The Wyndham Legacy (30 page)

Marcus snorted. “You thought no such thing, Mama. Now, come and sit down. I will serve you. Porridge?”

The Duchess said now to her husband beside her as she breathed in a deep breath of the wondrous fresh air, “I quite like your mama. Perhaps you gained your passion for causes, politics, and world matters from her? She certainly has deep fondness for Mary, Queen of Scots. Goodness, if she hadn't fallen asleep, I believe we would have heard every intrigue in the French court that revolved around the seven-year-old Mary. Oh goodness, Marcus, look at those black clouds. I fear we're in for a soaking.”

In the next instant there was a sudden clap of thunder. Just as suddenly, the warmth of the day dissipated. Dark clouds billowed and roiled overhead, turning the afternoon into dusk. There was a streak of lightning.

Marcus cursed. “Damnation! Until three minutes ago there was no hint of a storm, no glimmer of a cloud, no—”

The Duchess giggled. “At least it's warm enough so that we won't take a chill. Shall we return to the Park?”

At that instant, there was a streak of lightning just beyond Birdie, cracking the branch from a maple tree, sending sizzling smoke upward. The branch fell in the center of the road. Birdie, terrified, reared onto her hind legs.

“Duchess!”

“It's all right. I've got her.” She was leaning forward stroking the bit in Birdie's mouth as she'd been taught, no abrupt movements, when there was a sharp sound and Birdie flinched, then maddened, reared up again, tearing the reins from her hands.

Marcus wheeled Stanley against Birdie and grabbed the Duchess around her waist, ready to jerk her off Birdie's back. There was a soft pinging sound, then another. To his shock, he felt a sharp pain in his head. He raised his hand,
realizing blankly that someone was shooting at them and that a bullet had just grazed his head above his left temple. For a split instant, he was in Toulouse again, bullets flying around him, hearing the screams of his men, urging them forward, then into a quick break around the center of the French line to sweep in behind them. So many bullets, and the blood, like a red weeping cloud covering everything.

She yelled his name, realizing what was happening.

There was another loud popping sound. The Duchess saw a huge chunk of bark go flying off a maple tree some ten feet beyond him. Without thought, she leapt toward him. There was another loud report.

She felt a sharp jab in her left side, even as she grabbed Marcus's shoulders, pressing herself against his chest, protecting him as best she could. Stanley reared, twisting madly beneath them. Birdie, terrified, galloped forward, leaving his rider dangling from her husband's arms.

“Duchess! Oh God—”

There came another shot and another. Marcus kicked his booted feet into Stanley's sides. “Quickly, you damned brute! Go!”

Stanley went as if shot from a cannon. Marcus held her tightly against him. She wasn't unconscious, but he knew she'd been hit, just as he had, but where, and how badly?

He wheeled Stanley about when the road curved and headed back to the Park through the fields. They would have made it if it hadn't been for the flock of starlings bursting from the protection of a huge thick-branched oak tree. The thunder cracked, the lightning sliced through the black sky, and the birds took mad flight. Stanley reared, twisting and snorting, tossing his great head. Marcus knew in that last instant that he'd lost his hold. He tried as best he could to protect her as they landed on a slight incline, rolling over and over until he landed on his back in a shallow mud puddle, the Duchess sprawled on his chest. He heard her moan softly, then she went utterly limp against him.

He managed to get them to the top of the incline, the Duchess unconscious over his shoulder, his hand beneath her hips, holding her steady even as the blood from the wound in his scalp bled over his eye, blurring his vision.

Stanley stood trembling, his eyes rolling, but he'd stayed, thank God, he'd not run back to the stables. It took some doing, but Marcus got them back into the saddle. She was unconscious, thus it didn't matter for Stanley ran like the wind. Marcus kept urging him forward, holding him loosely, allowing him to jump those fences he chose to. The last one was a high boundary fence and Stanley took it with a good foot to spare.

His arm was tight around her. His hand, he saw numbly, was wet with her blood and with his as well, for he'd also been shot in his left hand, something he'd just realized. Odd that he felt nothing, nothing at all except the deep corroding fear. It was the longest ride of his life. When he pulled Stanley up in front of the massive front steps of Chase Park, he was already yelling at the top of his lungs, “North! Spears! Badger! Get out here, quickly, quickly!”

