No Greater Love (18 page)

“Nicholas,” she said, looking down at him with tears filling her eyes. “You really are an imbecile. Don’t you know I’d be lost without you?” She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers, then curled his hand in hers and held it against her chest, which hurt so much she could scarcely breathe.

She remembered how he had kissed her in the carriage before he had gone, and the words he had spoken to her, the promise he had insisted on. “Don’t go near the water,” he’d said, almost desperately. He had held her to him as if he would never hold her again, as if he were impressing her on his soul.

Georgia covered her mouth with her fist, her tears spilling over. She suddenly understood. “Oh, Nicholas,” she whispered. “I’m the one who’s been the imbecile, haven’t I?”

She put her head in her arms and she wept.

Georgia knelt down beside the child and touched his flushed cheek. His eyes flew open, and she saw for the first time that they were a deep brown.

“Hello, my friend,” she said gently. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Aidez-moi,”
he cried, his eyes unfocused. He coughed, and turned his body into the pallet.
“La mer … elle moi submerge…”

“Soit tranquille, mon enfant,”
Georgia replied, stroking his hot brow.
“Tu es sain et sauf. Tout est bien. “

He sighed and his eyes closed again. She sat for some time, murmuring to the child in his own language. She had hope for him, if he could survive the fever he was building and his small body could find the strength to overcome his experience.

Nicholas was another matter altogether.

She bit her lip, trying very hard to attend to the child, but the thought of Nicholas lying upstairs in his unnatural sleep would not leave her. She was frightened, so very frightened. She really did not know what she would do if he died. For not only would it break her heart, but it would be too late to tell him how she really felt.

Cyril arrived later that morning, full of news. “We have twelve m-men at the house,” he said breathlessly, entering the sitting room and looking curiously at the pallet where the child slept. “All survived the n-night. How is it h-here? H-how is the b-boy?”

Georgia looked up from sponging the child. It was almost more than she could do to look at him. Her emotions had already been pushed to the edge, and she knew one more thing, one more insult, one more demand, and she would snap.

“Hello, Cyril,” she said tightly. “To answer your question, the child is feverish. His lungs are congested. But he is taking liquids. Your cousin, on the other hand, is in a state near death. Were you going to ask about him, or is it of no interest to you at all?”

Cyril blanched. “N-Nicholas? N-near death?”

“I believe so. You can go and see for yourself. Binkley is with him.”

“Georgia … I m-meant to a-apologize to you. For what I s-said last night. About N-Nicholas, I m-mean. And the b-boy. It was f-foolish.”

She took in a quick breath, praying for patience. “Yes, it was foolish, and it was thoughtless. But it is good of you to recognize that fact and to offer an apology. You might give it to Nicholas.”

“H-he is upstairs?”

“Yes. You can sit and talk to him, even though he probably cannot hear you. But it might do you some good. I think you have a very misguided idea of your cousin, Cyril, and if he is fortunate enough to survive, perhaps you will manage to change your attitude. And then you can come back down here and sit with the child. He needs constant attention, and I want to go over to Ravenswalk and check on the injured.”

Cyril nodded and left the room, but she could see how reluctant he was to go. She could well imagine why. She hoped Cyril was thoroughly ashamed of himself. No, more than ashamed. She hoped he saw what a spoiled, whining, dreadful child he was. She was hoping for yet another miracle, she thought bitterly. And if she were to line her miracles up, Nicholas was first on the list.

“Mrs. Wells!” said the footman, opening the door. “I … I mean Mrs. Daventry. How is your husband? He was so very brave last night. As were you, ma’am.”

“My husband has still not awakened, but thank you for asking, James. If you would take me to wherever you’ve quartered the injured men? I’m sorry to be so curt,” she added, hearing her tone of voice. “It is only that I am in a hurry to return home.”

“Naturally, ma’am. And the boy? How is the boy?”

“He is fighting. Has the doctor been?”

“Yes, ma’am, earlier this morning. But they’ll be happy to see you. They’ve been talking of nothing else. An angel, they’re calling you, ma’am, with the touch of the good Lord himself.”

Georgia colored furiously. “I am nothing of the sort,” she said. “I don’t know where they’ve come up with such a fanciful idea.”

She followed James to the ballroom, only to see it had been turned into a ward, mattresses laid out on the marble floor. With a brief flash of humor she thought of Lady Raven and the horrified reaction she’d have when she eventually discovered the use her precious ballroom had been put to. She colored again when a murmur went up as the men saw her.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as briskly as she could manage. In truth, she was happy to see each and every one of them, for she vividly remembered what had gone into their rescue.

