Yours Until Dawn (21 page)

“Mama?” Honoria rubbed at the mottled glass of the coach’s window, a note of wonder softening her voice.

“Don’t trouble Mama right now,” Eugenia snapped. “Can’t you see that she’s distraught?”

Valerie drew a vial of hartshorn from her reticule and held it out to her mother. “Here, Mama. Use this if you start to feel a fit of the vapors coming on.”

Lady Thornwood waved it away, her attention captured by the dazed expression on her youngest daughter’s face. “What is it, Honoria? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps I have. I think you’d best take a look.”

As Honoria pushed open the window, Lady Thornwood climbed over her husband’s knees, trodding heavily on his toes as she joined her daughter. Their curiosity piqued, Valerie and Eugenia crowded behind them.

There appeared to be some sort of diversion in progress. The participants were scattered all over the grassy hillside overlooking the mansion, their laughter and shouts ringing like music through the air. They were too preoccupied with their merriment to even notice the approaching coach.

Craning his neck to see over the wall of bonnets, the marquess’s mouth fell open. “What on earth are the servants doing wasting their time on such nonsense when they’re supposed to be working? What do they think this is—Christmas Day? Why, I should order Beckwith to sack the lot of them!”

“You’ll have to catch him first,” Valerie pointed out as the butler went barreling across the hillside, chasing a shrieking Mrs. Philpot.

Eugenia clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a scandalized giggle. “Just look at that, Val! Who would have thought the stuffy old goat had it in him?”

The marchioness was turning to rebuke her daughter for having such a saucy tongue when her gaze fell on the man skirting his way around the edges of the revelry. She went so pale that it appeared she might have need of that hartshorn after all.

As he paused at the crest of the hill, his commanding figure framed by the dazzling blue sky, she touched a hand to her heart, believing for one jubilant moment that her son had returned to her. He stood tall and straight, his shoulders thrown back, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight.

But then he turned and she saw the jagged scar spoiling his fine looks—the grim reminder that the Gabriel she had known and loved was gone forever.

Samantha knew she couldn’t elude Gabriel forever. But she could lead him on a merry chase and that she did, circling around behind the other servants as they resumed the game. He might lack sight, but he was as sure of foot as a mountain lion, which was why it shocked her when he stumbled over a thick tuft of grass and went down like a stone.

“
Gabriel
!” she cried, using his Christian name without realizing it.

Lifting her skirts, she went racing back to his side. She dropped to her knees beside him in the grass, already envisioning the worst. What if he’d shattered an ankle? Or struck his head on a rock?

Haunted by the memory of his blood-stained body sprawled on his bedchamber floor, she gathered his head into her lap and tenderly smoothed the hair from his brow. “Can you hear me, Gabriel? Are you all right?”

“I am now.” Before Samantha could react to that smoky murmur, he had wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled her into the grass, knocking her spectacles askew.

She never expected him to be so bold, to tumble her to the ground right there in front of the servants and God, as if he were a shepherd boy and she a dairy maid, ripe for the ravishing. But tumble her he did, his legs tangling in her skirts as they both exploded with breathless laughter.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back with Gabriel’s big, warm body covering hers. His grip gentled; their laughter faded.

Too late, Samantha realized that everyone else had fallen silent as well.

She glanced over Gabriel’s shoulder, blinking through her crooked spectacles. A stranger was standing over them—a stout, barrel-chested man, garbed in gold-and-green-striped stockings and a rather old-fashioned pair of knee breeches. The faded gold of his hair was lightly powdered, making it difficult to determine his age. Cuffs of exquisite Valencian lace framed his thick wrists. As he extended a hand to her, the enormous ruby signet ring crowning his middle finger glinted like a drop of fresh blood in the sunlight.

“M-m-my lord,” Beckwith stammered. His blindfold hung askew over one eye, giving him the look of a plump, pasty pirate. “We received no word. We weren’t expecting you.”

“That much is evident,” the man snapped in an imperious tone Samantha recognized all too well.

Only then did she realize that she was gazing up into the stern visage of Theodore Fairchild, the marquess of Thornwood, Gabriel’s father— and her employer.

My darling Cecily,

I can assure you that my family will adore you as much as I do…

I
gnoring the marquess’s outstretched hand, Samantha shoved Gabriel off of her and scrambled to her feet. Gabriel wasted no time in climbing to his own feet, his posture stiff and his expression guarded. The rest of the servants stood around in awkward clusters, looking as if they’d much rather be emptying chamber pots or mucking out the stables.

Straightening her spectacles, Samantha dropped into a low curtsy. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I’m Samantha Wickersham, your son’s nurse.”

“I can certainly see why he’s made such a marked improvement since our last visit.” Although his voice was gruff, she would have almost sworn she saw a glint of humor in the marquess’s eyes.

She could only imagine what a scandalous picture she must present. With her skirt wrinkled and stained with grass, the color high in her cheeks, and her hair tumbling out of its knot to hang halfway down her back, she probably looked more like the village strumpet than a respectable woman one would hire to look after their son.

Four exquisitely dressed women were huddled on the hillside behind the marquess, their every curl in place beneath their elaborate bonnets, their every bow, ribbon, and lace ruffle starched to perfection. Samantha felt her mouth tighten. She knew their kind only too well.

Although they made her feel like even more of a hoyden, she lifted her chin, refusing to humble herself before them. If Gabriel’s family hadn’t abdicated their responsibility for him, it wouldn’t have been necessary to hire her. And if his father dismissed her now, there would be no one to look after him.

“You may find my methods of treatment rather unconventional, Lord Thornwood,” she said. “But I believe that copious amounts of sunshine and fresh air have the power to improve both body and disposition.”

“Heaven knows I’ve ample room for improvement in both of those areas,” Gabriel murmured.

