Redeeming a Rake (8 page)

“Then give the people
you’ve hurt the one thing no one can take from
you.”

“I can’t. I’ll be the worm my father always
said I’d be.”

She reached up and lightly caressed his
cheek. His skin was smooth from a recent shave. She could feel his
teeth grinding as he looked down at her with the eyes of a drowning
man who knew if he couldn’t catch the rope he’d die. “If pride was
a chain it would have links as large as dinner plates. You’re
standing there holding up your pride thinking that a bent knee will
make you small, but it’s the only way to remove the weight. Keep
the chain; stand there feeling proud ‘till you die of exhaustion or
fall to your knees and bow your head and let it roll off your neck.
No one can take it from you. What will you choose? What do you want
Geoffrey?”

His eyes shimmered like sunny blue skies
after rain. She had a feeling that if she peered into their depths
she’d see a distant rainbow. He tenderly took possession of her
hand and pressed his lips against her palm. “I want sunlight.”

She smiled and he clutched her hand tighter;
he’d caught the rope, but he didn’t yet understand he’d have to
pull himself out of the water. Her mind was filled with visions of
her friend despairing of ever healing and ending his life. “Will
you promise me something?”

“Anything!” The emphatic word rang with
adoration as if he’d do anything to win her heart.

“Remember you have a friend who believes in
you.”

He clutched her hand in both of his and
reverently kissed her knuckles. “What if I can’t find them? What if
I run out of money?”

“Don’t let your dependants go without, but
be prepared to sell your treasures. You can’t change what you’ve
done, but you can ensure no one is homeless or starving in the
gutter because you won a game of cards. You can make sure not one
more person suffers in any way because of your pride. If one more
woman suffers at your hands I’ll assume you don’t want to change
and for my safety I’ll be forced to end our friendship. Don’t let
your pride rule your heart.”

He winced and looked away. “I won’t. I give
you my word.” He stared at her hand held tightly between his own.
“Will you write to me…as a friend?”

“If you wish, but my servant’s are bound to
gossip. Society may soon think we’re engaged.”

A shiver ran down her spine as the cool
distant eyes caught fire. “I’ll write you and let you know where to
direct your letters. I’ll try not to drop one on the street in
front of Lady Jersey.” There was something in his voice that made
her think he was tempted to do just that. “I’ll return when I feel
worthy of your smile.”

“Rest before you begin your search. I don’t
want to read in the papers that you were travelling to some far
flung corner of the Kingdom and they opened your carriage door to
find you’d died of exhaustion.”

“I try to sleep, but the nightmares… I’m
lying in bed paralysed. I can’t move. The women dig out my heart
with their fingernails and start eating it. It’s so real I can feel
my warm blood dripping onto my chest. I wake up screaming.
Everything I’ve tried makes the dreams worse.”

“I used to have nightmares; while you’re
awake, imagine the dream with a new ending. Before they enter the
room change the dream so that you see me sitting in a chair next to
your bed. Tell yourself over and over that the young women won’t be
able to reach you because I won’t let them hurt you, and then
imagine them leaving your room and never returning, it may
help.”

“I don’t think it could get any worse. I
should go.” He brought her hand to his lips and then pressed it to
his cheek. “The next time I take advantage of your kindness I hope
to be almost worthy of it.” He closed his eyes and cringed as if
shutting out some unpleasant sight. “How can you not hate me after
knowing what I’ve done?”

“I couldn’t hate you. I don’t know why, but
I have to believe that underneath the filth is a better man.”

“Tolerance.” He bowed over her hand and
reverently pressed his lips to her skin. He opened his mouth as if
to say something, but merely paused to looked into her eyes and
slowly let go of her hand before abruptly turning and rushing from
the room.

Tolerance watched his emaciated back until
he disappeared from view without turning to say goodbye. She sank
into his vacated chair and stared through tears at her desk. Had
she calmly noted that horrifying list of ruined lives? Surely that
was another woman; someone who didn’t feel torn for loving a
monster. She had to have faith he could change and heal. She tried
to imagine her new friend as a smiling healthy man with a kind
heart, but she knew he might never change. He might be unable to
face the consequences of his actions. He might never want a plain
woman as his duchess. Her head throbbing, she took to her bed and
stayed there the rest of the day while the servants gossiped in
hushed whispers about the odd effect the repulsive man had on their
mistress.

