Allison Lane (19 page)

“Still?”

“Permanently.  He broke his back.”

“How terrible!” 

Their eyes met.  She truly cared.  Despite never having met the man, her distress for his misfortune was real.  “It has not been pleasant, but his condition is now stable.  He will likely live many years yet.”

“Confined to bed.”

“Or a chair.  But that is enough of my affairs.  The park is lovely.  Did Capability Brown have a hand in its design?”

“One of his assistants, according to Grandfather.  It was redone in his father’s day and includes a maze – now sadly overgrown – and a hermit’s retreat.”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen one of those.”  The words were out before he had time to consider them, and he nearly kicked himself in disgust.  Any hope that he might get away with such stupidity fled with her response.

”It’s not far.  Caesar can carry both of us.”

How could he pass up the chance to ride double with her?  And it might yet be all right, he conceded as he lifted her onto the horse, then swung up behind her, making no attempt to keep distance between them; her warmth stole through his cloak as he set Caesar to a leisurely walk.  Hermit’s retreats were usually fanciful huts hidden in woods.  They had been popular a century earlier.  Few had ever been inhabited, though some estates had employed a resident hermit.

“It is just beyond the north end of the lake,” she said as he skirted the formal gardens. 

“You say your great-grandfather built it?”

“His wife’s family had one on their estate in Surrey.  She thought it charming, though I have heard hints that her attraction was more for the occupant than for the retreat itself; the hermit was replaced with a resident ogre about the time she turned fifteen.  Ours was never inhabited, however.  In here,” she added as they reached a patch of woods.

He frowned.  Tucked inside was a jumble of rocks, holding that other sort of hermit’s folly – a cave.  Pulling Caesar to a halt, he dismounted and lifted her down. 

Why did it have to be a cave?

“They did quite a good job of building it,” she said, heading for the entrance.  “This was originally flat woodland.”

Taking a deep breath, he followed.  It was too late to retreat, though shivers crawled down his back.  “It looks completely natural.”  He was proud of his even tone.

“From here.  The inside is obviously fake – they used daub to simulate much of the stone.  But there is neither window nor chimney, so it is uninhabitable.  Come see.”

You can do this, he admonished himself.  It is merely a folly.  A man-made fribble no different from a summer house or pagan temple.  The walls aren’t even stone.

Elizabeth had disappeared inside.  He forced his feet as far as the entrance.

A tiny shriek made him jump.  “All this rain is making the ceiling drip,” she said laughingly as she grabbed his hand to pull him through the doorway.  “Stay close to the wall.  The builder would be horrified to see how Fosdale has let it deteriorate.  I imagine the whole thing will collapse one day.  But for now, you can see how it was.  There’s a stone fireplace and cupboard, and even a stone bed, but they are only for show.”

The room was barely ten feet across.  Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, contributing to the damp and creating the musty smell he would forever associate with terror.  Daub might have smoothed the surface and filled in cracks, but plenty of raw rock remained, exuding that dusty dampish odor he hated.  Lichens covered several surfaces.

Darkness closed over his eyes despite the light pouring through the doorway.  His chest tightened, restricting his breathing.  His heart battered against his ribs, drowning all other sound.  Pain zigzagged down his arms. 

Say something, demanded the voice through his growing panic.  Tell her it is charming.  Laugh at the foibles of earlier generations.  Then you can leave.

He opened his mouth, but what emerged was an agonized scream as his feet bolted blindly for the door…

“Are you all right?”  Elizabeth’s voice held only concern as she laid a hand on his shoulder.  He was leaning against a tree, gulping air and shaking.

“I’m fine.”  His shaky whisper belied the claim.

“What happened?”  She gently turned him until she could look into his eyes.  Without volition his arms closed around her, and he laid his head on her shoulder.

Her hand stroked his hair.

Only his grandmother had ever understood.  Those few who had once known believed he had outgrown the problem.  Yet he suddenly found himself admitting a truth even Sedge did not suspect.  “I cannot tolerate small spaces, especially when they are damp.”

“They cause panic.”  Her fingers kneaded his shoulders, relieving the tension.

He nodded.

