carriage and swing up beside Alfred. The whip cracked, the team leaned into their collars, and the luxurious coach jolted off down the rutted drivepath. For no reason she could have identified, Mrs. Robinson went out into the biting wind and watched the vehicle until it was lost to view. She turned back into the house and found Wolfe standing behind her. They went inside together and stood chatting about the weather and Miss Josie's new prospects, and neither of them referring to the matter that was on both their minds.

An icy blast announced the return of Hutchinson, who had gone into the stables to check on his hack, which had thrown a shoe the previous afternoon. He came in grumbling to himself, then jumped aside as two cats, a pig, and a small black and white ball of fluff darted for the outer door.

Mrs. Robinson muttered, “My, ain't they in a state…”

Wolfe commenced his slow journey to the master's study and, oddly troubled, she went with him. Opening the door, the old man checked and positively reeled. “What the— My heavens! How
dare
you tamper with the master's letters? You've lost your situation for this, I tell—”

“Glad you come in, mate,” interrupted Cornish, looking up unrepentantly from the papers he held. “Wot's this 'ere jawbreaker?”

“Well! If I ever heard of such impudence,” gasped the housekeeper.

Scarlet with indignation, Wolfe trotted to snatch for the letter.

Cornish held it high in the air. “Cool down, old cove,” he adjured. “You like the guv or don'tcha?”

Something in his manner was adding to Mrs. Robinson's unease. Overcoming her initial horror, she asked, “Whatever is it, Charlie?”

“If it's wot I think, missus,” he said grimly, “you better tell them lazy grooms ter slap a saddle on that there big bay 'orse fer me.”

“You're mad,” Wolfe told him. “Stark, raving mad! Let me see that!”

Cornish handed him the paper. “You
read
it then,” he demanded.

Wolfe read rapidly and turned white. Sinking into the chair, he gasped, “Oh … my Lord God!”

*   *   *

John Drummond edged the steaming plate of buttered scones closer to Josie, and she looked up at him, her eyes empty. He thought, ‘It's this damnable place! Why that idiot of a groom would turn in
here
of all places!' But it had been cold and coming on to rain, and he'd thought Josie so pale that a hot drink and something to eat might restore her. He said with a hopeful smile, “Try some strawberry jam with those, won't you?”

She started as if suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings. “Oh! This is the Boar's Head, no? Where is Pan?”

He jerked his head and said a reluctant “Over there. One of her good friends came in, en route to Cheltenham Spa. My dear, do let me empty out that tea, it must be stone—” Her hand came to meet his and stay it. He knew suddenly, and his heart became heavy as lead.

“I am—so very sorry, John,” she said softly.

His other hand came to cover hers, and he stared hard at their intertwined fingers. “I think … I always knew, really.” And looking sadly at her, “You wish to go back.”

“Yes. I know it is useless. But—it would be very bad of me to let you go on thinking—”

“Josie,” he interpolated desperately, “if you cannot love me now, perhaps in the future … At least come to Park Parapine with me. I swear I won't pester you. I won't even ask you again, unless you tell me I may.”

She turned her hand to clasp his strongly. “You are all that is good and kind and dear. But—I must go back, John.”

“But—what will you do? When they are wed, Lady Isabella won't—”

“Let me stay? No. Nor should I wish to. But my uncle will come soon. If Dev prefers that—that I leave before he arrives, I shall go to stay with Guy, or with Mitch and Charity, or the Leiths. But—but not Park Parapine, John.”

He thought, ‘It is too close to Aspenhill, of course. And everyone would be speaking of Dev.' And, his heart aching, he said bravely, “Yes. I quite understand. We'll go back, of course.”

“You will recollect Lady Hersh,” said Pandora, returning to take the chair Drummond sprang up to pull out for her. “She was on her way to Bath. Dreadful gossip, but we had a nice cose. She tells me she saw Fontaine and his sister leaving Swindon on the London Road. We are not surprised. Isabella Scott-Matthias will stay in the country not one moment longer than is necessary.”

