Finagled (15 page)

She reached for the lamp tentatively. Afraid that the weakness of her fingers would keep her from lifting it from the wooden crate. She lifted it.

Repulsed by the things crawling in the tray of oil, she dropped it and it caught her dress. The smell of black smoke and the sudden heat on her limbs made her feel a panicky terror. She batted at the flames with her hands, but her hands went through them, emerging unscathed, making no impact on the conflagration.

She felt herself slipping deeper into an unconscious sleep. She realized that this was a dream, and the loss of control felt like sinking into terror. She tried to breathe steadily, but her lungs still hurt. Her lungs really hurt. She imagined her fingers, her toes, lying in bed, wiggling, trying to will herself awake. It was no use. No use. She slipped deeper. It was probably okay, she thought, she would wake up in the morning, her terror of the night would be a silly, distant feeling dream. Maybe she would not even remember this. It hurt because she was panicking. If she relaxed and slipped off... she relaxed and slipped off.

The cold, wet rush hit her suddenly. She thought of the lake, the blinking stars, she felt strong arms pulling her up, out of bed, her chest hurt so badly, the deep breaths she tried to take were racking, hacking, black and painful, gasping and hot.

"Oh God," she heard George's voice.

She tried to open her eyes, the lids felt so heavy, weighted. Her lashes fluttered. The room was dark.  So dark, through her half lidded eyes. She felt like her legs were on fire. She felt like vomiting.

She felt herself laid out on something soft, but it  hurt to the touch of her legs. She fell unconscious again.

"Such a... such a terrible dream," she mumbled later, not opening her eyes, but sensing someone, Melanie, she presumed, moving about the room.

She opened her eyes and tried to pull herself up. She stopped. She was not in her room. She was in another room. She recognized it, but it was not her room. She looked blearily around. Yes. The yellow room. She remembered. Maryann and Thomas Machardly stayed here. Why did it hurt so much to move her legs? They were uncovered by the blanket that lay across her torso, but covered by... something else. Something wet, something slimy, bright and cracking, a sharp smelling salve. She peered around the room. The light was a morning one. Her lungs still ached.

"What?" her voice came, shaking, gruff, "it was not..." she tried to say...

"Don't talk," George's voice came, she turned her head, "Lay back," he softly laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Not a dream," she managed.

"There was a fire," George said. "You're going to be fine. You just have to rest now."

"Fire?" she asked.

"Yes. It is okay, now..." he paused, "I am taking care of you, Ramona,"

"Like..." she tried to speak more, but her throat burned.

George lifted a glass of water to her lips and she let it slide down her throat. Swallowing the water was like swallowing brambles. She coughed and sputtered.

"Just rest now." George said.

And she did.

Ramona rested. Her legs, she discovered, when she could finally speak, move, and think somewhat coherently, were burned. The red, cracking flesh on her slender limbs made her vomit the first time she saw it. It burned.

"How did it happen?" was one of the first things she asked.

How do these things ever happen. You left a candle burning, I suppose.

But no, she insisted, she did not.

Confused and angry, she maintained, she had not left a candle lit, the fire dying in the grate was the only flame in her room. It had not jumped the distance to her bed without a scorch or spark between the two.

What other explanation could there be? She admitted she could think of none, but she swore, she promised, she had not left a candle lit. She hated the way he looked at her when she said this, his eyes full of suspicion.

Mostly George was wonderful to her during this time, but she could not be wonderful back. She was too hurt, physically and emotionally wounded.

She did not see Regina or Andrew again for some time. Regina seemed genuinely disinterested and Andrew uncomfortable. Regina asked after Ramona when she met George, here and there, around the house, but he would go days with seeing her, or his son.

Ramona's mother, however, upon hearing of her daughter’s accident, insisted on visiting.  She brought Ramona’s Aunt Tirinia with her. The Christmas season was upon them, and they attempted to bring some holiday cheer into Loathewood. They arrived late one evening. The house was generally dark, with George often in the yellow room with Ramona, and Regina and Andrew keeping to the wing where Regina's room was located, many of the front rooms fell into disuse.

"So, how many tragedies have befallen you?" Lady Havishamble asked, practically. "You need your mother right now."

"It does seem like things have been rather hectic," Ramona admitted.

"Indeed. Married for 4 months and both of you have found yourself injured. Uncanny." Tirinia said.

