Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Broadmoore -- September 23rd, 1814

              The screaming came again, ripping like a gale through doors and hallways.

              Laurel raised from her seat; John's palm atop her shoulder pressed her back gently. Spencer took another long draw on his whiskey and fought the urge to be sick. None of them spoke; keeping vigil in the parlor, the noises coming upstairs pressed them into silence.

              Fists hammered against the door out of time with one another. At first Alexandra had screamed incoherent things, and occasionally he'd caught Chas and Paulina's names in the garbled string. Now she was begging again and again for Laurel to ease her suffering, seeming to know who and where she was. Spencer wasn't certain if he should feel relief at her increased awareness, or fear that she was delirious in spite of it.

              Many of her pleas and cries were muffled, but those that weren’t took many forms; she was dying, they all wanted her gone, they were killing her. She had even screamed about 'all the blood', though he had no telling if it was a hallucination or a plea for sympathy.

              “Please, please!” she moaned. And then a long bout of sobbing echoed off of the floorboards.

              It wore at Spencer’s sanity; he had to do something, had to try.

“Go out,” he ordered finally. “Grayfield has made his house open to one or all of us.”

              “She's our family,” Laurel protested, but he caught her anxious glance at John.

              He put his hand on her arm and squeezed. “So she is, and you've done a great deal already. But there's nothing you can do now.”

              John hesitated, still staring at Laurel; Spencer watched the conflict tearing at him.

              “Hastings, your wife is in a delicate state. The servants have all gone out; there's no one to wait on you,” he reasoned. “This cannot be good for her. Go to Grayfield's. Rest. You can relieve my watch come morning.”

              He locked gazes with John, who nodded. “Thank you, Reed.”

              Laurel took his hand and kissed it, resting her cool forehead against his knuckles. “You are a good man, Spencer. Thank you.”

              “Spencer!” Alexandra's banshee shriek snapped Laurel up, rocking her chair. “Spencer,” she moaned again, hammering the door one solid blow at a time.

              She went on that way for half an hour while John and Laurel gathered themselves to leave the house, agitated by their commotion.

              Spencer held himself in check until the rumble of their carriage faded down the drive. Then he mustered his courage, planted one boot after another on the staircase, and went up.

For a few minutes, he stood in the hall and listened. Alexandra whispered furiously to herself, and something rustled like clothes brushing the floor. He turned and sat down, leaning his back against the door. All sound stopped and the house was silent a few breaths.

              Spencer realized after the kick that he should have thought better about resting his head on the door. The wood jarred ahead of her foot, rattling his teeth.

              “I know you're out there, you son of a bitch! Open this door!” Another kick. “You cannot keep me here.” He heard her suck in a breath, braced for a scream. “
I hate you
!” She ejected the words with a force that vibrated against his back.

              Spencer drew knees up to his chest, clasped his hands and bit his tongue. Keeping silent tore at his chest and wracked him with guilt, no matter how necessary.

              Screeching and swearing, Alix pounded through the room. Something crashed to the floor and rolled. That was intriguing, since they'd removed every possible object from reach. She went on hitting walls and pounding the door, calling him every sort of a devil for long minutes. The meaty thud of a body falling to the floor reached his ears, and then panting.

              “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Spencer. If you won't let me out, just come in. Please, I'm so frightened.”

              He struggled with the entreaty, remembering Doctor Ashby's caution. He knew she was still heavily under the influence of the drugs. In the end, he could handle himself. He was not letting her out, and he was damned well not giving her more laudanum.

Spencer stood up, took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. He snapped the door open just an inch, jerked it back and then swung with the full strength of his arm. It caught Alexandra's charge long enough for him to hook her with an arm. His grip knocked her from her feet and sent her sliding on her backside almost to the window.

“You bastard! You are the son of a whore!” She struggled onto her elbows, spitting in his direction.

He closed the door, locked it again, and sat against it once more. “You can paint me black with your tongue all night, but if you take to spitting and biting, I'll muzzle you.” He trusted the threat to be enough, not trusting himself to follow through.

“Of course you will!” Her laugh bubbled with hysteria. “You're just like them! I hate you.” Alix struggled to her feet and climbed up onto her bed. She turned her back, sitting cross legged, and faced the wall.

              Spencer guessed they passed nearly an hour that way, unnerving silence in comparison to her earlier raging. Now and then her breath rasped, and after awhile her shoulders slumped and he wondered if she slept. Then: “Spencer.”

              His name sounded sad and desperate on her lips. “Yes, Alexandra?”

              “I love you.”

              He closed his eyes and exhaled, hoping that the worst had finally passed. “I love you too.”

              She wriggled down off of the bed, crawling on hands and knees to where he sat. His hope deflated; she was still not in her right mind.