As the marquess turned to his son, his arrogance seemed to melt away. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look directly into Gabriel’s face. “Hello, lad. It’s good to see you looking so well.”

“Father,” Gabriel said stiffly. “I wish I could say the same.”

One of the women came sweeping across the grass toward them, her satin petticoats rustling. Although her skin was as pale and soft as antique lace, age had robbed her of little of her plump prettiness.

Gabriel stood stiffly, his face a wary mask, as she rose up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against his unmarked cheek. “I do hope you’ll forgive us for barging in on you like this. It was such a spectacular day—just perfect for a long drive in the country.”

“Don’t be silly, Mother. How could I expect you to do any less than your Christian duty? Perhaps on the way home you can stop by the orphanage or the workhouse and spread some more good cheer among the unfortunates.”

Although Samantha winced, Gabriel’s mother only sighed, as if his acerbic welcome were no more than she had expected. “Come along, girls,” she called out, crooking a gloved finger at her daughters, “and give your brother a proper greeting.”

The two willowy, golden-haired girls hung back as if fearing Gabriel might bite, but the sturdy little brunette came rushing forward to fling her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance. “Oh, Gabe, I couldn’t bear to spend another moment away from you! I’ve missed you so!”

Showing his first sign of thawing, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Hullo there, Little Bit. Or should I address you as Lady Honoria? Unless you’re wearing Valerie’s heels, I do believe you’ve grown two inches since your last visit.”

“Would you believe I’m to be presented at court in a fortnight? I haven’t forgotten your promise, you know.” Linking her arm through Gabriel’s as if she were afraid he was going to bolt, she turned her grin on Samantha. One of her front teeth was slightly crooked, only adding to her winsome charm. “Ever since I was a little girl in the nursery, my brother has been promising me that he would dance the first dance with me at my coming-out ball.”

“How very gallant of him,” Samantha said softly, catching the brief spasm of pain that flickered across Gabriel’s face.

The marquess cleared his throat. “Don’t hog all of your brother’s attention, Honoria. Have you forgotten that we have a surprise for him?”

As Honoria reluctantly disengaged herself from Gabriel and rejoined her sisters, their father turned and beckoned toward the liveried footmen manning the imposing town coach parked on the drive. They leapt down from their perches and began to loosen the ropes on something large and draped with canvas that was tied to the boot of the coach.

As the two of them carried their cumbersome burden up the hill, struggling beneath its weight, Gabriel’s father rubbed his hands together in anticipation. By the time the footmen had deposited it on the grass in front of Gabriel, Samantha was as curious as the rest of the servants.

“The minute your mother and I laid eyes on it, we knew it was just the thing.” Beaming at his wife, the marquess stepped forward and whisked away the canvas with a majestic flourish.

Samantha narrowed her eyes, struggling to bring the unfamiliar object into focus. When she finally succeeded, she almost wished she hadn’t.

“What is it?” she heard Elsie whisper to Phillip. “Some sort of torture device?”

Mrs. Philpot gazed off at the distant horizon while Beckwith edged nearer to her, taking a sudden interest in the tops of his shoes.

Warned by the servants’ awkward silence, Gabriel snapped, “Well, what in the devil is it?”

When no one answered, he dropped to one knee and began to run his hands over the thing. As his seeking fingers traced the contours of an iron wheel, realization slowly dawned across his face.

He straightened, the motion unnaturally stiff. “An invalid’s chair. You’ve brought me an invalid’s chair.” His voice was just low and dangerous enough to make the hair on Samantha’s nape rise.

His father was still beaming. “Deucedly clever, isn’t it? This way, you’ll no longer have to worry about stumbling or crashing into things. You can just climb in, throw a blanket over your lap, and someone can push you about wherever you wish to go. Someone like Beckwith or your own Miss Wickersham here!”

Samantha tensed, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But when Gabriel finally spoke, his carefully modulated voice was more damning than any shout. “Perhaps it has escaped your notice, Father, but I still have two perfectly good legs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make use of them.”

Sketching a curt bow, he turned on his heel and went stalking off in the opposite direction of the house. Although he didn’t even have his walking stick to guide him, Samantha could not bring herself to humiliate him further by following him or ordering one of the servants to do so. Even Sam did not dare to chase after him. The little collie plopped down next to Samantha, his morose gaze following Gabriel as he disappeared into the woods.

As Beckwith had warned her, there were some paths a man had to travel alone.

Samantha sat in the small breakfast parlor where Beckwith had first interviewed her, listening to the French gilt clock on the mantel tick away the minutes of her life. Gabriel’s disappearance had left her with no choice but to serve as impromptu hostess for his family. She had excused herself just long enough to repair her hair and don a fresh gown—a somber affair of deep maroon bombazine with nary a frill or furbelow to soften its severe lines.

The marchioness perched on the very edge of her wing chair, her lips pursed in disapproval and her gloved hands folded in her lap, while the marquess slumped in his, his ample belly straining the buttons of his paisley waistcoat. Valerie and Eugenia huddled together on a Grecian sofa, looking so miserable Samantha almost felt sorry for them. Honoria perched on an ottoman at their feet, hugging her knees to her chest and looking more seven than seventeen. The hulking invalid’s chair sat in the corner, its sinister shadow reproaching them all.

As the golden light slowly faded, there was nothing but the occasional sigh and the muffled clink of a teacup to break the painful silence.

Samantha lifted her own cup to her lips, grimacing when she realized the tea had long since cooled.

She lowered the cup to find Gabriel’s mother openly glaring at her. “Just what sort of nurse are you, Miss Wickersham? I can’t believe you just let him wander off like that without even dispatching a servant to tend to him. What if he’s tumbled into a ravine and broken his neck?”