“Like Letty and the lake,” she murmured.

“What about the lake?”  Surprise raised his head until he could see her eyes.  She did not look the least bit distressed to discover that a grown man harbored such a childish fear.

“Severe trauma can have odd consequences, particularly when it occurs in childhood.  My maid nearly drowned at age six.  Ever since, she cannot tolerate water on her face.  I promoted her to lady’s maid when I discovered that the footmen thought it funny to toss her in the lake.  Have you any idea what caused your own problem?”

Her matter-of-fact acceptance stunned him, making talking easier.  His tutor, his father, and his grandfather had all considered his dilemma unmanly, prescribing remedies that ranged from whipping to locking him in wardrobes until he was too hoarse to continue screaming.  A future duke did not quiver with fright when faced with a small room.

He was almost afraid to believe in her tolerance.  How could she describe more than twenty years of terror as the expected result of a childhood trauma?  Yet if they were to wed, she must know the truth.  He had given up finding a cure.

“I was hardly a model child,” he began.  “I did not take well to the regimented life boys are expected to endure.  Nor did boring sessions with tutors appeal to me.  So I frequently escaped their supervision and set out to explore.”

“That sounds much like my own childhood,” she said with a laugh.  “I was the bane of my governesses.”

He squeezed her once, then dropped his arms to pace the clearing before the cave.  “My gr—Whitfield’s estate contains many wonders guaranteed to fascinate young boys.  I was nine when I slipped away to explore a cave I had spotted several days earlier.  The roof collapsed, pinning my legs to the floor and extinguishing my candle.”

“Dear God.”  She blanched.  “It is a wonder you weren’t killed.”

“True.  I tried to free myself, but the stones were too heavy.  Smaller ones tumbled during the night.  Though they did little more than inflict bruises when they landed on me, the knowledge that death lurked overhead was always there.”

“When did they find you?”

“Dusk the next day.”  He shivered.  “By then I’d been trapped for thirty hours and was feverish.  One leg was broken and I had contracted a chill that nearly killed me.  By the time I recovered, I had suppressed most of the horror.  But it revives whenever I feel closed in.”

“Then why did you walk into that cave?”

He shrugged.  “This fear is illogical.  I keep hoping that someday I will overcome it.”

“I wish you had told me earlier.”

“It is not something I like to reveal.  You are the only living person who knows about it,” he said truthfully.

* * * *

Elizabeth was silent as Mr. Randolph escorted her back to the house.  His tale had touched her more than she had thought possible, making him seem far too human.  And far too needy.  Imagining the horror he lived with raised the urge to hold him close and soothe away his fears.

Her hand brushed the arm that held her against his chest, sending sparks rampaging along her nerves.  There was so much about him that she admired.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember that wedding him would be a disaster.

But she must remember.  Stiffening her back, she deliberately recalled the many ways Fosdale tormented her mother.  Never would she leave herself open to such abuse.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Randolph escorted Elizabeth back to the house before returning to the gates.  He tethered Caesar behind the ruins, then settled into a reasonably comfortable niche from which he could see the road.

His card case turned in his hand.  Who would ever have predicted this day’s events?  Elizabeth actually believed his lifelong shame was a perfectly normal reaction.  The idea was insidiously enticing.

His fears had changed his life.  Those who had witnessed an attack had either considered it childish or dismissed it as rebellion against activities he disliked, such as his tutor’s insistence on exploring the dungeons at Whitfield Castle.  The constant ridicule and their determination to beat his fears into submission had made him secretive.  And he had eschewed several potential friendships because the gentlemen were too like those who derided his manhood.

Frowning, he reviewed the boy he had become.  After that brush with death, he had eschewed adventures.  Never again did he escape his tutors, broadening his knowledge only through books.  Even now, he avoided new places lest he stumble into a situation he couldn’t handle – like that hermit’s cave.  It was an understandable reaction, but he had carried it too far.

Yet part of his terror had been provoked after the original accident.  Elizabeth’s acceptance allowed him to dispassionately examine his childhood for the first time in his life, raising anger that overrode the shame.  His fears had strengthened every time Tyer had locked him up in an attempt to cure him – at least that was the man’s justification for the abuse.  The tutor had been a stern disciplinarian even before the cave incident.  Afterward, he had relished punishing what he called
George’s
infantile displays.

