Toblethorpe Manor (16 page)

“No,” she whispered, smiling faintly. “I shall be all right. I am only cold.”

He held her all the way back to Huntingdon, and gradually she stopped shaking. There was a great to-do when they reached the White Hart. The landlord’s wife came bustling out and hurried them into a private room where a blazing fire roared in the hearth. Richard set Miss Fell down on a sofa. He knelt beside her, pulled off her gloves and began to chafe her hands, thinking of the other occasion on which he had done that. This time she was at least conscious, thank heaven.

A bowl of hot soup was produced on the instant, and Miss Fell was able to feed herself. In fact, by the time she had finished it, the landlady was saying, in motherly if slightly disappointed tones, that the poor young lady looked to be well on the way to recovery.

“A nice bite o’ dinner and a good night’s sleep, and I’ll warrant you miss will be as good as new come morning.”

Looking at her, Richard thought with relief that the good woman might well be correct.

In fact, by the time she had rested on her bed for an hour and eaten her meal, Miss Fell felt as fit as ever. She even proposed to stay up for a couple of hours to keep Richard company.

“You must not tax your strength,” said Richard firmly. “I promise I will not indulge in an excess of brandy.”

“Mr. Carstairs, you know I meant no such thing!” She laughed. “However, I daresay you are quite right. I do have a slight headache.”

“Brandy!” said Richard in a sepulchral voice.

“Wretch! I had scarcely a mouthful!”

“Ah, but you are not used to it.”

“And you are, I take it?”

“Wretch!” he said in his turn, and wished her good night.

She did not sleep well, and woke in the morning heavy-eyed. Her headache was worse, but she did not mention it to Richard, fearing that he would postpone their departure. If she was going to be ill, and she could not dismiss that possibility, she had much rather be settled in London than in a posting house en route.

Mary was so thrilled that today she would see Lunnon-town, and Richard so preoccupied with wondering whether to send ahead a message cancelling his engagement, that neither noticed Miss Fell had only a cup of tea at breakfast. The sun had returned and was sparkling on the new-fallen snow. Richard decided to ride. Mary was spellbound at the window, greeting every distant village with, “Be that Lunnon-town, miss?”

“Is that London,” corrected Miss Fell irritably. The glare from the snow worsened her headache.

“Is that London,” repeated Mary obediently. “Is it, miss?”

“No, it is not. You will not need to ask when we arrive.

At their noon stop in Hitchin, she was glad to lie down for half an hour. She still did not feel like eating, but seeing Richard’s worry, she forced down a morsel of chicken. When she rose to return to the carriage, her head was throbbing so that she could hardly see, but again Richard, paying the reckoning, noticed nothing. He settled her in the hired chaise with no more than his usual solicitude. Her cheeks were flushed with the beginnings of a fever, and he even thought she looked very well. He rode Flame again.

The roads had been cleared between Hitchin and London, and they had fresh horses. They sped along, passing through Hatfield no later than three o’clock. Miss Fell lay back against the cushions and wished she could die in peace.

Mary’s first sight of the streets of London was ruined; she turned from the window to gasp, “This is London-town!” and found Miss Fell holding her head and weeping. Trying to comfort her, Mary discovered she was half delirious. She was muttering and moaning and now and then she would cry, “I want to go home!”

All the while tears poured down her face.

Mary did not know what to do. She did not dare let go of Miss Fell to rap on the glass that separated her from the coach box. She managed to let down the window and through it she could see Mr. Richard, but he was out of earshot, and she could not make the coachman hear her through the terrible din of the London streets.

Weeping herself, she tried to soothe her mistress.

“We be in Lunnon a’ready, miss,” she kept repeating. “We’ll soon be there. Don’ ‘ee give up, miss.”

At last, when she was despairing, they pulled to a halt in a fine square outside an imposing row of houses. Richard had already arrived. He ran down the steps and opened the door of the chaise.

“Tha’ll have to carry her, Mr. Richard,” said Mary in a frightened voice. “She’m terrible sick agin.”

Chapter 10

“How could you, Richard!” said Lucy severely. “Mama warned you not to tire Clara and then you leave her sitting in the snow for half an hour!”

