The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (34 page)

Couples dancing a reel gave a vigorous “Hey!” as they spun and stepped lively to the jaunty tune. Surveying the dancers, he saw several couples he knew well and a few less familiar or masked.

He stopped midstride. There she was.
Good gracious.
He had almost not recognized his own sister. What a ninny he was. But with her fashionable gown, flushed, smiling face, energetic steps, and youthful partner, he had mistaken her for a much younger woman. A younger, beautiful woman. What sort of magic had Margaret worked on his sister?

He glanced around, and there against the wall stood Robert Hudson. Apparently, the magic had worked on him as well. For the man's face held a sorrowful longing Nathaniel easily recognized as unrequited love. It was a look—and a feeling—he remembered far too well.

Our party went off extremely well. There were
many solicitudes, alarms & vexations beforehand,
of course, but at last everything was quite right. The rooms
were dressed up with flowers & looked very pretty.

—Jane Austen, in a letter to her sister, 1811

Chapter 25

T
he ball had continued until well after two in the morning and Nathaniel did not have opportunity to speak to Helen alone. He hoped she'd enjoyed herself.

At breakfast the next morning, she came in late, looking tired. Lewis's friend Piers Saxby had stayed the night in one of the guest rooms but had not made an appearance. Nor had Lewis.

Nathaniel smiled. “Why, if it isn't the belle of the ball. Good morning, Helen.”

She flashed a quick self-conscious grin. “I was rather, wasn't I?”

She poured herself a coffee from the spigot urn on the sideboard. “No sign of Mr. Saxby yet this morning?”

“Not yet. He played cards until nearly two, and lost badly by the looks of it.”

“And Lewis?”

“I have not seen him since early last night. He disappeared shortly after he danced with you.”

“Did he? I suppose I was too busy dancing to notice much of anything.”

He winked. “So I saw.”

Arnold came in, carrying the morning post on a silver salver. Nathaniel took the single letter—soiled parchment, addressed to him in a flamboyant hand. He pried open the seal and unfolded the letter. It contained only four lines.

Such shy profits the chest contained

Where is the rest, I wonder?

Must I visit Fairbourne Hall

And rent the place asunder?

Stunned anger flushed through him. A chill followed when he recalled Abel Preston's threat.
“Your place. When you least expect it.”

“Anything interesting?” Helen asked.

He considered not telling her but reminded himself that she was a grown woman. “A threat from the man who robbed my ship. In rhyme no less. Apparently he's figured out he didn't steal all our profits after all. Here, read it for—”

Suddenly, from somewhere in the house, came a great tumult of slamming doors and a keening wail. Running feet and shouts. Nathaniel and Helen swung their heads around to stare at each other, then both lunged for the door.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

“I will not.”

Nathaniel ran out into the hall, looking this way and that for the source of the mayhem. Nothing.
Dear God in heaven . . . tell me that scapegrace has not come here already.

Nathaniel ran toward the back stairs. One of the footmen ran from the basement through the servery and nearly bowled him over.

“Thank God, sir. I was come to find you.” In his obvious distress, the young man didn't even apologize for knocking into him.

“What's happened?”

“It's Mr. Lewis, sir. He's been shot.”

“Shot?” Nathaniel's nerves went into full alarm mode.
God, no. Please.

Behind him, Helen gasped, both hands pressed to her mouth.

“Is he alive?” Nathaniel asked. “Where is he?”

“Yes, sir, he breathes. They've got him laid out in the stillroom. Mr. Hudson's sent Clive for the surgeon.”

He hoped the groom had taken their fastest horse.

Nathaniel ran down the stairs, Helen at his heels.

Clusters of agitated servants, talking to one another behind their hands, shrunk into the wall to allow them to pass. Monsieur Fournier crossed himself. Nathaniel found the metallic smell of blood mingling with the scents of cinnamon and pastry nauseating.

Inside the stillroom, Hudson bent over Lewis's prone form, pressing a handkerchief to his chest. “Another cloth, please, Mrs. Budgeon,” Hudson asked, polite even in his anxiety.

Lewis lay still, limp limbs dangling off the worktable, his face and jaw slack and unnaturally grey.

Hudson glanced up at their entrance. “Sir. Miss Upchurch.”

“What happened?” Nathaniel asked.

“I don't know. His valet and a local farmer, a Mr. Jones, brought him home in the farmer's wagon. Something about a duel.”

Nathaniel winced. “How bad is it?”

Hudson glanced up once more, skirting Helen's face to square on his. “Bad.”

At closer range, Nathaniel could see that someone had ripped open Lewis's waistcoat and shirt, exposing his chest, though most was covered by Hudson's large hands and the blood-soaked handkerchief.

Mrs. Budgeon handed Hudson a clean cloth. Hudson hesitated before handing the soiled one to the housekeeper, but she stoically took it from him and set it into a nearby basin.

Hudson said to her, “Make sure someone leads that surgeon here without delay.”

She nodded and briskly strode from the room. Only then did Nathaniel notice the young valet huddled in the corner of the stillroom, white-faced and dazed, his cravat bloodstained. A plump maid held his hand.

“What can I do?” Nathaniel asked.

“And I?” Helen added.

Hudson checked the new cloth, saw it rapidly soaking up blood, before he looked from one to the other. “Pray.”

Three hours later, the surgeon Mr. White had come and gone—bullet removed, wound cleaned, dressing applied, and little hope given.

They carefully moved Lewis, still insensible, up one flight of stairs to the library, which Mrs. Budgeon had quickly outfitted as a sickroom while the surgeon finished bandaging the wound. They dared not jostle him more than necessary nor risk carrying him up additional flights of stairs. The surgeon, bloodstained and weary, said he would send a seasoned chamber nurse to tend Lewis, even though Helen insisted she would sit with her brother all night.