He dismounted, pulling her easily up into his arms. Her head fell back over his forearm. Oh dear God.

North roared through the doors, Badger on his heels.

“She's been shot. Fetch Doctor Raven from Darlington, quickly, quickly.”

Badger was at his side then even as North sprinted toward Stanley, caught his reins and was on his back and galloping away within seconds.

“Bring her upstairs now, my lord. Mr. Sampson! Oh there you are. Quickly fetch hot water and a lot of clean soft cloths. Lord Chilton has gone to fetch Doctor Raven.”

Marcus wasn't aware that he was clutching her so tightly against him until Badger said gently, “Put her down, my lord. That's right, here on her bed. Good. Now, let's get her out of this gown.”

Marcus was staring down at his hand. “I'm covered with her blood, Badger.”

“Yes, my lord, but it's also yours. You've been shot too. My God, you were hit twice—your scalp and your poor hand. Jesus, this is unbelievable. There's too much pain here, too much misery. I don't want her to be hurt like this yet another time.”

“God, I know, I know.”

“What the devil happened?” It was Maggie, nearly shrieking, Spears right behind her.

“She was shot,” Badger said calmly. “Let's get her out of these wet clothes so we can get the bleeding stopped.”

“Not again,” said Maggie. “Good Lord, not again.”

Within minutes, the Duchess was lying on her side, the covers pulled to her belly, Marcus pressing down against the wound just above her left hip.

“Ah, at last. Here's Mr. Sampson with the water and cloths,” Spears said.

Marcus took a hot wet cloth from him, raised his bloody hands and looked down at the riddled flesh, still oozing blood. The bullet, thank God, had gone through the fleshy part of her flank. “Jesus,” he said, and began cleaning the wound. The bullet's entry was just a small hole, insignificant looking really, so minor, but the white flesh around the small hole was purple with the impact of the bullet and with her blood. He eased her toward him to look at where the bullet had torn through her outwardly. The flesh was riddled, torn furiously, the bleeding thick and slow.

He swallowed. He'd seen too many men's wounds during his years in the army, but this, no, this was too much. This was the Duchess, his wife, and she was slight and surely not strong enough to bear such pain. His hand clenched into a fist. He shook his head.

“That's right, my lord,” Spears said quietly. “She needs help now, not rage. That can come later. We'll figure out what to do, don't worry. The bullet went through her, so she'll be spared that pain. I don't think it hit any organ nor did it go near her belly and the babe.”

Jesus, the babe. He hadn't given a single thought to the babe, nestled there in her still flat belly.

He raised his head, gazing around the bed. Badger, Spears, Maggie, and Sampson were all there. He drew a deep breath, carefully folded a new wet cloth that Spears handed him, and pressed down again on both wounds. He felt Spears wipe the blood away from his face and dab it against the raw streak against his scalp. He didn't feel a thing.

Suddenly, Maggie stepped forward. “She's still got on her riding hat,” she said, and began taking pins out to remove it. Marcus almost laughed. There she was, lying there on her side, quite naked, a pert blue riding hat on her head, the feather broken and bedraggled, but the hat was still there atop her tousled hair. He watched Maggie smooth out her hair. He pressed down harder against the wound where the bullet had exited.

“Now, my lord,” Spears said in the firmest voice Marcus had ever heard, “it's time for you to get out of your wet clothing and let me bandage your head and hand. No, my lord, Mr. Badger will continue the pressure on the wound. Come along now. That's right.”

It seemed a day but indeed, it was only two hours before North returned with Doctor Raven.

Doctor Raven said even before he reached the bed, “Has she regained consciousness yet?”

“Yes, but not really,” Marcus said. “She's drifted in and out. I don't think she's been conscious enough yet to feel the pain.”

“Good,” Doctor Raven said, rolled up his sleeves, and gently shoved Marcus out of the way. “Excellent, my lord,” he said after he'd lifted the pad and examined the wound. “The bullet went through her, thank God. You got the bleeding stopped. Yes, quite good. Now, while she's unconscious, let's clean this exit wound with brandy and then I've got to stitch her up.”

