Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (21 page)

That unusually long speech on his part was followed by more nursing, all of which was cursed roundly by Drake. Lady Leathorne, horrified by how close she had come to losing her son, paced in the background, wringing her hands and feeling useless for the first time in all her years. The physician, summoned at dawn, bustled back into the room with a jar of wriggling, skinny black leeches.

“We have to bleed him,” Mr. Jackson said. “We must bleed the fever off. I need a little sweetened milk to make the leeches bite.”

Over the next hours Drake was cupped and bled profusely, but it did nothing to reduce his fever, nor his restlessness. The household was turned upside down as apothecaries, surgeons, other neighboring doctors all were called in to give their opinion. All agreed that he had taken ill from a lack of sleep combined with his midnight wanderings in the rain, but not a one agreed on treatment. Their arguments were vociferous and lengthy.

Sweat it out, one said, as the medical men held a consultation in the library. He must sweat out the fever. Let him get as hot as he will and burn the fever out of him.

Keep him cool, the other said. Cold water bathing, ice from the ice house, no covers at all. He must be allowed to cool naturally to get rid of the fever.

Still another said a plaister of herbs was needed, and the gloomiest of them all predicted a quick decline and death for Drake. He, poor fellow, was physically attacked by the apothecary, who had a long-standing grudge against him for stealing away a patient and curing him.

Finally the butler expelled the medical men and the household was hushed. Arabella crept around the house, frightened by the reports she had heard of Drake, in his ravings, attempting to kill himself. Annie, the Swinleys’ maid, had heard it from a scullery maid, who had overheard the housekeeper and butler talking. It was said the butler had it from a footman, who had been summoned by Horace Cooper when he needed help subduing the viscount.

And this was the man they all wanted her to marry? Her mother was urging her to demand to stay with the fevered Drake, to prove to Lady Leathorne that she was wifely material. Arabella had a sneaking suspicion, though, that her mother intended to complain that her daughter had been compromised by staying with the viscount while he was ill, and thus force the marriage on the Leathornes. It was a despicable tactic, and one to which she would never sink. If only True was there! When she was ill as a child it was only ever her cousin who could make her feel better.

Among the household, only Lord Conroy went on as before. He was certainly disturbed by his friend’s illness, but did not seem to think it necessary to visit him, and had no opinion of whether the man would survive or not. Arabella thought him cold, but still, he was soothing company for her jangled nerves and so she spent most of her time with him.

By the second day of Drake’s illness, Lady Leathorne was beginning to despair. It was very early in the morning, well before dawn, and at the very least he was quiet, though that did not offer her any hope. She would rather see him fighting his illness than succumbing and lying still as death. She had sent Horace off for a few hours rest, but she had had to back up her recommendation with the information that if he did not go and sleep, she would have him locked in his room until he did. She was grateful for the man’s devotion to her son, and considered him an honored friend for saving Drake’s life at Waterloo, but he would be no good if he did not get any rest himself.

And besides, she wanted a little time alone with her son. She did not say it even to herself, but if he should die, she wanted to be beside him.

She sat by her son’s bed and smoothed his sweating brow with a damp cloth wet with an infusion of chamomile and lavender. He moved restlessly. His gaunt face was so very beautiful in the dim light from the candle, like an icon of some ancient saint, and Lady Leathorne found herself praying for direction, though she had never prayed for anything in her life, not even when she knew Drake was on the battlefields, though after he was home she quite often offered thanks for his deliverance. Quite simply, she did not believe in a God who had time for every human in His care.

But now she prayed. She prayed for some idea as to what to do, for the strength and wisdom to know good advice from bad and for guidance so they would not kill him before curing him. He murmured something. She leaned forward, trying to catch the meaning. He had said nothing for two days but shouted battle instructions and horrible screams, as though all the souls in hell were dragging him down. But this was just a gentle murmur. She brought her ear near his lips.

“Truelove.”

