Elisabeth Fairchild (25 page)

She rode on, with an absence of feeling, a blankness of emotion, breath rasping in her ears, the pony winded as well. No race to get there now. She soothed the animal with gentle word, perhaps with the hope of soothing herself--her voice uneven, her body beginning to shake.

Behind her the thud of hoofbeats. Ahead, the dark, motionless lump that was Val, and Felicity,  dear little Felicity. Too bleak a sight to regard for any length of time, and yet she moved toward them, inexorably, drawn and repelled, the rain suddenly too cold, shivers shaking her from head to toe--all of her cold except her eyes, her cheeks, which burned with tears as profuse as the raindrops dripping from her bonnet brim.

Did he move? Alexander wiped the rain from his eyes, and focused again on the darkness that was Val. Definitely movement, not just the wind flapping wet fabric. Val not only moved, he writhed, and a moan arose from his throat like that of a wounded animal. Alexander felt the pain of that cry all the way to his toes as he flung himself from the horse and knelt in the mud beside his injured friend.

Not dead--Val was not dead. Thank God!  Shot through the fat of his calf, nothing vital, blood soaking his stocking, so very bright the color--alarmingly so.

“Lord!” Alexander breathed, shoulders shaken by silent sobs of anguish.

Val turned on him, face twisted with pain. Foul oaths cascaded like a river from his tongue. And yet, the hands that clung to the child were gentle. Felicity, dear little Felicity, lay curled in his arms--cradled--so small she looked---so pale and motionless, her lips a bluish tinge.

Penny slid from the saddle and ran to them, limbs awkward, her breath catching in her throat, a cry rising like a bubble from deep within.

“Felicity. Felicity.” The name spilled again and again from her mouth. Not dead. Not dead. She could not believe it was so. Would not. Sobbing openly, she knelt to stroke the dripping little head cradled against Val’s chest. So blue her lips, so pale her cheek.

“Cupid!” Val was shouting, spitting tears and rain and anguish, the movement of his chest making the sad little head bob. “Damn you. It hurts.” He clutched at his leg, rocking with the pain. “Why not the heart, old friend? Why not that one last favor?” Val grabbed at Penny, blood staining her coat. “Where were you? She was burning. Burning. I didn’t know what to do.”

Penny fell back, stricken by the look in his eyes, by the bloody mess  of his leg.

Alexander stripped off his neck cloth. “He may bleed to death yet, if we do not get this tended to.” He  attempted to bind the wound, to hold the leg still.

“Stop!” Val tried to kick him aside, arms flailing, eyes bright, lips twisting as more tears coursed down his cheeks. “Let me bleed. Let me die.”

“Hold him.” Alexander ordered.

Penny obeyed,  grasping flailing hands,hing him back, Felicity still in his arms. “Good gracious!” she blurted. “He is hot.” Her hand flew to his forehead. “Fevered.”

“We must get him back to the Manor,” her father said as he held still the injured leg.

Alexander swiftly bound the bloody wound, then lifted the child from Val‘s clinging grip,  with a gently voiced, “Let go, Val. Time to let her go.”

He thrust the child into Penny’s waiting arms. “Come!” He looked Val in the eyes. “Here is your coat. You will ride my gray. See if you can stand.”
Behind him, Penny bent over the child, murmuring. “Dear Lord! Dear Lord! We must get her in out of the cold.” Her voice broke as she wrapped her cloak about the still form, so that they were both caped beneath the soggy wool. “We must get her to a doctor.”

“The child’s beyond caring about the cold, Penny, my dear,” her father murmured as he assisted in lifting Val, who struggled against them in rising.

He needed her. They needed her to help calm Val, and yet she had eyes for none but the child. Clutching the still figure tight to her chest, she mounted her pony, oblivious to Alexander’s voicing of her name, to her father’s echoing cry.

Head bent over the bundle in her arms she goaded the pony into motion.