“Will it leave an ugly scar?” Maggie said.

“Yes, but hopefully she'll be alive. What's a scar compared to being alive?”

“She won't die,” Marcus said blankly. “My God, she won't die, will she? I saw so much poisoning, so much fever, so much delirium and then death, too much death. No, not the Duchess, there's so much I have to tell her. There's so much we have to do together. No, not her, she's my wife, you see.”

Doctor Raven straightened, turned, and looked up at the earl. “Yes, she could die, my lord. However, I'm very good at my profession. Let's hurry. I want her unconscious, it will spare her pain.”

If Doctor Raven thought that five men and one woman peering closely at everything he did was in any way unusual, he didn't say anything. Their fear was palpable, as were their worry and their caring. He hadn't the heart to order them out. The earl was holding her steady, one of his large brown hands over her ribs, the other on her upper leg.

“All right,” Doctor Raven said. He sent the needle into her flesh and pulled through the thread. Marcus watched the blood seep through his fingers, soak the black thread, and he wanted to cry. “Just another moment,” Doctor Raven said. “There's no need to stitch where the bullet entered,” he added.

Then the Duchess moaned and all of them froze.

“O
H NO
,” M
ARCUS
said. “No, please, no.”

“Hold her, my lord!”

Marcus rose then to give himself more leverage. She was conscious enough to feel the awful pain of the needle as it went through her ripped flesh, and she was gasping with it, heaving with it, trying to escape it, trying to jerk away from him, soft cries erupting from her throat, then cries, tears running down her face. Badger tried to get brandy and laudanum down her throat but it was difficult. By the time it took effect, Doctor Raven would be through.

“Steady, Duchess, I know it hurts. Dear God, I know. Hold steady, love, just a moment longer.”

He kept talking. He had no idea if anything he said reached her, but it didn't matter. It was as much for him as for her. It seemed an eternity, but then Doctor Raven said softly, “There, that's the last stitch, now let me knot it off. All done now, my lord.”

Doctor Raven looked up. “Mr. Badger, I'm going to turn her head just a bit. Give her some more brandy laced with laudanum. Quickly now. Mr. Spears, the bascilicum powder, please. Miss Maggie, dampen that white cotton cloth and have it ready. Mr. Sampson, just stand there and make certain everyone does what I told him to do.”

Not many more minutes passed before her head fell back to the pillow. She was in a stupor, the pain, for the moment at least, far away from her. When he raised his hands from her body, he saw that he'd bruised her. He cursed.

“No, Marcus, stop it.” North clasped his arm and gently drew him away. “Let Maggie put her in a nightgown after Doctor Raven's finished bandaging her. She'll be all right, Marcus. She will, I know it. Now, you've been shot yourself. Doctor Raven, it's now his lordship's turn. No, Marcus, come away, she'll be fine now.”

“How the bloody hell can you know anything?” Marcus, his rage now bubbling over, turned on his friend, shook his hand off, and yelled, “Damnation, she could die! Do you hear me, all of you? She could bloody well die because she tried to protect me. She saw a bullet crease my damned skull and what does she do? She throws herself hard against me, trying to cover me. Me! Curse her hide, why couldn't she just yell at me to duck down? Why?”

“For the moment, my lord,” Doctor Raven said, “it is a question that is moot. Now, let me see that hand of yours. Ah, good, the bullet went through the fleshy part of your thumb. Now, your head, my lord.”

 

It was dim and shadowed in the bedchamber, only one candle lit beside the bed. She lay on her side, a pillow against her back to keep her steady and a pillow against her stomach and chest to keep her from rolling onto her belly. There was a light coverlet to her waist, nothing more. Her nightgown was soft white batiste, a school girl's nightgown, a virgin's nightgown, high-necked, small pearl buttons down the front, selected by him so they could get her out of it easily.

He rose and stretched, never looking away from her. She'd thrown herself at him, covering him as best she could. She hadn't thought, hadn't hesitated. Damn. If he'd had time, if only he'd had time, he could have thrown her facedown over his thighs, at least protected her that much, but everything had happened so quickly. Marcus thought back. There had been at least six shots. The bastard had used several pistols. There was no other way he'd have managed to fire in such rapid succession. Changing quickly
from one gun to the next must have helped ruin his aim, thank God.