"And you're not even pregnant yet, are you? A triple tragedy," Lady Havishamble sighed.

"Given the circumstances, I should hope not," Ramona said, "I do not imagine my accident would have been good for a baby."

"That
is
true. Perhaps you would have lost it, or worse yet, maimed it in the womb. It might have come out all smokey eyed and wicked."

"I hardly think so." Tirinia said, with a chuckle.

"Well, you never do know," Lady Havishamble said, defensively. "I do recall, the Marchioness of Waddlefoot, she had an accident, fell from a yacht, I believe it was, and her baby was very small and female. She grew up to be very loose and unsuitable."

Tirinia laughed, "Oh yes, the Waddlefoots!"

"What?" Lady Havishamble inquired.

"Well, for goodness sake, it was well known at the time," Tirinia said, "that whole family was rakish. I imagine it was genetic."

"Well, perhaps so, but one mustn't be too careful..."

"And then this... Regina? George's sister in-law," Tirinia said, "she had quite the reputation..."

"Oh goodness," Lady Havishamble said, "Did she? And I have already been quite civil to her."

Ramona tightened her mouth and said nothing.

"And look, she had an accident too, Melanie told me about it, she was thrown from her horse!" Tirinia said.

"Yes," Ramona replied. "The day after she arrived at Loathewood."

"Except," Tirinia raised an eyebrow, "Melanie said it was not her horse at all, it was yours, dear,"

"That is so." Ramona said.

"Well... Melanie also said that the stablehand did not think it was accidental."

"What?" Ramona sat up, wincing slightly as her legs scraped against the the bed sheets.

"Oh, so you hadn't heard? That seems a bit messy, of itself. I imagine someone spoke to the Duke about it..."

"Good lord, Tirinia, what are you saying?" Lady Havishamble exclaimed. "You are not implying something about the Duke, my son in-law, are you?"

"Mmm. No. I consider myself an excellent judge of character, and I like the Duke, you know that very well Imelda. No... I imagine he has his reasons. I’m not sure I agree with them, however. So I put to you..." she said, "Ramona, what are the chances you were going to ride that horse that day?"

"I... well, yes, I had planned on it, but I... I did not feel well that morning."

"Hmph." Tirinia said.

"I really... I really don’t know what you’re trying to say, Aunt Tirinia."

"I say it looks like there have been two
accidents
aimed at you, my dear," Tirinia replied.

"Accidents are accidents, Aunt,"

"Indeed, they are, so… More bluntly, I believe there were two attempts to hurt you,"

"Oh, now seriously! This is the home of a Duke, and..." eyes glittering, Lady Imelda Havishamble looked at her daughter, "and
a Duchess
," she said breathily, "my daughter and my son in law!"

"Yes indeed, and I have heard of such things happening in quarters higher up still. Think of the Princes of the Tower, Imelda, think of
that
."

"I..." Ramona was silent, George had only told her that he was Andrew's father out of trust, which she could not now betray. "I can't see why anyone would want to do such a thing."

"Oh can't you?" Tirinia raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Nor can I, really Tirinia, you read too many novels, clearly." Lady  Havishamble said, with a little tsk tsk of disapproval.

Tirinia leaned forward, "Am I incorrect that Andrew, your nephew, my dear, is the current heir to Loathewood and the Blusterfuss Dukedom?"

"That is correct," Ramona tensed up.

"Well, then, that must be hard for him. Raised up to the age of 13, almost a man really, and then..." Tirinia sighed, "here comes his uncle, with a pretty little bride. And what do men marry for? To make children." she answered, satisfied with her logic.

"Yes... but..." Ramona stumbled over her words, "you don't understand the situation as I do..."

"Well then, please elaborate." Tirinia said.

"I really can't." Ramona said, "but... I do not believe that..." she sighed. "I do not believe it."

"Whatever you say, my dear." Tirinia replied, "But I should keep an eye out, if I were you, and in fact, I will keep one out myself."

Ramona's life had become so much stranger than she could have anticipated.

The memories of just 6 months before seemed like the life of someone completely different.  She was a Duchess now, but she still felt unused the station to which she had been lifted, her closest friends were the household staff. She was a wife, but in name only. Now, with the healing flesh on her legs quite unbearably painful, she was confined to bed. She could not walk, though the Doctor, an expert brought in, well versed in these types of injuries, expected that she would again.