Randolph swore, reviving his hatred for the tutor who had mistreated him so badly – not that the blame was solely his.  Whitfield had originally suggested that approach, and his father had concurred.  But neither of them had seen the results, and he doubted either man knew how often the treatment had been applied.

He tried to recall the initial disaster and all the subsequent recreations of it.  Even thinking about it revived the breathless terror.  Death loomed, ready to pounce.  But mixed with the fear was a helplessness that he had never before identified.

The feeling remained, he admitted.  In the cave, he had been unable to move, to see, to ward off the falling stones that could destroy him.  Later, he had been helpless against Tyer’s determination and superior strength and against the walls and locks that enclosed him, suffocating him.  And he was still out of control, helpless to ward off the creeping terror.

But at least he could finally accept that his fears did not reflect his character, his worth, or his right to be considered a gentleman.

Hoofbeats approached.  Shoving the card case into a pocket, he abandoned his post and stepped onto the drive.  For the first time in days, Lady Luck looked favorably upon him.  His baggage coach turned through the gates, caked in mud but intact.

“My lord!”  Jacob pulled the team to a halt.

“How was your journey?  Did you have any trouble other than the collapsed bridge?” he asked.

“We lost two days to impassable roads.”

“I expected that.”  His hand cut off the apology on Jacob’s tongue. 

“Then why are you waiting here, if I might be so bold?”

Randolph laughed.  “Boldness is just what I need at the moment.  We must talk – all of us.”  He opened the door to greet the two valets while Jacob and the groom climbed down to join him.  “Lord Sedgewick and I have fallen into a bit of a muddle.  I need your cooperation if we are to emerge intact.”

“Anything.”

“Good.”  He explained the mix-up in identities, emphasizing the need for secrecy if Sedge was to survive unscathed and unmarried.  “It will take a few days to extricate him.  In the interim, can you remember that your employer is Lord Symington?” he asked Sedge’s valet.

“Of course, my lord.”

“I am merely Mr. Randolph,” he reminded the men with a sigh.  “Linden, you must pose as Symington’s secretary.  Fosdale is short-staffed just now, so I hope he will send you for the license.”

“As you wish, my lo— Mr. Randolph, sir.”

“Let’s not overdo it.  I am merely a poor relation who knows something about books.  A library expert of sorts.”

Humor glinted in Linden’s eyes.  “Like Jakes?”  Staring disdainfully down a very long nose, he rapped the carriage roof.  “Why are we wasting time with underlings, Jacob?  His lordship will be expecting us.”

Randolph laughed, though Linden’s reminder was less humorous than intended.  He kept losing the subservient demeanor he should be employing.  He had never considered himself particularly autocratic, but it was true that he was accustomed to taking charge, to getting his own way, to…

There was that need for control again.  It countered his perpetual feeling of helplessness.  Sighing, he turned his horse toward the village.  He must do better before someone noticed.  Especially Elizabeth.  She was already suspicious, and far too intelligent…

He was so deep in thought that he nearly passed an oncoming horseman without notice.

“Symington!” 

The greeting jerked him out of his thoughts.  It was far from cordial, despite the fact that he had not seen Sir Lewis in at least six years.

“I ought to call you out,” continued Lewis coldly.  “Seducing innocents cannot be rectified by marriage alone.”

Thrown off balance by the charge, Randolph could only stare.

“I know she’s beautiful, but that’s no excuse.”

“Wait a minute,” protested Randolph, finding his voice.  “I never seduced the girl.”

“Then why is the tale all over the valley?”  Fury glittered in his green eyes.

“I accidentally compromised her,” he admitted calmly, trying to defuse Sir Lewis’s anger.  Why did he care what happened to Elizabeth?  Was a secret liaison behind her refusal to wed?  “Honor demands I wed her despite never having laid a hand on her.  I have every intention of doing so, though I have yet to convince her of the necessity.  She’s turned me down several times already.”