“You cannot blame me more than I blame myself,” he answered wretchedly.

Lucy relented.

“Mama does not think she is as ill as last time,” she reassured him. “Dr. Knighton will be here shortly, and he is the best doctor in London. He attends the Prince of Wales, you know.”

“Prinny may go to the devil! Does mania really say that?” He paced restlessly up and down the drawing room, halting now and then at the window to stare blankly at the muddy slush in the square.

“Indeed she does. And she also says you are to calm down and eat something. She does not want two patients on her hands.”

“Lucy, this will upset your entertainments. Perhaps you should remove to Aunt Blanche’s for a time.”

“As though I could when my dearest friend needs me! I shall nurse Clara, of course.”

“You are a darling,” he said, and hugged her. “I wish I could do so also.”

“To tell the truth, Richard,” she admitted candidly, “I find the balls and routs not near so exciting as I had expected. I’d as lief go to a small party and dance with friends I know well, as we do at Toblethorpe.”

“Silly puss. What of all your new admirers?”

“Most of them are quite dull. Oh, I am glad we are here, and I have met some amusing people. I like your friend Brummell very well—we go on famously together. But I should not wish to spend every winter in town, just an occasional visit to keep up with the fashions and the latest
on dits.”

“Then you had better find a husband this Season, if you do not mean to have a second!”

She was about to tell him that she
had
found a husband, when the knocker was heard. They both rushed to the window and craned their necks to see who was at the door.

“I am sure it is Dr. Knighton!” cried Lucy. “I shall go back to Clara.” She ran out of the room in a manner that her Aunt Florence would have stigmatized as hoydenish.

A few minutes later she returned. Richard was pacing again, fists clenched, head bowed. He looked up eagerly as she entered.

“Mama would not let me stay,” she said disconsolately.

This time her chatter did not distract Richard from his worry. Lucy soon gave up trying to obtain an answer, and remembering Lady Annabel’s advice, went to order some refreshment for her brother. Then she slipped upstairs to see if she could glean any news.

Shortly, Bell entered the drawing room with a tray of tea and cakes. “Miss Lucy,” he declared ponderously, “h’intimated as ‘ow you’d h’appreciate a little sustenance, Mr. Richard. H’I took the liberty of fetching up a bottle of brandy h’also, h’it being a chill sort of day.”

“Thank you, Bell, I’ll drink a glass,” said Richard absently.

The butler poured some, and set it on a side table, as Richard was still pacing. By the time Bell left the room, Richard had forgotten about it.

At last Lucy burst into the room. “It is merely the grippe!” she announced. “Dr. Knighton says she will be well in a few days. Mama says I am to go to Aunt Blanche, for fear of infection. Must I, Richard?”

“You will do as your mother says. You are sure those were the doctor’s words?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, he is still talking to mama, but Mary came out to tell me as soon as she heard that much. She has become very attached to Clara, you know.”

A heavy tread was heard on the stair. Richard hurried out and greeted Dr. Knighton. “Will Miss Fell recover, sir?” he asked anxiously.

“She’ll do, she’ll do,” replied the great doctor with assurance. “Lady Annabel has my instructions and will send for me should there be any untoward symptoms. Otherwise, I shall be back in a day or two to check the young lady.” He went on his way.

Richard ran up the stairs and knocked softly on the door of Miss Fell’s chamber. Mary opened it, her finger to her lips.

“How is she?” Richard whispered.

“She’m better already, sir. Not tossin’ an’ turnin’ like. ‘Ee’s not to fear.”

Lady Annabel appeared. “Miss Fell is asking for you, dearest. You can come in, but stay only a moment. I shall come down presently and tell you what the doctor said.”

Richard approached the bed with bated breath. He had to bend to hear her pitifully weak voice.

“Not your fault,” she murmured. “Only thing to do. You took good care of me.” She tried to smile.

He pressed her hand.

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice. “You are too generous.” Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers. “You will get well soon?” He looked into her eyes and saw in them the smile that was too much effort for her lips.

“Off you go, Richard,” ordered Lady Annabel. “I will be with you in a few minutes.”

He turned at the door, and found that Miss Fell’s eyes were still on him. Then Mary moved between them.