Josie managed to speak steadily. “She is likely going to buy her bride clothes. Pan—I am sincerely sorry to be such a silly, but I want to go ho— I mean, I want to go back to Devencourt.”

Mrs. Grenfell threw a keen glance at Drummond's set smile and desolate eyes. ‘Poor lad,' she thought. ‘But better now than later.' She said without equivocation, “We shall accompany you. No, there is not the need for you to turn about, Drummond. Do you arrange for a postchaise to convey us home. We shall be quite safe with Klaus to escort us. Be so good as to convey our affection to your parents and my sister Constance Tyndale. Goodbye, dear boy. Now—eat up, Mademoiselle de Galin, for it will avail us nothing to droop like wet lettuce leaves, and we mean to enjoy our tea.”

*   *   *

Between Mrs. Grenfell's hearty appetite and a further chat with her friend, Lady Anne Hersh, whose sharp eyes made Josie uneasy, the afternoon was far spent by the time they again approached Devencourt. Expecting to find the stableyard quiet and peaceful, Josie stared in astonishment at a scene of frenzied activity. Devenish's prize matched greys were being poled up to a dashing chaise with wheels picked out in bright blue; saddle horses were being led out of the stables, and grooms and stable-boys darted frantically about. “Good heavens!” she gasped. “That is Mitchell Redmond's new chaise! Whatever can have happened?”

When they entered the east wing, Redmond hurried to meet them. He answered their anxious questions by saying cravenly that Guy could explain. “Gad, but it's cold. I fancy we shall have snow soon, don't you?” He led them back towards the study, making no attempt to take their wraps, nor did any servant appear to perform that service.

A maid let out a shriek. “Miss Josie's come back!” and from some unseen male came a hollow-voiced, “Oh, my Gawd!” Mrs. Robinson, clad in bonnet and cloak, ran to meet them, looking very agitated, and Lady Godiva darted along the hall, squealing.

“What is it? Oh, what is wrong?” quavered Josie, suddenly much colder than she had been outside.

Struggling along the hall, Guy Sanguinet said, “Ah,
ma belle,
and my good friend, you have come.” He took Josie's hand and held it firmly. “It is something we all should have guess long since,
ma chérie.
You must be brave now.”

*   *   *

Thomas Corwen Ruthwell, Lord Belmont, scion of a prominent Scottish Border family, had been a fighter all his days. As a boy he had fought because he was too tall and lanky for his years and thus became the butt of crude schoolboy jokes. As a young man he fought against entering the priesthood, the Army or the Navy, and was all but cast off by his outraged family when he declared he meant to become a doctor. Ten years after that, he was fighting colleagues affronted by his brusque manners and revolutionary methods. Now a leading light in his profession, long since elevated to the peerage, sought after by the finest families in the land and admired throughout Europe, he was as blunt and abrasive as ever. When he disagreed with hospital procedures, he bought a large house in Harley Street, and turned it into a private hospital he ran his own way. Implored to teach, he did so, but he brought his best students to work with him and drove them mercilessly. Among the survivors were some of the finest physicians in the land. In appearance, he was tall, thin, and erect, his iron-grey hair a shaggy mop. His lantern jaw reflected his implacable nature, his black eyes were fierce, and his bedside manner uncompromisingly blunt—a necessary defence against a very soft heart.

Knowing much of this, it was a dreary confirmation of his darkest fears when Alain Devenish opened dazed eyes to find the great man bending over the bed, compassion softening his gaunt features.

“Got here … did I?” said Devenish foolishly.

“My poor lunatic,” said Belmont, his touch gentle as a woman's as he touched a cold, wet cloth to the waxy face against the pillows. “Why in the name of Mephisto did you not tell me? I'd never have let you go prancing off last month had I known it was this acute.”

“Wasn't,” said Devenish, clinging to the coverlet. “Fell downstairs. Made it—much worse. Been curst nuisance … ever since. So I came.”

“You most assuredly did. When my porter opened the door of your carriage just now, you came down like a dead man. Not surprising, since they tell me you drove all night. I've some laudanum here, but if you can hang on until I've made a quick examination, it will help.”