It would take a long time to heal, though, and Ramona would have to be patient. Now, with her family visiting, she had more company than ever, and they were quite set on keeping her cheerful. Even Lady Havishamble was careful to barely mention her favorite subjects, the ones that would make her daughter cringe, flush or protest heatedly. Tirinia always did manage to keep Imelda Havishamble in check. She knew just the right things to say to make her feel as if she were harming the cause she was hoping to promote.

George was still somewhat distant. He was kind, but he was not himself. He came and sat with her once a day when Tirinia Shoobukkle and Lady Imelda Havishamble were not present, chiefly because they could not always be present.

Tirinia smiled to catch George outside of Ramona's room. He was there, actually very often, in a chair.

So
, she thought
, he suspects as well. Perhaps soon will be the time to discuss it with him. Does he have an idea that it is his nephew and the boy’s mother, or does he think it is someone else? If he had known the boy and his mother were a danger to Ramona, surely he could just... take Ramona away from this before anything happened. But you would not want to think such a thing of your own nephew, your own dead brother's son.

It was not unsurprising that he would hesitate and hope, but Tirinia hated that this hesitation may have caused Ramona's current injury.

From the gossip Tirinia had gleaned that George knew that Regina's fall from the horse had not been an accident. What had he thought of it then? Had he suspected the injury intended for Regina? Tirinia was quite convinced it was meant for the owner of the unfortunate animal, Ramona.

Tirinia could hardly contain herself, she wanted to quiz the younger man quite soundly.

But he was there, or his valet was, his trusted valet who had been with him for 15 years. Tirinia imagined that a closeness and trust could be built up in such a relationship. It was probably even easier than the friendship between a lady and her maid. It seemed women were always too conscious of their place, but a man, a young man of 17 being thrown together with another of around the same age, despite their vastly different stations, there must be a real feeling there. Tirinia approved of the valet as a suitable guard for Ramona.

Tirinia did not worry about Ramona as much, since there was always someone outside of her door. She did wonder if Ramona was aware of it, however. She always sighed and acted strange at mention of her husband. It was clear that their relationship was tumultuous, as indeed, Tirinia had hoped it would be, but... there was something else there that she could not place.

When she saw the two young people together it seemed as if that connection that she had fostered so carefully, that she had groomed and enjoyed watching, the rapport, the back and forth, the secret smiles, the clever witticisms, was no longer there. It was possible that a pallor had fallen over their relationship because of Ramona's injury. She knew from Ramona's letters that George's injury in London had only strengthened their bond.

Tirinia wondered too if George's  accident had been an accident at all, or if it had, in some way, been connected to the things going on at Loathewood presently. It seemed so unlikely that someone could catch George like that on  purpose. He was a guest at that hotel, and that was not unknown, but was it his custom to wander the city streets in the early morning hours? Did he often get out of bed before the sun was up and take a stroll.

Ramona did not know that George, or his valet, Henry, were always stationed outside of her door. She could not see into the hallway from her bed, and no one had thought to mention it to her. George, in fact, was careful not to. He did not want her to suspect that his vigilance was out of fear for her safety, as it was, and he could hardly look at her without betraying some stronger feeling. She was so small in that large bed. Her legs looked excruciating, covered in salve, and kept uncovered, because even the weight of blankets upon them was unbearable. She looked always as if she had just been crying, and she probably had, how could he blame her? She was in serious pain and confined to one lonely and boring room all hours of the day. Perhaps soon the Doctor would approve wheeling her about in a chair, but for now moving her was too painful.

The burns, the burns were not life threatening, he had come to her in time, thank God. They extended from just above her knee on her right leg, clearly the fire had started near there, and across, only really touching the right side of her left leg. The worst of it was along the right side of her right calf. Her feet sustained very surface level burns, they hurt, indeed, but the soles were clean and pink, the fire had not engulfed them fully. She could not move her toes without agony, she could not sit up in bed without help. But George never actually saw her cry.

He remembered the tears she had shed when he first saw her after their engagement had been announced.  They had been messy and young tears. She had felt the keen pain of their situation, on both sides. She was horrified for her own reputation, and sure that George must hate her for it. She had cried then, with such feeling.

Now she just looked always on the verge. Pale with splotchy red cheeks and glassy eyes. 

