Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) (22 page)

“Miss Becket, you are not a doctor and they are not your family. I advise you to stay home and not jump at their behest simply because they are of the nobility.” This pronouncement had very much the feel of the pulpit.

True stared at Mr. Bottleby, noting for the first time the pinched look of his features, and the hard glint in his eyes. She had witnessed many acts of kindness performed by the curate. It was what had first attracted her attention to him. He was undoubtedly a good man, and she must appeal to that side of him. She stepped close to him and looked up into his eyes. If only he would reach out and touch her, just her shoulder or her arm; could he not see that she was upset and worried for a friend? She steadfastly tried not to contrast his cold eyes with the warmth of a pair of tawny gold ones, but it was too late. She remembered the warmth of Lord Drake, the caring and fondness in his eyes. Could she live without that from a husband, a husband with whom she would need to be intimate, who would become her life partner and soul mate?

“Arthur,” she said softly, “please understand. He is ill and troubled, and his mother is worried. I cannot ignore their plea, not after the kindness they have shown me, and just out of simple human caring! I will disregard what you said about me responding simply because they are of the nobility, for I feel that was beneath you, and I do not believe you meant it. I
must
go.”

“Miss Becket,” he said, emphasizing the fullness of her name, in contrast to her daring use of his given name. “You are not a doctor. I believe you should send a polite note of apology, with your best wishes for the viscount’s return to health. It is as much as should be expected of you.”

“I have promised Lady Leathorne, and even if I had not, I would still go! Are we not to visit the afflicted? Is that not part of our religion?”

Impatiently shaking his head, Mr. Bottleby said, “Do not preach scripture at me, Miss Becket. It is not seemly in a vicar’s wife to throw the Lord’s words at him! Be directed by me and do not overreach your usual humility. How can you possibly be necessary for this gentleman’s recovery? Are we to believe that with all the money and doctors in the world at his disposal, only
you
can heal him?”

His words stung like a slap, a final blow to any hope she had of marrying and living peacefully with Mr. Arthur Bottleby. If they felt so differently about this, then other things would inevitably serve to separate them, and she must, at least, live in harmony with a man she would take as husband.

“I am sorry to appear disobedient, Mr. Bottleby. I have already spoken to my father, and he quite agreed that it was my duty as a Christian to do this. But even if he had said as you do that it is none of my affair, I would still follow my conscience.”
And my heart,
she thought. She straightened and held her head high. “I am sorry, sir, but I’m in rather a hurry. I hope you will not take it ill if I say now, without further ado, that I think we should not suit as husband and wife. You would soon be sorry you had wed me, and I could not live with a spouse who did not respect my need to do what I think right. Good-bye, sir. I wish you well in your new parish.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I want to go home!”

“Arabella, do not be unreasonable,” Lady Swinley hissed. They were in her chamber, and it was right next to Lord Drake’s. “We came here for a reason, and if you would just cooperate, this could be a propitious turn of events for us.”

“Lord Drake’s illness?” Arabella stared at her mother, amazed at the twisted way her mother could view such a tragedy for the family.

“Yes, Lord Drake’s illness! Do not look at me that way. If you would just push your way in, they would not turn you away. Be tender, be worried, be
womanly!
Be anything but yourself, in other words.”

Disgusted and furious, Arabella turned on her mother. “How can you say such a thing, you who never attended a sickbed a day in your life? Where were you when I was ill as a child, and the school sent me away for fear of contagion? I went to the vicarage, and True tended me.
Hers
was the hand that bathed my brow, not yours, so if anyone is unwomanly, look rather at the woman who would not care for her own child!” Lady Swinley’s hand flashed up to slap Arabella, but she caught her mother’s hand in her own grip, surprisingly strong for so slender a girl. “Do not
dare!
You would send me in there to catch who knows what illness, a fever, perhaps, and all to compromise me with Lord Drake so they will be forced to accept me as daughter-in-law? How—”

Her words were interrupted by a high, keening wail and a thump. Drake’s batman, Horace Cooper, shouted out for help and footsteps could be heard thudding along the corridor. Arabella waved her arm and said, “You see? That servant of Drake’s, even
he
needs help to deal with the viscount. What do you expect me to do, hold Lord Drake down?”