Chapter Twenty-Six

They were met in the Manor yard by a half dozen of the servants, all ready and willing to help, to carry Val in, to take the horses, to tell them that Yarrow had sent for a physician. A hot bath had been prepared. The bedpan was warming. They must come in by the fire and dry themselves.

Val cried out in pain and anger as he was carried in.

Mr. Foster instructed anyone within hearing distance that Young Wharton was ill as well as injured, that he must be handled with care.

“Yes,” he was told. “Miss Foster said as much. She is upstairs, with Felicity.”

Alexander slid wearily from the saddle, feeling much removed from it all--suddenly useless. He clung to the gray’s reins, when they would have led him away, insisting he would rub down the horse himself. The groom shrugged, and led Foster’s pony into the warm, hay and oats smell of the stables. He was given a rag, a brush and currycomb. He was left in a stall alone with the gray, alone with shaking hands and an aching throat.

Alone, he rubbed down the gray, careful in the drying of his ears, nose and fetlocks,  checking the gray’s hooves for stones. Beyond that he was not much use to the beast. He needed the gray more than the gray needed him. As he had after battle, he needed the comfort to be drawn from the great, warm size of the animal, from the unconditional acceptance to be found in his darkly intelligent eyes, from the whiffling noise of contentment made deep in his chest as he nosed at the bucket of oats.

Still wet, still cold, the ache in chest, and throat like a weight of stones, crushing him, Alexander bent his head into the gelding’s steaming shoulder and mouth wide, eyes streaming, shoulders shaking, wept--soundlessly. He could not allow the sobs to vent noise. He could not allow the groom to know.

Penny watched from the rocker by the fire, the child bundled in her arms. The bath she had ordered for Felicity was prepared in all haste behind a folding screen. The whole household seemed anxious to help. Two maids waited for the pot of water to boil, two more ladled from the bucket of cold.

She listened to the commotion as Val was carried in, rose to go to the window, saw her father follow, while Alexander Shelbourne turned his back on the house, and led his horse away.

“The pot is steaming, miss!” One of the maids cried. There followed a great deal of splashing, as the hot water was added to the cold.

“You have warmed linen waiting?” she  asked.

“Yes, miss.”

Penny gazed down at the child, at the blue-tinged lips and eyelids. “Come Felicity, my dear. A nice hot bath to warm you.”

The maids stepped aside, heads lowered.  She dropped the blankets, and peeled the wet clothes from the limp, rash covered body. She plunged Felicity into the steaming water, mindless of wetting her sleeves, or the splashing of her bodice.

“You must hold her head,” she instructed one of the maids.

“Isn’t it catching, miss?”

“Hold her head,” she said again, firmly.

The woman knelt and did as she was bade.

Penny lifted the limp arms into the water, took the soap and lathered the body clean. She would not weep as she did it. She had no energy for weeping, only for the bathing of the body, for the prayers that ran endlessly through her mind.

There was a moment when she thought she saw Felicity’s eyelashes flutter, when her heart lurched with hope, and as she lifted the body, and wrapped it in warm linen, and chafed the flesh dry , she said, a little wildly, “How warm her skin. She looks as if she does but sleep. Are her lips less blue than before? Does she yet breathe? Bring me a mirror.”

One of the maids hurried to comply, thrusting a hand mirror at her.

She held it to the child’s lips, saw steam forming on the glassy surface, almost cried out in her joy.

“Steam rises from the hot water, miss,” Betsy pointed out gently, taking the mirror from her, the pity in her eyes unbearable.

“Can I do that for you, miss?” One of the maids asked.

Penny shook her head, wet locks dripping. “Leave me alone with her.”

Penny sank once more into the rocker, Felicity bundled in blankets in her lap.
Lady Anne, Lady Anne, she thought. If ever I needed you it is now. Can you not have a word with God?
The fire crackled and sparked. Outside the wind blew. The water in the tub ceased steaming. The  water cooled, motionless as the child.

“No,” she said aloud. “No!”

Her father cleared his throat from the doorway behind her. He walked in, saying, “You must be getting out of those wet clothes, my dear, or you shall catch your death.”