***

Days passed into weeks. Tolerance resumed
her social rounds to take her mind off the one friend she couldn’t
see, but she’d changed and the gossiping hoards were in no doubt of
the cause. Everyone knew the Duke of Lyndhurst had called on the
widow twice. What he’d managed to do the lady to cause the strange
sadness in her eyes wasn’t hard to guess. Obviously he’d had his
evil way and she was waiting to see if she’d suffer the pox or
worse a pregnancy.

Tolerance was still at the centre of every
large gathering, but she couldn’t be relied upon to know the topic
of conversation. Her thoughts were far away searching for her new
friend. After four silent weeks reality was threatening to become a
dream. Had the interview really happened? Why would the Duke of
Lyndhurst seek out her company or help? She was starting to think
she’d soon wake up to find that Geoffrey Grayson was no more than a
figment of her imagination.

After another morning spent dwelling on the
memory of eyes like aquamarine gemstones, she sat down to read her
morning post with the intention of banishing the man from her
thoughts. The suffocating dark cloud in her head suddenly
dissipated as she found what she’d been waiting for. With shaking
hands she carefully broke the wax seal with her letter knife and
unfolded the paper. Wiping away a blinding mist from her eyes, it
was several minutes before she could make out the words.

My dear tolerant friend,

Forgive me for taking so long to send you
word. I’ve wanted to write you every day but I forced myself to
wait until I had completed my first search. I pray this finds you
well? I was waiting in a coffee shop for news from one of my men
the other week when I overheard two scoundrels speaking of you. I
confess I eavesdropped. They were apparently concerned with your
recent ill looking pallor and your lack of interest in their suits.
I almost turned around to demand a full report; alas I held my
tongue and sat in agony envisioning my beautiful friend suffering
from countless unknown malaises. I was tempted to loiter on your
street that night to watch you going out to see for myself if you
looked unwell. You will be relieved to hear that I decided skulking
under a gaslight would have frightened your neighbours and
doubtless led to lengthening my list of sins. Pray relieve my mind
and let me know if you are suffering or not? As for me, you’re
advice has had great effect. I am finally sleeping through the
night and eating enough for five men. It’s amazing how less surly I
feel, fully refreshed with a satisfied stomach. My servants must
think they’ve died and gone, if not to heaven (that will be enjoyed
during my many absences), than to someplace better than hell.

If only I could feel the same. I finally
located my first widow from the list. Her husband, Lord Harlow, was
one of the men who gambled away their livelihoods and then killed
themselves so they could avoid facing their families and ruin my
life with guilt. Lady Harlow has been living off the charity of a
cousin, if you can call it charity. She was blackening the grate
when I was shown into the breakfast room. She looked at me with
such hatred I nearly lost my nerve, but I’m relieved to report that
I stood my ground. She watched me set down all the property deeds
of ownership in her name and a leather packet holding the
equivalent of the property’s yearly income without even a hiss. I
told her that I was returning to her what her husband had lost to
me, but she was silent. That was the easy part. I wanted to turn
and run, but I thought of how disappointed you’d be if I didn’t ask
her forgiveness. I went down on one knee; I’ll have you know that I
once swore I’d never kneel to anyone other than the King. I said
with genuine remorse, ‘Lady Harlow, I greatly regret that I’ve been
party to your suffering.’ I didn’t force her husband to wager his
livelihood so it isn’t my entire fault. My mouth went dry and I
thought I might not be able to finish but at last I said, ‘I beg
you forgive me.’ She slapped my face with force and demanded I
remove my revolting person from her sight which I was pleased to
do.

Thanks to the hard work of my secretary and
legal agent I should soon have another humiliating encounter to
report. We’ve located the next widow living up North. I shall be
travelling often to and from London for the foreseeable future. If
you send your letters to the enclosed address they will reach me
more quickly than if you sent them to any of my homes. I can never
thank you enough for helping me. You truly are an angel!