“Do not be vulgar!”

“Then do not be ridiculous! We should not even be here, if you had any decency, Mother!”

Lady Swinley raised her hand once more, but at a glare from her daughter, dropped it. Trembling, she stiffened her posture. “Lord Drake,” she said calmly, “will recover. If you could just show a modicum of concern for the man, his mother would advance the match, and you could take advantage of his recovery period to nurse him. Read to him, bathe his fevered brow. Men are children when they’re sick. He would be as soft as custard, and vulnerable.”

“And why do you continue to think that I still wish to marry him?”

“Because you
have
to, that’s why,” Lady Swinley muttered. “Arabella, you do not seem to understand. We cannot go back to Swinley Manor! I owe the moneylenders, and we cannot return without some assurance of future prosperity.”

“But how . . . ? Father left—”

“Listen to me, once and for all. Your father left a mess,” Lady Swinley said, glaring into her daughter’s eyes. “He owed everyone, and had failed to secure your marriage settlement. He left me without provision, and three Seasons in London have been horribly expensive! I have had to borrow against Swinley Manor, even.”

“But you encouraged me to not settle for a younger son. I could have married Lord Sweetan! He was not as wealthy as Lord Drake, but provisions would have been made, and I—”

“We cannot afford for you to marry anyone less than Lord Drake! The moneylenders were willing to finance another Season only after they learned your . . . your pedigree, and now we are so far in debt, only a very wealthy man will do.”

Revolted, Arabella stared at her mother. “You borrowed on my prospects?”

“Yes. Would you have preferred to go to the sponging house? Think, Arabella! Think of all of the lovely clothes and jewels and trips we could have if you marry properly!” Her voice had changed and was wheedling in tone.

“But what if Lord Drake comes out of this mad? What if he always has those awful nightmares? I cannot live like that!”

Lady Swinley, sensing victory, was quick to say, “You will only be sharing his bed to breed an heir! You don’t actually have to
sleep
with the man! He will visit your bed and return to his own to sleep.”

“Is that what you and Father did?” Arabella gazed at her mother with curiosity.

“Certainly. It is what any well-bred lady expects. That sort of thing—sleeping together—is done among the lower classes, but they have no refinement in their feelings.”

There was nothing she could do, Arabella realized. Her fate was sealed. “I shall seek out Lady Leathorne and beg to be allowed to sit with Lord Drake,” she said, with as much of an air of noble sacrifice as she could muster. If things were truly as bad as her mother said, then it did not really matter who she married, as long as they had sufficient money. She was born and raised with the expectation that she would live in comfort and luxury, without worry, her whole life. Well, it looked like if she was to live on in that manner, or any manner at all, it would have to be with Lord Drake.

Now she would pay the price of three Seasons in London, three Seasons of delirious pleasure, knowing that she had a bridegroom in reserve, so to speak. Lord Drake had always been there in the background of her mind as a not unpleasant destiny. But fate had dealt her a nasty turn, making her resort to that destiny just when it looked to assure a troubled future. Well, she would hope for the best. “I will convince Lady Leathorne that I am half dead with worry for him.”

“Good girl,” Lady Swinley said with satisfaction.

But on asking, Arabella found that the lady of the house was not there. She had departed in the early hours before dawn of the previous day, Marcot, the butler informed her as he polished the silver in the dining room, leaving no word where she would be. It was most strange, Arabella thought, that she would leave her son at such a juncture, but she would go to Lord Drake anyway, and make sure his mother knew about it when she returned home. With any luck at all, it would be just as Arabella was bathing his fevered brow. She gritted her teeth and started back up the stairs to the family quarters.

• • •

Traveling through the night and stopping only to change horses and take a brief necessary break, True found herself at Lea Park by late morning of the next day. Marcot, the butler, was evidently watching out for her, for the door was swung open and she was escorted up the stone steps and into the manse without delay.

“Marcot, is Lord Drake . . . is he . . .” She could not ask the question.