She moved among them, talking quietly to them, discovering that they had been the crew of a trading vessel returning to England. “And the child?” she asked. “Can you tell me about him?”

“A Frenchie, missus,” said the man whose arm she had bandaged the night before. “Pascal LaMartine is his name. Only eleven, the poor lad, hired on as cook’s assistant, although a touch above us all. Did he make it through the night? We’ve all been afraid to ask.”

“He did,” and she smiled at the sighs of relief. “I am hoping he will make a full recovery, as will all of you. How did he come to be aboard?”

“He’d just joined us. Thought he was a goner, we did, not that he had any family to worry about him. He lost them all in the sickness that ran through Paree last year, and gentlefolk they were, from the little he said—or didn’t say. The troubles, you know. Things haven’t been so good for the gentlefolk since then, you see, so he weren’t talking much—in truth, the lad’s not talking at all, not at all. He did a proper running-away after his family died. He’s more educated than the lot of us, that’s for certain. But his language is halfway decent so you won’t have no real trouble understanding him, miss, though he confounds my brain with all his odd prattle. He’s a good boy, don’t misunderstand me. Didn’t deserve to have this happen. Thank God for your husband is all I can say.”

“Yes. I know. This might hurt, for I am going to apply a mixture to your arm. It will prevent infection.”

“But the doctor stitched it only this morning, missus. I’m sure it don’t need nothing else,” the man said, alarmed.

“Yes, I can see he stitched it, but that doesn’t prevent infection; it only ensures that the edges will heal together.”

“Not dung?” the man asked, shuddering.

“Certainly not,” Georgia replied with a smile, pulling out her jar of unguent. “I have no intention of killing you. It’s a mixture made from hedge woundwort, and will speed the healing. There you are. Your name, sir?”

“Jeremiah Briggs, missus.”

“Well, then, Jeremiah Briggs. You’ll soon be better, see if you aren’t.”

She rebandaged his arm and moved on to the next man.

A half-hour later she was finished, well-pleased. They were a ragged bunch, and would need some time to recover, but they looked well enough, given everything.

She went down to the kitchen to mix some medicines, and she found Jerome there, engaged in the process of making an herbal tisane.

“Mrs. Daventry,” he said, looking up from his work with surprise. “Good morning. How is Mr. Daventry this morning?”

“He is not well, Mr. Jerome,” she said, setting down her box. “But I am hoping he only needs rest. You were all so wonderful last night.”

“We did nothing compared to him,” he said, pouring boiling water onto his mixture, and Georgia looked over with curiosity.

“What are you preparing?” she asked.

“It is a tea for his lordship,” he said. “He receives it twice daily.”

“Oh? May I ask what the ingredients are?”

“I don’t really know, madam. You appear to be far more conversant with the art than I.”

“I wish I knew more,” Georgia said, finishing the fever reducer. “Perhaps I could smell? I am curious.”

“Certainly, madam,” he said, stepping away from the bubbling pan.

Georgia bent her nose to the steam, then looked up in sudden alarm. “May I see the dry mixture?” she said, sure she had to be wrong.

Jerome took a tin off the shelf and opened it. “It is not the most pleasant of odors, I know. I sweeten the tea with honey and add a touch of brandy to make it more palatable.”

Georgia took a pinch between her fingers and smelled again. “Surely,” she said slowly, “the doctor did not prescribe this?”

Jerome shook his head. “Not Dr. Lythe. He is overly fond of the leeches and the blade. It is Lady Raven’s remedy. Her ladyship is well-versed in herbal lore. She is most insistent on mixing the herbs herself.”

Georgia frowned, finding that an extraordinary piece of information, for she had unmistakably smelled monkshood. A very small amount, but monkshood nonetheless. “I see…” she said. “How long has Lord Raven been receiving these tisanes?”

“From the very first. I feel quite sure it is the tea that keeps his lordship alive.”

“I could not persuade you to change the formula?” Georgia asked. “I feel sure I could produce one more beneficial to his lordship.”

“Certainly not, madam,” Jerome said, looking shocked. “I would not think to interfere with her ladyship’s orders. I am sure you are very knowledgeable, but I will not in any way risk his lordship’s health.”

Risk his health? The poor man was imbibing a deadly poison twice a day. It might have been a mistake caused by ignorance, for there were those who used monkshood in an ill-advised attempt to cure gout or rheumatism, or even neuralgia. But none of those was Lord Raven’s problem. A tiny prickle of suspicion formed in the back of her mind and wouldn’t let go.

