Lord Somerton's Heir (16 page)

His mouth tightened into a hard, grim line. ‘No, Lady Somerton. I have no wish for you to do either.’

‘Then what will you have me do?’ she seethed.

He straightened, filling the space in the coach with his presence. ‘I will not have you hiring out your services like a…like a…common doxy.’

‘A doxy!’ Her voice had risen an octave.

He raised a hand. ‘That was a poor choice of words. Please, Isabel. You mistake me. If there is a way I can right Anthony’s misuse of both you and your fortune, I will do so, but you need to give me time.’

She glared at him through narrowed eyes.

‘You want to make it right?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘It is all gone. Anthony had no such care for either me or my fortune.’

He nodded. ‘I know. I just ask for a little patience.’

Isabel subsided in her seat and, with her chin on her hand, looked out of the window without seeing the passing countryside.

‘I think you will like Connie. She has an independent mind, like yours,’ Sebastian said.

She brought her attention back to him. ‘Well, she is fortunate to have a brother to encourage her in independent thought.’

‘I’m not certain that I encourage her,’ Sebastian said, ‘but if I thought my sister would choose to meekly stay at home keeping house, then I was sorely mistaken. She is a talented artist and has…had…’ Isabel heard the quick change in tense. Whatever future Constance had been making for herself had changed with her brother’s fortunes. ‘…begun to make her own way in painting portraits.’

‘And will she take to the life at Brantstone?’

Sebastian looked up at the roof of the coach. ‘I am not sure. It will be hard for her to give away her independence, but you, above all, should understand that.’

Her gaze was drawn to meet his and she struggled to understand what it was in this man that compelled him to protect every living thing he felt some responsibility for. Such a way in this world could only lead to hurt and disappointment.

They stopped frequently to rest and change the horses, and Sebastian, frustrated by the slightest delay, was not content to sit quietly in the inn. He paced the stable yards, chivvying the ostlers along while Isabel took refreshment.

They took a hasty supper at a coaching inn, changed horses again and, with the lanterns lit, travelled on into the night. The roads became increasingly rougher and the coach had to slow to a walking pace as the coachman navigated the treacherous potholes in the dark.

Wakeful and impatient, Sebastian gritted his teeth as the coach plodded on. Across from him, Isabel had nodded off to sleep. She curled in a corner of the darkened coach, her face no more than a pale oval.

Since their discussion of the morning when he had forbidden her to use the dower house as a school, Isabel had fallen into silence. Sebastian had not intended to be quite so blunt with her, and he knew he had upset her, but the thought of her selling her services as a teacher, governess or companion, or whatever it was she had planned, horrified him.

He reflected on what she had told him of her life and thought he could understand her a little better now. There had been precious little love or happiness in her privileged life. Far better, he thought, to be the penniless child of a parson and grow up in a happy home full of laughter and music.

He wanted to support her venture. He admired the idea — if he was honest, he admired Isabel — but he could make no promises until the state of his finances became clearer.

A lock of hair had come loose and fallen across her face. He leaned across and lifted it, gently tucking it behind her ear. She stirred but did not wake and he let his hand linger just above the soft curve of her cheek.

She didn’t have Lady Kendall’s striking beauty but there was a soft vulnerability in her oval face that she masked in her waking moments. He sat back in his corner with his arms crossed as he contemplated the sleeping woman. So much hurt and bitterness… His cousin had much to answer for.

The coach lurched, throwing Isabel from her seat. She gave a sharp cry as Sebastian caught her. He held her for a moment. Beneath his hands, she seemed to have the fragility of a bird. She went rigid and pushed away from him.

‘Steady, Lady Somerton,’ he said and, to his surprise, she stilled in his embrace. For a moment she seemed to relax and he took a deep breath, drawing in the essence of rosemary and lavender, a scent so different from Lady Kendall’s exotic perfumes.

All he needed to do was draw her into his arms and he could kiss her. The thought that he wanted to do just that startled him. The same notion must have occurred to her and she squirmed in his grip. He let her go and she fell back into her own place, righting her skirts and patting her hair back into place with muttered apologies for inconveniencing him. Once more the composed, and distant, Lady Somerton.

He smiled to himself. For all her outward calm, she sounded breathless and flustered.