He leaned down and laid his right palm on her forehead. His left hand was bandaged. They'd both been lucky. The bullets that had struck them had gone clean through both of them. He cursed long and fluently. She was hot to the touch. She had the fever. He didn't pause, pulled his dressing gown closed, and went swiftly from her bedchamber down the hall to where Doctor Raven was sleeping.

“It's the fever,” he said only when the young man shook his blond head and looked up at him.

“I'll be right there. Have Maggie fetch cold water and towels, my lord. Do you have ice?”

“I'll get Badger.”

They were all gathered around her again at two o'clock in the morning. She was moaning softly, her head thrashing back and forth on the pillow, tangling her hair around her face.

Marcus wanted to cry. He leaned down and began wiping her face with the cold cloth, almost too cold to the touch, what with the ice floating in the basin of water.

“Strip her down, my lord. If the fever gets too high, we'll put her in a tub filled with cold water.” It was then he seemed to realize that there were five men in the room. He cleared his throat. “Please, gentlemen, leave us now. His lordship and I will see to her. Please, go.”

“No,” Badger said.

“No,” Spears said.

“Yes, do go, Badger, Spears,” Marcus said. He clapped his hand on his shoulder. “I'll take care of her, you may be certain of that. No, don't argue, Spears, I feel fine, just a bit clumsy with this bandaged hand, but I'll manage.”

When they were alone, even Maggie gone from the bedchamber, Marcus unbuttoned the small pearls and stripped off her nightgown. The bandage was still white and dry.

“Good, the bleeding hasn't started again,” said Doctor Raven.

“What's your first name?”

“George.”

“All right, George, show me what to do.”

They wiped her down for more than an hour, taking turns, until just after three o'clock in the morning, George felt her forehead, her chest, and her hip near the bandage. “It's down. Let's pray it stays down.”

“She's so weak,” Marcus said as he fetched a clean nightgown and put her in it. “It's like she isn't really here.”

“She's here, my lord, and here she'll stay, we'll see to it. She won't die, I swear it. I expected the fever. Now, you get some rest and I will stay with her and call you in the morning. The last thing I want to have to do is rub you down with ice water. You're too big.”

 

She was dreaming: a lovely dream really, filled with flowers, all sorts of flowers, brilliant in both scent and color. She was sitting there in the midst of all the flowers, singing one of the ditties she'd written, the one about the sailors, which was a bit more than racy, actually, but it had sold the best of the lot so far. Mr. Dardallion at Hookhams had told her that it was so popular amongst the naval men he didn't think it would ever be forgotten. She thought of being immortal through a song, and it made her smile. Then she was back firmly in the meadow, amid all the daisies and the lilies. She turned to stroke her fingers over a velvet red rose petal when suddenly from behind the rosebush came a strange creature that looked for all the world like a tonsured, robed monk, but he was shriveled and shrunken, and he looked older than the barrowed hills behind him, and he said to her, “I was near the well, keeping a close watch, but you never found me. I waited and I waited, for hundreds of years I've waited but you never came. You're stupid, no imagination, not like me or my brothers when we decided what we'd do.

“He was Baron Dandridge then, just a simple baron was Lockridge Wyndham, but he helped us, tried to save us,
but he couldn't, no one could, and we decided then that we would take care of him as best we could in case he lost everything. Aye, and that miserable king did strip us and our abbey to the bones, he and that miserable Cromwell and his bully boys. Then the baron did die, too soon, poor man, before his son knew what was what, but all the clues were there and several more generations spoke of the treasure and then even that stopped. All the Wyndhams have been ignorant and stupid. Even now you've given it up. So I had to come to you. Now, what do you see?”

And she said slowly, “I see a nine. I see another nine, but it's backwards.”

“Do you now, Countess? Well, maybe yes and maybe no. You write those little songs, aye, they're clever, so why aren't you clever about this? Don't be so blind, or the next time I come to you, you'll regret it. Monsters never die, they live on and on. Don't you forget that.”