Devenish “hung on.” Afterwards, the laudanum didn't help much, and the cough didn't help either. The surgeon patted his shoulder and walked to a far corner of the quiet room.

Lyon Cahill, his face very grim, said, “It's the leg, of course, sir.”

“Yes. Damned young fool. I warned him three years ago, it should come off.”

“Did you, by Jove! He never told me that.”

“Didn't tell anyone, I doubt. Thought if he ignored it, it would go away.” Belmont swore softly. “I hope it may not take him with it!”

Despite himself, Cahill winced. “You think—it's the bone?”

“'Fraid so. Oh, I'm sorry. I forget, you know him. Splendid madman. Dammit, but I wish he were in better condition. From what he says—and doesn't say, I gather it's been very bad for some time. He's worn to a shade, his nerves as steady as any weaver's shuttle, and that cough shaking him from hell to breakfast!”

“Bit of a fever too, sir. You shall have to delay.”

“Is that a fact,” sneered Belmont. Cahill flushed, and the older man said irritably, “If I delay, he—”

“No!” Devenish, propped on one elbow, watched them in white-faced desperation. “No more waiting! Get it done!”

“Ears like a hawk,” muttered Cahill, and went over to the bed. “Dev,” he said, attempting to lie him back down, “his lordship cannot—”

Devenish thrust him away. “Now!” he cried frantically. “For God's sake, now!” He threw back the coverlet and started up. “If … if you won't—I'll find some—some blasted apothecary who—”

“All right, all right.” Belmont moved swiftly. “Here—take some of this, it will—”

“Make me sleep, you think! No!” Devenish gasped and lay back, flinging one arm across his face. After a moment, he panted feebly, “Lyon, if Belmont won't—
you
do it.
Please!
If—if only for old times' sake.”

“Easy, easy.” The surgeon met Cahill's eyes and shrugged resignedly. “He'll only work himself into a worse state, I suppose. You're a stubborn ass, Devenish!” Smiling, despite the harsh words, he wiped the strained face again and said in his kindest voice, “You do understand, my dear fellow—we have to amputate.”

“Yes, yes. 'Course I understand. You warned me—often enough.”

For Cahill, many things were falling into place. He muttered repentantly, “Dev—if I'd known— You lamebrain, if you'd had it done three years back—”

“I know, I know. But … I had three more years with—with her.”

Belmont said sharply, “So there's a lady involved? Married?”

“Not to me,” Devenish muttered with sudden ineffable sadness. “She's young, lovely … admired. Deserves—the best…”

Cahill's lips tightened and he turned away in silence. Cautiously, the surgeon sat on the side of the bed. “If she's as lovely as you say, and she cares for you—”

The fair head tossed fretfully. “Wasting time. Get it over, will you?”

Belmont persisted. “I know what you're going through, lad. But you must face the possibility that there may be legal matters you'll want to—”

“All done. Everything … tidy.” Devenish's voice faded. “She'll be well provided for. And she's going to marry … dashed good boy…”

Belmont watched the drawn face and frowned unhappily.

Devenish opened his eyes and a singularly sweet and very weary smile pierced the surgeon's armoured heart. “So you see,” he sighed, “it don't matter anymore. Just—get it over, sir. I'm—so damnably tired of it.”

Chapter 19

The three mud-spattered carriages and the six outriders set heads turning as they raced at reckless speed along The-New-Road-From-Paddington-to-Islington, and turned right onto Harley Street.

Lord Jeremy Bolster, who had been exercising his fine young dapple grey stallion amid the delights of the newly laid out Regent's Park, glanced idly towards the commotion as an indignant pedestrian shouted imprecations at the fast-moving cavalcade.

“By J-J-J—by thunder, that looked like M-Mitchell's new chaise, Harry,” he exclaimed.

Sir Harry Redmond turned his green eyes to the south. “Not possible, Jerry. My brother went up to see Sanguinet.”

“Did?” Bolster, unconvinced, battled his mettlesome and half-broken steed around again. “Why? Thought he just c-c—got back.”

“Said he was uneasy about Dev. Something about the look of him after that damnable fire. We must go down, Jerry, no matter what Dev says.”