Mr. White promised to return in the morning and told them to send for him if there was any change, though the offer was made with little enthusiasm. Would Lewis even live through the night? Nathaniel's soul heaved at the thought. He and his brother had not been close in years, but the thought of losing him grieved his heart.

Nathaniel sat next to Helen at Lewis's bedside in the library-turned-sickroom. He was torn between wanting to remain at his brother's side, to share his final hours on earth, if final they were, and wanting to discover what had happened and who was to blame. Was Lewis the challenger, or the challenged? Had he chosen the weapons to be used, in this case, apparently pistols? It seemed possible, as Lewis had never been good with a sword. Too much dashed work, he'd always complained.

Who had acted as his second—Saxby? Or perhaps Lewis's valet. Nathaniel thought back to his brief glimpse of the young man belowstairs. He had looked ashen and shaken from the ordeal. Nathaniel would need to talk with him soon but would first allow the man time to get over the worst of the shock.

Mrs. Budgeon knocked softly on the open door. Nathaniel rose and crossed the room to speak to her.

“Pardon me, sir. But when we were bundling up Mr. Upchurch's clothes to take to the laundry—those which could be salvaged, that is—we found a few things in his pockets and thought you would want to have them.”

She held forth a rosewood tray. Servants were taught not to hand small objects directly to their betters, to avoid the accidental brush of hands—a practice that seemed incredibly trivial in the circumstances.

For some reason, Nathaniel felt the need to reach out and lay his hand on hers. “Thank you, Mrs. Budgeon. For everything.”

She seemed taken aback but did not pull away. “You're welcome, sir. And we shall all be praying for your brother's recovery.”

Again he thanked her, carried the paltry collection to Helen, and reclaimed his seat beside Lewis's sickbed.

He watched as Helen tearfully fingered through the items: a pocket watch, several coins, a length of blue ribbon, and a folded scrap of paper, stained with blood. Eyes wide, Helen handed the note to him. Nathaniel unfolded it and read.

I demand satisfaction, Mr. Upchurch. And I demand it now. Penenden Heath tomorrow at half past seven.

P.

Could it be? If Preston had written it, then had this letter truly been meant for Lewis, or for him? What could Abel Preston have against Lewis? The two men had likely met while both resided in Barbados, but Nathaniel didn't recall any mention of strife between them. Preston had made no secret of his grudge against
him
, but Nathaniel had never heard him speak a word against Lewis. Nathaniel's stomach roiled. Had Lewis taken a bullet meant for him?

———

Nathaniel went to look for Lewis's friend Saxby but could not find him. Nor had any of the servants seen him. So he returned to the library. The vicar arrived and led them in prayer at Lewis's bedside, beseeching God for his life. Afterward, Nathaniel left his brother for a time in the capable hands of his sister and the chamber nurse.

He asked Hudson to send Lewis's valet to him in the morning room and paced until the young man knocked at the open door.

“Connor. Come in.”

The young man stepped inside and stood before him, hands behind his back. His face looked pale beneath his red hair, but he held himself erect and met Nathaniel's gaze directly.

“I want to know what happened,” Nathaniel said. “Everything. Spare no detail or my feelings.”

“Very well, sir.” The young man's Adam's apple bobbed. “It was awful. . . .”

Nathaniel braced himself. “Start at the beginning. There was mention of a duel. Had you known of it beforehand?”

“I only learned of it this morning.”

“Had it something to do with the reason Lewis left the ball early last night?”

Connor frowned. “Did he? I didn't know it, sir. I didn't see him from the time he dressed for the ball until he returned to his room about three in the morning. He asked me to wake him only a few hours later—at six. You know he was never one to rise early, sir, so that surprised me, but he didn't tell me why, and neither did I ask.”

No servant would ask. “Go on.”

“When I woke him, he bid me to help him dress and to prepare myself for going out. He also told me to bring his dueling pistols.” Connor swallowed. “I asked if I should wake the coachman and call for a carriage, but he said we would ride. So I roused the groom to saddle two horses.

“I asked if I should pack an overnight case for him, but he said only the pistols in the saddle bag.” His Adam's apple rose and fell. “I confess I was nervous.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Go on.”

“When we neared Penenden Heath, he told me he needed me to act as his second.”

Nathaniel wondered why Lewis had not asked his friend Saxby to act for him. Unless . . . might Piers Saxby have been the challenger? “Had you acted for him before?”

Connor ducked his head. Duels were illegal, and Nathaniel didn't blame the young man for not wanting to implicate himself or his master.

Nathaniel said, “Now is not the time to worry about protecting anyone's honor. Just tell me.”

Connor nodded. “Once before, sir. But neither man was hurt that time. Both were so foxed that neither hit his mark. Though one old ewe did die.”

“And this time?”

“Both men sober as Quakers.”

“Who was it?”

“I . . .” The valet hesitated. “I could not say, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I don't believe I knew the man.”

“Don't
believe
you knew him?”

“That's right, sir. I didn't recognize him. He wore a mask.”

Nathaniel reared back. “A mask?”

Connor nodded briskly. “Yes, sir. Never did I see the like.”

Fury seethed through Nathaniel like overfermented ale. The man was a coward, whoever he was. He asked, “Did Lewis call him by name?”

Connor shook his head. “I heard no names spoken, sir. Only insults.”

“What insults?”

Connor's eyes flashed. “Mr. Lewis said the man was no gentleman—that I did hear.”

Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “Did this man even follow the rules?” Illegal though dueling was, gentlemanly conduct was expected. He continued, “Was no apology solicited? Did his second not offer you a chance to reconcile your masters before a shot was fired?”