Returning to the drawing room he found the glass of brandy and sat down to sip at it. The cakes were half gone, and he surmised that Lucy had demolished them. Lady Annabel soon joined him.

“Whatever were you about, Richard, to leave poor Clara sitting in the snow? No, dearest,” she hushed him, “you do not need to explain. Mary has told me what happened and it seems you had little choice.”

“‘Lucy has already read me a scold, mama.”

“And I daresay the worst scolding is the one you gave yourself. Well, she is not seriously ill, unless she takes an unexpected turn for the worse. Dr.
Knighton sees no sign of inflammation of the lungs, which is most to be feared. He says she would not be near so ill now had she not been still convalescent from her previous illness. You are not to blame yourself.
She
does not blame you.”

“I know, mama. She is the most generous soul in the world.”

“You have been generous to her, child, and she is grateful.”

“I don’t want her gratitude,” he said roughly. He hesitated, and Lady Annabel thought he was going to open his heart to her, but he changed his mind.

“This situation is intolerable, mama,” he continued. “Not knowing who she is or anything about her. How can we introduce to the Ton
someone who is an imposter, however unintentional?”

“We know a great deal about her, Richard. We know she is generous and capable of gratitude. We know she is pretty-behaved, modest, unassuming. I have also learned a great deal from Mary—that girl never stops talking! Miss Fell is a stoic, the servants all think her a lady, your Aunt Florence approves her, and she plays the pianoforte ‘ever so nice.’”

“She plays like an angel. If she is not a governess or an abigail, she is probably a professional musician,” he said gloomily.

“If you are determined to be negative, I have no more to say to you,” said Lady Annabel with dignity. “I shall go and dress for dinner. Lord knows what Monsieur Pierre thinks of all these disruptions.”

“And she sets us all at sixes and sevens!” was Richard’s parting shot.

After dinner, much argument, and a great deal of to-and-fro of servants with messages, Lucy was packed off to stay with her aunt, who would escort her to Almack’s that evening. Richard found himself too exhausted to consider turning up at his card party, and Lady Annabel confessed she should be glad of an early night.

“For you would not credit how we have been gadding about while you were gone, Richard. I believe we have not dined at home above twice this past week.”

She looked in on Miss Fell when she retired, and found her sleeping peacefully. Mary, who had not left her for a moment since their arrival, was curled up on a pallet on the floor. She looked up drowsily to say, “Don’ ‘ee worrit thysen, my lady. I s’ll take care o’ my young lady.”

On Thursday morning, Lord Denham called to welcome Richard back and to ask after Miss Fell.

“Saw Lucy last night,” he said cheerfully. “She told me all about it. Of all the bacon-brained things to do, Richard!”

“I’d like to know what you would have done in the same situation,” answered Richard belligerently.

“Why, set her on the horse and taken her with me!”

Richard told him what had happened when Miss Fell had mounted on horseback at Toblethorpe.

“The devil!” exclaimed his lordship. “What a coil! Well, I’m off to take Lucy driving. Shall I see you at White’s this afternoon?”

“No, I shall stay in, lest my mother has need of me,” said Richard shortly.

Lord Denham gave him a shrewd look. He had intended to speak to Richard about paying his addresses to Lucy, but he could see that the time was not ripe.

“Any message for your sister?” he inquired.

“Tell her Miss Fell had a good night and seems a little recovered this morning.”

“I will,” promised Lord Denham.

Richard hovered around the house, getting in the way of the servants and irritating his mother unbearably.

“If you can find nothing else to do,” she said crossly, “you may come and lift Miss Fell while the bed linen is changed.”

His eyes brightened. “Of course. I feel so useless. I fear men are not much needed in a sickroom.”

“Men are not apt to wish to help in a sickroom.”

“I do, mama. You will tell me if there is aught I can do?”

“I will, Richard, you may be sure. However, at present there is little for anyone to do. As at Toblethorpe, it is now a matter of time and rest.”

“I shall see that this time she does not go gallivanting across half the country when she should be in her bed!”

“There is no need for her to go anywhere, dearest, but I hope you do not mean to shut her up in the house when she is enough recovered to go about a little.”

“Since she is in London only to meet as many people as possible, that would be foolish beyond permission.”