She often hugged a pillow to her chest when he sat with her. She barely spoke, and he could barely make himself look at her, it hurt his heart so deeply to see her in pain. He stared at the carpet weft. She asked every day how Mrs. Lopple was doing. She asked over their housekeeper! He wanted to smile at her oddly placed concern. Mrs. Lopple had been asking about Ramona, as well, of course. It was said politely, as any housekeeper might ask after her mistress, but there was a depth of concern there, Mrs. Lopple cared something more for Ramona. He was glad that she had been so welcomed into his home.

Melanie, of course, spent much of her day in and out of Ramona's room. The poor girl was horrified by the injury. She would do her duty and then, in the hallway, break down into tears. She could not even get out of sight of George or his valet, sitting in their hard little upright chair. Henry was silent, let her cry in peace, but George approached her, offered her the chair.

"Oh," she sighed a little sigh, "You are so kind," she said, "so right for my mistress, I just hate to see her brought so low, she is such a good soul, Your Grace, such a good and kindly mistress. She did not deserve such an accident. Oh if only I had been there, put her candles out before bed, but she always did that herself."

Melanie looked up at George, "Oh my goodness, look at me going on," she stood up suddenly, "I must, I have things to do, for my mistress, excuse me, Your Grace."

George watched everyone, gauged their reactions to Ramona's injury. The fact that Andrew seemed so continually disinterested made George feel sick inside. This was his son, and he had raised him, he thought that he had raised him to be a good person. How was it possible for Regina to come in and ruin that in such a short time? Just by her conversation, or her bad blood? Was it really possible that her very nature had passed on to this poor boy? George considered it. He did love Andrew, he loved him as a son. He had not been as attentive as he might have been, for fear that someone might suspect, as he would have been if the boy had been his son by marriage, not the illegitimate offering of a sinful union. He scowled.

He had not done anything wrong, though he had spent years blaming himself. He woke up one evening and Regina was on him, sleepily he imagined it to be a dream, perhaps one that he should not encourage, but just a dream. In the morning he thought that it could not have possibly been real.

The face that greeted him at the breakfast table confirmed it, however. Regina smiled at him archly. His brother did not see it, he buttered his bread and asked for the marmalade. George felt sick. He left the estate that afternoon, accompanied by Henry.

He was gone for 6 months. After the third, he got a letter in transit from his brother. Regina was expecting a child. George burned the letter and stayed away for three more months. He did not even respond. He felt so much guilt. How could he have been such a fool? But he had been so drunk and confused that evening, he had even gone to bed earlier than usual. It did not occur to him for a very long time that Regina had poured his drink that evening. He hated her more than he thought possible.

After 6 months another letter came. This one was from Regina herself. Malcolm was unwell, and asking for George.

It was a long illness. But George stayed. He ignored Regina as much as possible,  appearing civil only when they were in his brother's presence. He kept his door looked at night. He dined alone in his room.

When the baby was born, Regina had begged him to stay with her. The Doctor had intervened. George would not have done it anyway. What was she trying to do? Endear him to the child, by making him watch it come into the world? It was not until the following afternoon when he went to visit with his brother that he saw the baby. Pink and blonde, like Regina's husband. George had laughed and held the baby with a smile on his face. Regina was not there, she was still abed, a servant had introduced Andrew to Malcolm.

A year later Malcolm succumbed to his mysterious illness. Andrew began to resemble George more and more, his first, blond little hairs were replaced with darker ones. The boy looked like his uncle at that age, but no one remarked it as strange. Regina's hair was also dark. Nanny, who was caring for the boy, as she had done both his father and his uncle, remarked it, though. It was, she said, incredible how much the boy looked like George as a baby, even the blond hair. "

Did you know George, that you were born with a full head of blond hair?" she asked.

On the morning when Malcolm died, Regina had already gone. Malcolm's investments, the ones that
she
had insisted on, had gone completely sour. She would not have had to answer for them, but she left. George was not quite sure why. He would have supported her, but then he had this baby, and his brother gone. It had seemed like a blessing that the woman was gone.

He thought he was raising Andrew to be a good person. George and Malcolm had been raised the same way. They were kind, considerate men. George could not believe that Regina's blood could outrank his own within this child.

George sat up from his thoughtful reverie outside of Ramona's door. Henry had arrived to relieve him. He gave the valet a pat on the back and went to catch a few hours sleep. He was so tired and always on edge.