She really didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t accuse Jacqueline of deliberately poisoning her husband, for she had nothing to go on. If she even suggested such a thing, it would create the most terrible scandal. But there was poor Lord Raven’s health—if not his very life to consider. Still, he had survived well over a year, so a few more days would make no difference. She would wait until Nicholas was better, and then she would find a way to broach the subject.

Georgia found Cyril still sitting by Pascal’s side. She’d been sure that he would have tired of his duties, but instead, and very much to her surprise, he refused to leave.

“Y-you have enough to d-do, l-looking after N-Nicholas,” he said. “L-let me help. P-please.”

“Very well, Cyril. If you are really sincere, then it would be a great help.”

“I am. S-sincere. I will do whatever you s-say.”

“And I will hold you to your word. Now listen carefully. Here is what you must do…”

As soon as she was finished giving him instructions, she went upstairs to relieve Binkley.

“Has he stirred?” she asked anxiously as Binkley stood.

“I’m afraid not, madam. However, I took the liberty of washing Mr. Daventry as best I could. I did not like the thought of all the salt water on his skin. He has some cuts and bruises that you might want to examine. But I believe that his skin does seem warmer to the touch.”

Georgia touched Nicholas’ cheek, then looked up at the older man, who was standing with hands folded in front of him. She knew Binkley well enough by now that she knew his facade of calm concealed a terrible worry, and she smiled at him.

“Do you know, you’re right, Binkley. He is warmer, and that’s a good sign. A wonderful sign. Now, where are these cuts you have found?”

Binkley pulled up Nicholas’ nightshirt, careful to keep the sheet over his hips, protecting his modesty. Georgia wanted to tell him that he needn’t worry, that she already knew about Nicholas’ impediment, but she didn’t want to embarrass either Binkley or herself. She leaned over Nicholas, seeing where the skin was badly bruised around the left side of his ribs and the marks where the rope had chafed at his waist. He had some nasty cuts on his back, which she treated with the salve, and then Binkley adjusted the sheets and showed her his leg.

“And here, also, madam.” There was a wide, angry-looking scrape on his calf, and Georgia applied some salve to that as well. And then her eye caught a thick white scar on his thigh. It was long and jagged, and it ran from just below his hip nearly to his knee.

“Goodness,” she said. “What caused that, Binkley?”

“I have no idea, madam. Mr. Daventry said only that it was a childhood injury. It never seemed to give him any trouble.” He pulled the blankets back into place. “I will go and prepare a meal, madam. You must keep your strength up if you are to look after the sick. We cannot afford to have you become ill yourself. Will Lord Brabourne be staying?”

“He’s offered his help, Binkley, but we shall see how long that lasts. I would expect he will stay through luncheon, however: I don’t suppose there is any of the beef left?” The mention of food had made her realize she had not eaten anything since the soup at dinner the night before, and she was terribly hungry.

“The beef is gone, madam. However, the village people have been very kind, and food has been brought to the back door. I will find something suitable, I am sure.”

“Thank you, Binkley.” Her attention went back to Nicholas and she did not hear him leave.

Lily returned that afternoon full of excited stories. “I couldn’t believe my ears, missus, when I heard what happened last night! You should hear what they’re saying in the village. They’re calling Mr. Daventry the ‘savior of sailors.’ He’s a right hero, missus! How is he today? They said he went out cold, just like that.”

“He is still sleeping, Lily.” Georgia took the kettle off the stove and poured the boiling water onto the crushed roots of Solomon’s seal, making a poultice for Nicholas’ bruises.

“Ooh. And the boy? They said you brought him back from the dead, missus. The master saved his body and you saved his soul. A miracle, they say it was.”

“Lily, that’s absurd. Pascal just needed a push in the right direction. He’s in the sitting room if you want to go see him. It’s a pity we’re so short of usable bedrooms, but I thought we might temporarily turn my room into a bedroom for him. I’ll move in with Nicholas, for he needs full-time attention anyway. Pascal really should be in a proper bed.”

“And there’s the nice fresh mattress for him and clean sheets that I put on just yesterday. I’ll go straightaway and make a fire, and you can bring him up.”

By that evening Pascal was coughing in earnest. Georgia finished mixing the mustard paste for his chest, and she handed it to Cyril to apply. “Don’t forget the hot cloths,” she said, washing her hands. “I’m going back to Nicholas.” She bent over Pascal and brushed the hair off his face. “Did you give him the last infusion?”