Conscious that he had entertained such surprising thoughts about what he would have liked to do with Lady Somerton, he allowed himself to laugh, hoping it would put her back at her ease. ‘No apology necessary. We should be there soon. We’ve made good time.’

She looked out into the dark night. ‘What time is it?’

He shook his head. ‘It must be nearly midnight. I’m sorry. You must be exhausted. I should have let you stop for the night.’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. I have slept quite well.’

‘I sent a message on ahead at our last stop, so they will be expecting us.’

The coachman knocked on the roof and Sebastian pulled down the window.

‘Village up ahead, sir.’

He sat back and closed his eyes. He was home.

Chapter 13

The coach drew to a shuddering halt and Isabel peered out of the window. It was hard to make out anything except the outline of a small cottage. Lights burned in one of the downstairs windows and, above the front porch, light glimmered between curtains.

The front door opened and the silhouette of a young man appeared on the threshold. He reached behind him for a lantern, which he held up, illuminating his face. He stared at the magnificent coach with undisguised awe.

‘Matt!’

Without waiting for the footman, Sebastian flung open the door of the coach, jumped down and raced toward the door like a schoolboy.

The two men met on the garden path and embraced.

Remembering Isabel, Sebastian turned as the coachman handed her down from the coach. With one arm across his brother’s shoulder, he guided the young man forward.

‘Lady Somerton, allow me to present my brother, Matthew Alder.’

Matthew bowed low over Isabel’s hand. ‘Welcome to Little Benning, Lady Somerton. I only wish it was in better circumstances.’

He smiled at her and she found herself unable to resist a smile in response. Even in the light of the lantern, she could see he was a good looking young man, half a head shorter than his brother, his hair a few shades lighter. His eyes crinkled at the edges and his mouth seemed to be lifted in a permanent smile. If he had not already broken every heart in this village, he soon would.

‘How is Connie?’ Sebastian asked.

The humour drained from Matt’s face and he shook his head. ‘The doctor’s bled her again this evening but he says if the fever does not break by the morning…’ He trailed off.

‘Then let me see her.’ Isabel began walking down the path, removing her gloves.

At the door, an elderly dame who wore the cap and apron of a servant met them. The woman bobbed a curtsey, holding out her hand for Isabel’s hat, cloak and gloves.

‘Lady Somerton, this is Mrs Mead, our housekeeper,’ Matthew affected the introduction.

‘Lady Somerton?’ The old woman turned to Sebastian, her expression one of surprise and disapproval.

‘The
widowed
Lady Somerton.’ Isabel made the correction herself.

Mrs Mead cast a confused glance at Sebastian who ducked his head to enter the cottage. He bent to kiss the woman.

‘Mrs Mead, as I asked in my message, did you arrange the best room for Lady Somerton at the White Swan?’ he asked.

Isabel turned to him with the unspoken question on her lips.

‘There’s no room here and you must be exhausted after the journey,’ Sebastian said spreading his hand apologetically.

‘I told you, I am not tired and I would rather stay here.’

‘She can have my room. I’ll share with you, Bas,’ Matthew said.

‘You will be more comfortable at the Swan,’ Sebastian protested.

‘Thank you, Mr Alder, your room will do me fine. I will be more use here than living in splendour at the inn.’

‘You haven’t seen the White Swan,’ Matt murmured under his breath.

‘But, my lady, it is hardly proper for you to stay here,’ Mrs Mead began. ‘We live very simply.’

‘Mrs Mead, I am here to help, not to be entertained. Now, I know Lord Somerton would like to see his sister.’

‘Help? What help is a fine lady like her going to be?’ Isabel heard the old lady whisper to Matthew as they climbed the narrow stairs to the upper storey of the cottage.

Four doors led off the tiny landing. The unmistakable fug of a sickroom permeated the close atmosphere as Sebastian opened one of the doors, again ducking his head to enter the room.

A fire burned fiercely in the hearth, making the room unbearably warm. In the bed, obscured by the piles of bedding, a young woman tossed feverishly. She had thrown the bedding off and Mrs Mead, following behind, pulled it up again.

‘Doctor said she had to be kept warm,’ the old woman said.

‘Fiddlesticks!’ Isabel said.

The old woman looked up, shock on her face. Isabel met her gaze and continued, ‘Damp that fire immediately and open the windows.’

