A Victorian Christmas (37 page)

A curl of discomfort wove through Rosalind’s chest as she closed her eyes and attempted to return to her prayers for her father. Who was this man she had agreed to marry? And why did the outpouring of his painful loss touch her so deeply?

Why did he not know how to pray? How had he never been told that the Bible was the holy Word of God? Who had he been, and who was he now? And why did she miss the comforting warmth of his arms clasping her tightly?

“‘O praise the Lord, all ye nations,’” Mick’s voice echoed softly in the stillness of the room. “‘Praise him, all ye people. For his merciful kindness is great toward us: and the truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise ye the Lord.’”

“Mick’s parents were killed in a terrible carriage accident when he was but a baby,” Lady Caroline whispered as she sat with Rosalind in Lord Buxton’s room the following morning. “His unmarried uncle took him away to India at once, and he was brought up there as though he were a young maharaja. It is a sad tale, yet I think he did not suffer greatly, my dear. The uncle employed many servants who cared for Mick almost as a son.”

“And this is what he has told you?”

“Indeed, and he possesses many Indian items which now grace his London home. Sandalwood and teak chests, carpets of the most luxurious wool, and gold lamps inlaid with rubies and emeralds. I daresay he will show you everything when you are married. You will be quite overcome with the magnitude of the display.”

“I’m sure that is his intention.” Rosalind pondered this information. “And this wealthy uncle . . . was he well known in London society?”

“Not at all, for his own father had been a merchant in India, and the uncle was brought up there as well. Mick will not speak of the family at any length. He mourns his uncle so.”

“I see.” Distressed and confused, she leaned over her father and brushed a tendril of hair from his forehead. “And their trade? Surely you must know the nature of these prosperous enterprises.”

“We know nothing.” Caroline leaned a little closer. “Though it is thought the fortune might have been made in . . . opium.” She paused a moment.“This might explain Mick’s reticence in discussing the matter with you. I am aware you have been sequestered in the country, my dear, but surely you know of England’s recent war with China over the opening of opium trade routes with India. I believe Mick’s uncle may have been involved in the hostilities, and it is thought that he may have lost his life during—”

A soft knock on the door put a welcome end to Lady Caroline’s speculations. A maid entered the room, bearing a silver tray on which lay a wooden box and a card addressed to Rosalind. “This was sent from the house of Sir Michael Stafford, mum, and the message boy was instructed not to delay its delivery for a moment.”

“More pearls?” Caroline said as she took the box and handed it to Rosalind. “Mick is certainly determined to win you.”

“I am sure it cannot be a necklace.” Rosalind opened the clasp and lifted the lid. “Indeed not; it is an ear trumpet for Papa!”

The instrument, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell, lay in a nest of finest silk. Her heart filling with gratitude, she removed the horn and set it against her father’s ear.

“Papa!” she whispered. “Papa, can you hear me?”

His face remained unmoving.

“Papa,” she said more loudly, “you must wake up, for you promised Lord Remington a game of chess today at the gentlemen’s club. Sir Arthur will be looking for you this afternoon.” She paused. “His gout is much improved, Papa. Indeed, he came to the party last night, and he was much distressed to learn of your unfortunate accident. Can you not . . . will you . . .”

“Rosalind,” Caroline said, laying a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Come, my dear. Why don’t you walk down to the parlor with me for tea? I have ordered a currant cake, and Cook is ever so clever at baking tea cakes. I realize this seems hardly the time, but you and I must take a moment to discuss the decor for your wedding. Mick has suggested that a Christmas tree might be the most lovely—”

“Aaah-rrry.” The growl from the bed made Caroline gasp. “Rrrorind, wha Aaah-rry?”

“Papa?” Rosalind leapt to her father’s side. He had managed to open one eye and was definitely attempting to speak to her. “Papa, I am here with you!”

“Rrrorind.”

“Rosalind—yes, it is I!” She grasped Caroline’s arm. “You must summon the doctor at once! Make haste!”

“Of course, of course!” The woman fled the room, her footsteps echoing down the long corridor.

“Wha Aaah-ry?” Lord Buxton groaned.

“I beg your pardon?” She shook her head in confusion. Why couldn’t her father speak? His mouth seemed to hang slack on one side, and his tongue could hardly form syllables. She took up the ear trumpet. “Papa, you must speak more clearly. What are you asking me?”

His opened eye widened at the amplified sound. “Aaah-ry.”

“Artie? Oh yes, he was hoping to play chess with you today, Papa. At the club. But you . . . you had an accident. You fell down the stairs. Last night.”

Her father took Rosalind’s hand and proceeded into a lengthy discourse of words so mumbled she could not make any sense of them. But what did she care? He was alive!

“Papa, I cannot understand you,” she said finally through the trumpet. “Do try to speak more slowly—”

“Is it true?” Sir Michael Stafford burst through the door into the bedroom. “I was leaving my house when the footman passed me on his way to fetch the doctor. Is your father conscious?”

“He is!” She came to her feet as the young man pulled her into his arms. “I believe your trumpet somehow penetrated the confusion in his mind, for I was speaking to him about Lord Remington, and soon after he began to ask for Artie. And oh, thank you, thank you! I cannot tell you how very grateful—”

“Say nothing. I rejoice with you, Rosalind.” He looked into her eyes. “Your prayer . . . it was answered.”

“Of course! But not all prayers are given such a happy response.” She sank to her knees again. “Look, Papa, Sir Michael has come to see you. We must be so grateful to him for the ear trumpet he sent.”

“And for the physician,” the doctor said as he entered the room. “Sir Michael has spared no expense in your care, Lord Buxton. I was on my way to tend to an accident when I was given the welcome news that you have awakened from your deep rest. How are you feeling, my good man?”