“He is still alive, but very feverish. Her ladyship just arrived an hour ago, in time to keep the physician, Mr. Jackson, from bleeding the viscount yet again.”

That Marcot, normally the most unbending of servants, should be so forthcoming was a good indication of the turmoil the estate dwelt in. As he escorted True up the stairs, the butler added that the earl had not come out of his study for two days, and was said to be drunk, while Lord Conroy and the ladies had carried on much as usual.

True stopped only to remove her bonnet, but even as she did so heard a commotion that burst into the hallway outside of Lord Drake’s room.

“I will not stay in the same room as that madman,” Arabella screeched.

True raced into the hallway, stripping off her gloves as she went, to find her cousin standing outside the open door to Lord Drake’s room. His voice was a hoarse shout from the depths of the room, and Lady Leathorne’s exhausted voice cried out, “Hold him, Sergeant, I am afraid he will try to do away with himself again.”

Arabella cried out, lifted her skirts and ran down the hall, stopping when she saw True. Her face was drained of all color. “He’s mad! He struck out at me. He thought I was some dead captain, and that I was haunting him, and . . . oh! I will not marry him! I refuse! I don’t care what my mother says.”

“Bella, get a hold of yourself,” True said, grasping her cousin by the shoulders. The girl was genuinely distraught, and True reflected that many people were not fit for the sickroom. She took out a handkerchief, gently wiped the tears from her younger cousin’s cheeks, and said, “Go down and get yourself tea. You’ll make yourself sick if you get upset this way. Calm, Bella. No one is going to force you into anything, I swear it.”

“I just . . .” Arabella burst into tears and embraced her cousin. She sniffed, finally, and subdued her tears. “What are you doing here? We didn’t know you were coming back.”

There was another cry from Lord Drake’s room, and True broke away from Arabella. “I came to help Lady Leathorne with her son. I have to go to him, Bella.”

She raced down the hall and was almost pulled into the room by the countess, who had heard her voice, it seemed, and was coming to fetch her. Arabella watched with a puzzled frown. What was going on? Why was True suddenly an indispensable part of Lord Drake’s recovery? Slowly she went down the stairs, wondering just how far True’s friendship with the viscount had progressed.

Lady Leathorne pulled True into the room and shut the door to the hallway. “He said your name again, just before this last fit.”

True approached the bed, where Drake thrashed in a fevered nightmare as Horace held on to him, trying to keep him from falling from the bed. The viscount was sweating and flushed, his face gaunt and his eyes open, glittering with a hectic light.

“They . . . they want to take me to hell! Hell.
Hell!”

His last word was a howl, and True felt desperate fear well up in her. This was far worse than she had anticipated, but as she saw it, the fever was the treatable part of this ailment. She unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up. He would not die. She had seen these same symptoms in her village in the last bout of influenza—the fever and thrashing—and God willing, she would treat Lord Drake with the same remedies that had proved so efficacious for any who would allow her to administer them.

“Lady Leathorne,” she said, turning to the countess, “I brought with me two infusions that have proved valuable for reducing fever among the people of our village. If you could have someone fetch them out of my bag—they are in white pottery jars and are labeled Feverfew and White Willow.”

The countess looked doubtful for a minute.

“I have experience with this, my lady. Please trust me. I would do nothing to hurt Wy, you must know.”

Lady Leathorne gazed at her steadily, the ghost of a smile curving her lips. “Wy. I have not called him that since he was a child. I will get them myself; white pottery jars, you said? What shall we do with them?”

“The infusions must be mixed with equal parts hot water, and given to him as a tea. I have not figured out yet which of the herbs is more efficacious, and it will not harm him to use both mixed together. If you’ll bring them I’ll attempt to induce him to take it.” She turned from the countess without ceremony, alarmed by the moans that emanated from Drake, moans as of deep pain.

She approached the bed, but turned back to see the countess staring at her with hope mixed with despair. The look on that mother’s face was so very similar to the look on any villager’s face when their child was ailing. It was the first time True had realized just how much the frosty countess loved her son. “Go,” she said gently. “Get the remedies and bring a kettle of boiling water and a cup. I’ll prepare the mixture.”