Mrs Mead looked to Sebastian. He locked Isabel with a look and raised his eyebrows. She returned his gaze with unblinking evenness, willing him to trust her.

He turned to Mrs Mead. ‘Please do as her ladyship has asked, Mrs Mead. Her methods are unorthodox but they seem to work.’

Isabel met his eyes and he gave her a wink. Her heart lurched. Did he remember that night in London when she had nursed him through his fever’s crisis?

The old woman gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘The doctor said…’

Isabel bit back a retort about the wisdom of the doctor and said, ‘Please, Mrs Mead. I have some knowledge in these matters.’ She glanced at Matt. ‘Mister Alder, can you fetch me a bowl of water? Cold from a well, if possible. And some cloths.’

She flung back the curtains and shutters and opened the windows, filling the room with the cool, night air. The girl on the bed took a shuddering breath and her eyes flickered open.

Sebastian perched on the edge of the bed, taking one of her hands in his.

‘Connie. I’m here,’ he whispered.

‘Bas?’ The girl turned bleary eyes to the sound of his voice.

‘I came as soon as I heard you were ill.’

‘Don’t leave.’ Her voice cracked and she flung her head to one side, again lost in delirium.

Sebastian did not relinquish her hand as Isabel rolled her sleeves up and began folding back the voluminous bedding, ignoring the squeak of alarm from the housekeeper.

She picked up Connie’s free hand, running her fingers lightly over the bandaged wrists. Spots of blood marred the white sheets.

She looked up at Sebastian. ‘Little wonder she’s so weak.’

‘Of course she’s been bled. Doctor’s been every day,’ Mrs Mead’s voice quavered.

Matthew appeared at Isabel’s elbow with a large basin of water.

‘Straight from the well, as you ordered.’

‘Set it on the nightstand.’ Isabel dipped one of the cloths Matthew had also brought with him into the water and began to sponge the girl’s face and hands.

‘Oh, you’ll kill her,’ Mrs Mead said at last, wringing her hands together. ‘’Tis well known the fever must be sweated out of her. The doctor was most insistent…’

Sebastian looked up. ‘I don’t recall Dr Neville being an advocate of bleeding. In fact, I seem to remember his thoughts about the treatment of fever were much the same as Lady Somerton’s.’

‘Dr Neville is no longer with us,’ Mrs Mead said. ‘He has moved to Chester. We have Dr Llewellyn now.’

Sebastian rose to his feet. ‘Then I will send the coach to Chester for Neville in the morning.’

‘Cap’n Alder, you can’t…’ Mrs Mead began and then broke off in the realisation that he could, and he would.

Isabel looked up and laid a hand on the old woman’s arm. ‘The fever will kill her if she is layered up with so much heat. In the place where I was born, the slaves taught me that, to bring a fever down, you must keep the patient cool. Mrs Mead, can you take a cloth and help me to sponge her down? I’m sorry, Lord Somerton, but could I ask you to leave?’

Sebastian rose to his feet and, with a last glance at them both from the door, he left the room, pushing his brother before him. The two women worked on the girl and beneath their gentle hands, Connie fretted and shivered in the soon sodden, blood specked sheets.

Isabel and Mrs Mead sat with Connie through the night, taking it in turns to bathe her with cold water. As the first grey streaks of dawn began to lighten the sky, they ceased their ministrations.

Mrs Mead changed the girl’s sheets and nightdress and, as she pulled the bedding up, she looked at Isabel, her face puckered with concern.

‘My lady, I’m sure you mean well, but it don’t seem to have made a blind bit of difference.’

For the first time, a qualm of fear at her reckless disregard of the doctor’s instructions shook Isabel. She looked down at the girl who had fallen into a fitful sleep and forced a wan smile. ‘It’s a new day and she is still alive, Mrs Mead. That is as much as we can hope for.’

Mrs Mead’s lip trembled. ‘I ‘ope you’re right, my lady.’ She stooped and stroked Connie’s face. ‘She’s as dear to me as my own darling could be. It would break my heart to lose her. Now you must be all done in after travelling all day and then sitting up all night. The bed’s made up next door. Go and get some rest…my lady.’ Two spots of colour appeared in her wan cheeks as she remembered this woman’s status.