So much love in his voice. So gently did he insist, tears flooded her eyes. She could not look up at him. “I cannot let go of her now that she is in my arms, father.”

He nodded, the lines in his face etched deep, as he drew another chair close to the fire. “Your mother said as much, on the day you were born.”

Penny turned to look at him. “But,  I did not think she wanted me.”
“The day you were born, she could not have been happier. Would not let the wet nurse carry  you away to feed. Insisted on doing it herself.”

Penny was in tears again, the heat of them warming her cheeks,  salt on her tongue as they trickled in the corners of her mouth. “Did she? Did she, really?” Her arms wrapped tight around Felicity, sweet Felicity, wishing life into her again.
Lady Anne, Lady Anne, she thought. annot let ar this.

And from the depths of her cloak came a small sigh, a sigh so lifelike Penny must stop weeping, afraid she squeezed the child’s body too tight. She gazed down upon the unspoiled perfection of an unblemished cheek.

Eyelashes fluttered.

“Dear Lord!” Penny said, in disbelief.  “A glass of water.” She waved her hand at the pitcher, eyes fixed on the miracle of Felicity’s face, as she stirred, groaning, color returning to her lips.

“You must tell Val,” she said, as he handed her the glass.

He nodded, dumbfounded, and made for the door.

“Penny?” Felicity whispered, opening her eyes.

Penny smiled and leaned in close to whisper, “Yes, my dear.”

“I dreamed I was on fire, and papa carried me into the rain.”

“Hush now. The doctor is here.” Penny slid her beneath the warmed covers.

“And papa?” Felicity tried to sit up.

“I will fetch him,” Penny said.

Doctor Terrance entered.

Penny stepped aside, realizing she could not fetch Val, that he was in no condition to mount the stairs. And yet, she must tell him Felicity asked for him. She must share her elation with . . Suddenly aware of who was missing from this moment, she raced for the door, and down the stairs, standing aside for the passage of Val, who, despite his freshly bandaged injuries, insisted on being carried by two of the footmen, to his daughter’s bedside.

Her father followed. Their eyes met as Val was borne past her.

“Where is he?” she asked, the question urgent. “Do not tell me he has left.”
Her father knew at once who she meant. He frowned, and said, “He may well have, my dear. I have not seen him since . . .”
She ran past him, grabbing up a dry cloak from the pegs by the door.

“He loves you my dear,” her father shouted after her. “But he thinks you care more for the child than . . .”
She heard no more, as she ran into the rain again, and across the carriage yard, the door to the stables opening with a squeal. The groom looked up from brushing down her father’s pony. He seemed the only person there, but he tilted his head toward one of the stalls at her questioning look, and over the door she saw the twitch of gray ears.

“Alexander?” She pushed into the stall.

His head, hair still sleek with rain, jerked up from the gray’s shoulder, looking not at her, but away.

“Thank God, you are still here,” she said.

“Why?” he said brusquely. “Why thank God? It is the devil who has been at work this evening.” His voice cracked. He sniffed, and wiped at his face with damp sleeve, and bowed his head to the horse’s flank.

The straw rustled against her skirts as she went to him, to place her hand upon his shoulder. He flinched at her touch.

Aware of how cold her wet shoes were, how bedraggled her hair, she cupped one hand against the gray’s warm flank, reaching out once more with the other, to touch his arm, and said, “They both live.”
His head came up at once. “What? I thought . . . I thought, when you rode away without a word, that you had gone mad with grief.”

She wiped a tear from her cheek. “The doctor is with her now, and Val--” she smiled “Val has climbed the stairs, and the only thing I am wishing is that you . . . you will please . . . not go.”

He did not allow her to finish. Suddenly she was wrapped in his arms, and his lips were warm on hers. The gray shifted position with a low whicker, pushing them closer still.

She warmed to him, to his touch, to the wonder of his mouth.

“I need you,” she whispered against his lips. “It is you I will grieve for if you go. Hold me.”

“I thought I had lost you,” he murmured between kisses, his voice throaty. “I thought I had lost everything.”