Rosalind took the horn and leaned next to her father. “How are you feeling? The doctor wants to know.”

“Taah-ba.”

“Terrible, I think he said.” Rosalind glanced up at the two men. “He cannot speak clearly.”

“Will you allow me a moment alone to examine your father, Miss Treadwell?” the doctor asked.

“Of course, sir.” As Mick led her out into the corridor, she let out a deep breath. “I realize he is not completely well, but he is alive. And for that I am so grateful to God—and you.”

Leaning one shoulder against the papered wall, he regarded her in silence for a moment. “Rosalind, I know your thoughts are with your father. But I must beg the opportunity to speak with you concerning another matter.”

“Caroline has spoken to me about the importance of making final wedding plans, but I really cannot—”

“It is not the wedding,” he cut in. “It is something else. It is . . .” Clearly agitated, he walked past her down the hall. Then he turned and spoke again. “Rosalind, I must talk to you about . . . about me.”

She reached out for the support of the wall beside her. Her thoughts flew to her unanswered questions about his past. Would he confess something now? some terrible secret? something that might separate them just when she was beginning to care for him?

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“Last night after I left you, I returned to my own house. But I could not sleep.” He began pacing again. “In the early hours of morning, I was roaming about my bed chamber when I discovered that I had inadvertently carried William’s Bible home with me. So I began to read it. I read until dawn, backwards and forwards, sometimes understanding what I read and other times completely confused at the meaning behind the words. I have not read it all, Rosalind. But I have read enough to know that I must tell you—”

“Miss Treadwell?” The physician stepped out into the corridor and shut the bedroom door behind him. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, Sir Michael, but I must speak at once and then be on my way. A young boy awaits me with a leg broken in two places.”

“But of course, sir,” Rosalind said.

“Miss Treadwell, the news is not good. Yet it is not as bad as might be feared. From my examination, I have concluded that your father suffers from apoplexy.”

“Apoplexy?”

“Indeed, it would appear that a clot of blood formed within his brain—whether this occurred as a result of his fall or whether it actually caused the tumble, we may never know. At any rate, the clot seems to have dulled much of the feeling in the left side of your father’s body—a common occurrence with apoplexy. Only with the most extreme effort can he move his left arm and leg, open his left eye, or speak through the left side of his mouth. Even his tongue, I fear, has been affected.”

“But what are we to do?”

“Nothing at the moment. I have given him a sleeping tonic to allow him to rest.” He covered her clasped hands with his. “Miss Treadwell, I regret to tell you that complete recovery is unlikely. Yet it is possible that—with time—your father may regain some of his former abilities.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, unable to lift her head for fear he would see the tears brimming in her eyes. “I am grateful for the care you have shown my father.”

“Take heart.” He started down the stairway. “Your father is in good hands, Miss Treadwell. With Sir Michael soon to be his son by marriage, Lord Buxton will receive every luxury and necessity available.”

Rosalind touched her cheek with her handkerchief. “I see now how wrong I was about you,” she said softly to the man who stood beside her. “There is much good to be said for having the means to help people.”

“Only if it is put to such use,” Mick said. “I confess I did not accumulate my wealth for that purpose . . . but only for my own satisfaction.”

She looked into his blue eyes and saw for the first time an openness, a vulnerability. “Perhaps the time has come for a change in more than your marital status. For that I am very warmly inclined . . . eager, in fact.”

“Are you saying . . . Rosalind, are you saying the prospect of our union now pleases you? Do you tell me that you would come into the marriage willingly?”

“I am saying that I liked the man I met in my father’s room last night. I liked him very much.” As she was speaking, her doubts about his past slipped back into her thoughts. “But I’m not certain I know him fully. Only that the more I do know him, the less dismay I feel over this arranged union.”

She reached out her hand for the door to her father’s room. Then she hesitated. “You started to tell me something. Before the doctor came out to speak to me, you said you needed to talk to me about something you had read—”

“It was nothing.” He gave her a dismissive nod, the openness in his eyes vanishing. “I am expected at my club. Good day.”

“Good day, sir.” Rosalind’s hand closed on the icy doorknob as Mick hurried down the staircase.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mick could not have been more surprised to find Rosalind waiting for him in his parlor. Three days had passed since her father’s return to consciousness, and she had spent all her waking hours at his side. Her obvious lack of trust in him had silenced his yearning to confess the truth about his past. Yet he could not will himself to stay away from her. Mick stopped by the house often, but they were never permitted to speak intimately, for the room was always occupied by visitors or medical staff.

“Rosalind?” He crossed the carpeted parlor as she rose from the settee. “Your father—is he not well?”

“Indeed, he is very well, thank you. I did not mean to alarm you.” She was dressed in one of the gowns he had ordered for her, a soft pink skirt with a velvet jacket trimmed in French Honiton lace. A diamond collet necklace he had bought at Mappin & Webb, Ltd., on Oxford Street circled her throat. But it was neither the fabric nor the jewels that made him breathless.

Rosalind’s gray eyes sparkled, her skin glowed with health, and her dark hair seemed alive with curl and movement. How could any woman be so lovely? And her smile! He had rarely seen her smile—but, my, what a glorious thing it was.

“I have come to express again to you my sincerest gratitude,” she began. “The ear trumpet has made all the difference in my father’s ability to understand me. And the nurses you employed to tend him have the highest hopes that he soon may be able to walk again. Even his speech becomes clearer as the phonetician you sent instructs him. Oh, thank you so much for helping us! Your generosity—”

“Please say no more.” He lowered his head a moment, remembering the filth and hopelessness in which his own mother had passed her last days. “I am glad to do all in my power to help your father. I understand your great love for him, Rosalind.”

“And this is the reason for your kindness? You do it for me?” She clenched her fingers together. “I confess . . . I feared your motives were more mercenary.”