That was all. He said it again, and it was the name. Truelove. Miss Truelove Becket. Lady Leathorne remembered the serenity on Drake’s face when he would come back from walking with the young woman; was it possible that Miss Becket’s tranquil presence brought some kind of peace to her troubled son’s mind? If there were even a tiny possibility that this was so, she could not ignore that hope, faint as it was. A mother’s instinct had to count for something, and she knew what she had to do. Summoning her most trusted maid to sit with her son, a woman who had been a part of the household since Drake was a baby, she descended and called the butler. The household being so upset with Drake’s illness, a haggard Marcot held himself available at all hours of the day and night. He stood stiffly before her, not allowing weariness to affect his erect posture one whit.

“Marcot, summon the driver and tell him I shall require the carriage, the fastest closed one we have. I need it ready and outside the door in three quarters . . . no, half an hour.”

“Are you taking a journey, my lady?” As well-trained and disciplined as he was, he still could not conceal the surprise he must have felt at such a command, and at such an hour!

“I am. Do it. I shall be back down in half an hour. Have Mrs. Jones come to me in my chamber. I have instructions for the staff while I am gone.”

• • •

True paced nervously around the tiny space of the library. It was twilight, and Mr. Bottleby was due any time. She was to give him his answer, and then she would have taken the irrevocable step that would lead her to her new life. Faith was out walking with her new fiancé. Mr. Wentworth had asked that very morning to speak to Mr. Becket, had offered for Faith, and had been accepted.

And now she would accept Mr. Bottleby.

She could hear a carriage outside the door and stiffened. Had he seen fit to make a formal call, carriage and all? Well, Penny knew to conduct her visitor into the library, so she would await him calmly. She folded her hands together but found that would not do, for she gripped them so tightly, they hurt.

Despite having made the decision in what she believed was her own best self-interest, she felt a cold panic well up into her. There was still time. She could tell him
no
and send him away.

And what? Stay in her father’s home for the rest of her life, a burden to him, keeping him from a marriage that was sure to be the sweet balm of his old age? For he would not marry if True did not. With an overdeveloped feeling of delicacy, he did not believe he could ask either woman, True or Mrs. Saunders, to give way and let the other rule the roost. Truelove he would not ask because she was his daughter, and had been the lady of the house for so long, and Mrs. Saunders he would not ask because as his wife she could justly expect to be the female in charge. Perhaps, if True could convince her father that she did not mind Mrs. Saunders taking over her duties . . . but no, Papa would not . . . oh, what would she do? She had thought her mind was made up, her future settled, and here she was conning it over in her mind yet again, and with Mr. Bottleby just outside the door.

What was taking Penny so long to show him into the library?

There was a commotion outside the door, and True had just decided to go and investigate when the library door opened and Lady Leathorne swept in.

“My lady!” True exclaimed, curtseying. “What are you doing . . . I mean . . .”

Lady Leathorne, looking older than True had remembered her, her jowls sagging and her face deeply lined, came across the room and clasped the younger woman’s hand. “Miss Becket. I gather from your maid’s babble that you are expecting a visitor. I will be brief; the good Lord knows there is nothing to take time over.”

“What is wrong?” True cried. “Is it Arabella? Is she ill? Or Lady Swinley?”

“No, they are well. It is my son.”

True felt a constriction in her heart, but somehow she was not surprised. For the last couple of days she had had an uneasy feeling that she could not trace. As calmly as she was able she took the countess’s hand in both of hers and said, “The nightmares? Are they back again?”

“Not just that.”

Lady Leathorne collapsed in a chair and sobbed, covering her face with her gloved hands. True rang for Penny. “Tea, Penny, and quickly.” True knelt by Drake’s mother. “Ma’am, tell me what is wrong with him. What has happened?”