And the shriveled old monk was gone and she was left in the midst of the flowers, but then they were wilting, turning brown, shriveling just as the monk had been shriveled, and the clean, clear air darkened and it became cold and colder still. Then she cried out, wanting now only to get away from all the rot and the devastation.

“Hush, love, it's all right.”

His voice jerked her awake. She opened her eyes to see him standing over her, a white bandage around his head.

“You look like a pirate, dashing as the devil, ever so rakish. I wish you could capture me and carry me away with you. I'd fight you, but I wouldn't mean it.”

“All right, I'll carry you away, but first, you've got to get completely well again. I'll tell you, Duchess, I'm damned tired of your being hurt.”

“No more so than I am. You must have a black patch, Marcus. And your shirtsleeves need to billow out more. But you're so beautiful, yes, take me with you, to a pirate's island far away, perhaps beyond China but south where it's warm and we could just lie about and—”

She stared up at him then blinked and blinked again. “Perhaps I've gone mad.”

“No, that's a fantasy I would gladly give to you if I could. Now, how do you feel?”

She fell silent for a moment, querying her body. “My side hurts, but I can stand it. I feel heavy and dull otherwise, it's strange, as if everything were going more slowly than it usually would. How does your poor head feel, Marcus?”

“My poor head is harder than a walnut, you know that. Now, about this heaviness you're feeling.”

“And your hand. What happened to your hand?”

“The bastard who shot us hit me in the head, then you, madam, like Saint George, jumped all over me and then he shot you in your side and my hand when I pulled you against me. All in all we were both very lucky.”

“Who did it, Marcus?”

“I don't know, but Badger left this morning for London, to see if our precious Colonial Wyndhams are there.”

“Surely Aunt Wilhelmina couldn't have shot us.”

“No, but she could have hired someone. Badger will discover the truth. If he needs help, he'll hire a Bow Street Runner. I don't want you to worry, all right?”

She nodded. “You called me
love.
”

“Yes, I did.”

“This was the second time you called me ‘love.' ”

“Many more times than that, Duchess, you were just too far under the hatches to hear me.”

“I like it, Marcus. If you'd wish to say it again, I won't be disagreeable about it.” She paused just a moment, saw that he was frowning, and was afraid that he hadn't meant it, had just said it because he thought she was going to die. She said quickly, “You woke me up from the strangest dream. I was sitting in this field of flowers . . .” She told him the scents and the incredible colors of the flowers, of all the beauty that surrounded her, then about the ancient monk and what he'd said and how he'd been angry with her.

“So it could be Janus-faced nines or not. The monk said maybe yes, maybe no, the miserable lout. He said the monster lives on and on. All of it just more of a muddle. Now, Duchess, how did you know the name of that Wyndham ancestor?”

“Lockridge Wyndham,” she said. “I don't know. The monk said he was the Baron Dandridge, then he said his name. It wasn't scary until the end, when all the beautiful flowers wilted and browned and rotted, all in the space of a few moments. But the monk and what he said to me, Marcus, I don't understand that.”

“I don't either, but I refuse to accept it as some sort of visitation.”

“Then what?”

“God knows. You must have read about Lockridge Wyndham in the family Bible, yes, that's it.”

Suddenly there was stark terror in her eyes.

“What? What, damn you, what's the matter?”

“Oh no, Marcus, oh no.” Then her back bowed up and she grabbed her belly, all the while crying out, “No! No! Marcus, please, no, no!”

Not even an hour later, just as the clock struck noon, she miscarried, blood gushing out of her, her body twisting and arching with the vicious cramps. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. She lay now in an exhausted sleep, her face shiny with sweat, her hair in a lank, dull braid. Her lips were so pale they were nearly blue. The wound in her flank had bled more, running together with the blood from her womb, and he'd known she would die, but she hadn't. At least not yet she hadn't.

Marcus said nothing. He simply looked down at her.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Doctor Raven said as he wiped his hands. “I thought it might happen, but I didn't want to worry you more. These things happen all the time, but I'm sorry it had to be this way.”

Maggie and Mrs. Emory had cleaned away all signs of the miscarriage. The Duchess at least was clean, all the
blood gone and she was just lying there, bloodless, swathed in white, the bandage around her belly white, the cloths between her thighs white, her nightgown white.