Sincerely your servant,

Geoffrey Lindsey Grayson, the Duke of
Lyndhurst

Tolerance choked out a sigh of relief and
longing. She hadn’t dreamed up the man after all. The pain that had
been sitting in her chest since she’d watched him leave finally
eased. Her impulsive letter finished it was soon being carried away
by her footman. The prospect of waiting another month to receive a
reply caused a new layer of anxiety. Unable to face socialising she
stayed home. Reading late into the night she fell asleep clutching
the first volume of Clarissa.

The story faded as she swam through a mental
stream of meaningless images and then over the edge of nothingness.
She was aware of falling and then she opened her eyes to find
herself standing outside a waist high wooden gate held together
with wooden pegs long worn down from years of weather and passing
hands. There was no latch; she was free to enter. Looking up she
saw a bright blue sky alive with moving clouds. Looking down she
found she was wearing a white short sleeved linen gown. As she
pushed open the gate she wriggled her toes in the soft grass path.
The gate appeared to lead through a shaped yew tunnel that curved
off the the left. The cool green shadows of the yews were made
brilliant by the sky above and the sound of birds singing. The path
curved back to the right and then opened up. She stood there
blinking with pleasure in the warm sunshine as her eyes passed over
a rainbow of strange flowers and short clipped hedges arranged in
well tended beds surrounded by expanses of emerald grass cut short
as if a flock sheep had grazed the previous day and moved on. Off
to the right standing on its own was an ancient willow tree, its
slack limbs whispering a peaceful song in the light breeze.
Underneath the branches a wooden bench carved with foreign
lettering encircled the trunk. She sat down, stretched out her legs
in contentment and waited. Surely someone would be coming soon.
Hours passed as she sat on the bench waiting and dreaming of what
her friend would say on finding her there, but at some point she
closed her eyes and then opening them she found herself in her own
bed, the forgotten book poking into her ribs. The next night she
found herself back in the garden, but another night passed in
solitary waiting. The next night was the same. After exploring the
hidden corners of the garden and dangling her feet in the pond
occupied by orange and white spotted fish, she lay on her back in
the grass and watched the clouds float by hoping her friend would
join her.

The Duke of Lyndhurst spent the day in the
saddle riding forty miles to meet his secretary at an Inn that
hadn’t changed since the reign of good Queen Bess. He’d be lucky if
the food was more than bowl of stew with with chunks of chicken
formally known as rabbit, but the bedclothes and fresh straw
pallets on rope lashed trestles would smell fresh and clean.

Geoffrey’s body was one large burning ache
as he dismounted. Forcing his spine into an upright position he
groaned as his back cracked in protest. Grabbing his saddlebags he
ducked low to enter the small door. He didn’t care that he had to
sit on a wooden bench to eat his dinner. The need to put food in
his stomach outweighed mere discomfort. After finishing three bowls
of stew he was handed two leather packets and nearly didn’t see the
letter fall to the floor. Bending over to retrieve it his nerves
went taut as he recognised the handwriting. The angel had replied.
Had she thought his letter too familiar? Had she changed her mind?
Would she politely decline the honour of sharing his misery?
Fearful of bad news he turned his impotent rage on his secretary.
“In future Hawkings I wish you to hand me my letters first,
entirely separate from these blasted leather packets. Letters in
this hand are more valuable to me than gold. Lose one and face my
wrath.”

The secretary was visibly terrified. “I beg
your pardon Your Grace. Forgive my inattentiveness. My wife is
nearing confinement. I’m worried she might not survive the
birth.”

“It’s not my problem you have a pregnant
wife. Ensure that I receive every single letter in this hand or
I’ll sack you.”

“I swear I’ll never mishandle another letter
Your Grace.”

“See that you don’t.” Sullen, worried and
excited Geoffrey escaped to his chamber. The end of a late spring
day still shimmered in the evening air. Geoffrey barred the door
and flung his saddlebags and hat onto the crude table-bench. The
ropes supporting the thin straw mattress groaned as he fell onto
the bed too tired to undress. There was just enough light coming
through the open shutters to make out his friend’s neat
handwriting.