Lady Leathorne poured out her story in quick, jerky syllables; Drake, troubled sorely by his returning nightmares, had gone out one late night when it poured, and had not come back until morning, drenched and exhausted. It was the second night in a row he had done that, but this time his health was affected. That day he had gone from bad to worse, a hectic flush overtaking him about dinnertime. He retired at his usual time, but the household was awoken by his screams a couple of hours later. He had barricaded himself in his room, screaming in the midst of a kind of waking nightmare. His batman, Horace Cooper, had found him cowering under a bolster with his loaded pistol in his hand, ready to shoot himself in the mouth. He was convinced that he was on the verge of death and had decided to end it all more quickly.

True was sobbing and clutching the countess’s hands before the end of the story, but she swallowed her terror. “What can I do, my lady?” she cried, her voice thick with tears. “Why did you come here? I’m not a doctor.”

Lady Leathorne, her face lined with pain and fear, gazed down at True, holding her hands in her own in a fierce grip. “Drake has been incoherent for two days. Not one word he has said could be understood. It is all inarticulate screams of pain such as I have never heard and . . . and battle orders about advancing in aid of . . . of the King’s Legion, or something like that. But last night he was finally calmed. I fear he is not better, though, and in fact might be slipping away. As I sat there, I could see him forming one word. I got as close to him as possible, and he whispered again, and I caught the word. Truelove. He said
your name
. Out of all the horror of the last two days, your name is the first thing I can understand from him. Truelove. I don’t know what else to do. Will you come? Please? He was calmer when he was with you.
Please
say you will come.”

True, tears streaming down her face, gazed up at the older woman. “Of course I will come.”

• • •

Lady Leathorne, unwilling to even wait as long as it would take for True to pack, left that hour. True was to follow in a hired post-chaise with fresh horses that Lady Leathorne had ordered and was sending from the village inn.

With a babbled explanation to Faith, and a slightly more coherent one to her father, True made ready to go. Her bags were just being brought down the stairs by their man, Jem, when Mr. Bottleby was shown into the hall by a flustered and frightened Penny.

“Miss Becket, what is going on here? I am expected, am I not? What does your maid mean by denying me at the door?”

Mr. Bottleby looked cross, but willing to be placated by an explanation. True could not believe that she had forgotten what just an hour ago seemed the most important visit in her life. But she could not linger. He must understand! She would believe in the goodness of his heart, though it was surely trying his patience after how long he had waited for her answer.

“Mr. Bottleby, I am so sorry. Will you come into the library for a moment? I’m sure once you hear my destination and the reason, you will kindly forgive me.” She led him to the library and, against all decorum, closed the door behind them. Surely, as they were almost betrothed, they could be allowed these few moments.

He stood rigid, waiting. True stared at him, wondering how to start, how to explain. His face, darkly handsome under a careless tumble of dusky hair many a lord would cry for, was stern. He said not a word, and she could see that he was angry by the jump of a nerve under his left eye.

She took a deep breath and rallied her courage. If they were to be married she must feel that she could say anything to him, and that he would trust her judgment. This was not a propitious start to their engagement, for she still intended to tell him she would marry him—she must make the leap of faith into her future—but there was no help for it.

“You knew I was making a visit with my cousins, Lady Swinley and Miss Arabella Swinley.” He nodded. “Lord Drake, the heir to the Leathorne earldom, was Major-General Drake of the Kent Light Dragoons.” Oh, she would need to speed this up! Twilight was far advanced, but she would travel all night. There was a full moon, and the roads were dry. With luck she would be there by noon.

She squared her shoulders and gazed up at Mr. Bottleby. If only she could see some softening in that stern jaw or a light in those dark eyes! “I must go to a friend, who is very ill. He . . . his mother was just here, and she is frantic for him. I leave within the hour.”

Bottleby frowned. “This friend, I take it he is this Major-General Drake?”

True nodded.

“He is ill, you say. Why did his mother come here?”

“He . . . he apparently said my name. It is the first coherent thing he has said for two days.”

“Why would he say
your
name?”

True, stung by the disbelief in his voice, said, “We talked often while I was there. We became friends. He spoke often of his dreams about the war, and how they troubled him. Perhaps he is harkening back to those conversations in his mind.”