              Alix stopped just at his knee, raking fingers through her wild mane. He swallowed. She was so pale, made worse in the moonlight. Thin. Hollows around her eyes were deepened by scant light, and in silhouette she resembled a scarecrow. He rubbed a fist over his aching chest.

              She reached out slowly, fingers plucking at his cravat. “I'm sick, Spencer. I'm dying.” A hand pressed over her eyes and she sobbed. “I'll die without my medicine.”

              “I've sent John into the village to get more. He'll be back directly.”

              A cocky smile curved up one side of her mouth, her whole frame relaxing. “That is very kind of you.” She inched closer, until his leg was wedged between her knees. “
Very
kind.”

              “Mmm.”

              She pulled his cravat again, ran a finger down the front of his shirt. “You are a very handsome man.” Her eyes were vacant in the dark, holding nothing but her hunger. When she looked at him, she might have been looking
through
him.

              “Am I? What is my name?”

              A shrug. Up on her knees now, she reached again for his throat.

              Spencer snatched her arm, pushing so that she fell onto her backside.

              “I need my medicine,” she demanded, and her lip rolled out in a pout.

              “Soon enough. I'll have it brought up the moment it arrives.”

              Alix fingered a button along the side of her bodice. “We're alone in here.”

              “So we are.” Spencer fixed his eyes to the window, tracing a half of the moon not hidden from sight by the casement.

              Fumbling her way along, Alix freed each button in turn. He could feel her eyes on him and refused to acknowledge it. “We could do a great many things, all alone.”

              “No, we mustn’t,” he cautioned, “The servants will hear us.”

              She giggled, undeterred from opening her bodice.

             
Servants
. It was all he could think to say. Despite days of anguish, Alexandra's state of mind, his rage at Paulina, when Alix whispered his name and began to remove her dress …

              He sucked in a breath, trying to keep one eye on her without truly looking. The dress was all she wore. No stays, for her own safety, and no chemise.

              She grasped the hem, started to wriggle it over her head.

              “John could return any moment,” he warned. “You would not want to be in such a state.”

              No reply. Her dress smacked the wall beside him, landing in a heap. She inched closer again.

              Spencer stretched out his legs, holding his breath while Alix fumbled her way into his lap. He rested a hand on each of her hips. It was instinct; he hadn't meant to do it. Her skin was clammy and stuck to his palms.

              Heart thundering, he struggled to listen, to keep his guard. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and regretted ever opening the door. Alix fumbled his hair in a disjointed caress. “You're killing me,” she whispered. “I need my medicine.”

              “Nearly here,” he murmured, turning away from breasts almost pressing his face. Alexandra's familiar shape, even thin as it was, weighed his thighs. When she turned his face back and leaned in, Spencer let her kiss him.

              It was a mistake; he knew before it happened. Her teeth seized his lip, digging harder and harder until he snatched a fistful of hair and snapped her head back. Blood trickled over his chin.

              Alix tensed, threw back her head and cackled. Then she slumped against his chest, buried her face in his shoulder and wept like a child.

              He ran a hand up her back, calming her as hot tears soaked his shirt. With his other hand, he brushed away his own. As time passed, her body calmed and he dared to hope that she’d fallen asleep at last.

              He waited, Alix cradled in his arms until the moon had passed beyond the window's narrow opening. Tense, he was ready for the next assault, for her to hit or scream, for her rest to be another ruse. She lay slack against him, breathing slowly and evenly. Finally, Spencer worked up his courage and tipped her back a little. Her eyes were closed, chest rising and falling no matter how much he shook her.

Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he scooped her up, abandoned the idea of putting her dress back on, and settled her on the bed. Tugging a quilt over her, he watched her for a long time, gaining control of the tumult inside.

He went out and locked the door again. Stretching out across the hall rug, he braced his head atop an arm and slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Broadmoore -- September 27th, 1814

Spencer
. He had been telling her something, reassuring her. He wasn’t a face or even words, just sound in the darkness. She hadn’t heard him anymore after that, sad that she couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said. She hadn’t been able to listen to him, too thirsty, and no one brought her water. Sometimes she heard Laurel, or other hushed voices, but they never brought her a drink. Hungry too, but not for food; for something that would feed the crazed cyclone between her temples, an ache between each joint which made her want to run and kept her from rolling over.              

She had been awake for days, but not truly aware. Foggy scraps of conversation, of people coming and going swirled in her mind, but today was the first day Alix felt that any of it truly made sense.

She remembered Laurel's smooth hand rubbing her arm, bringing her awake. Someone she didn't know had come in and out, first with a tub and then buckets. Laurel had tried to get her excited about a bath, but the tub seemed so far away. Alix wasn't certain she could sit herself up.

              The maid left the room with her empty pail, and Laurel came in. “Ready?”

              Alix nodded, feeling that she was supposed to. “If you wouldn't mind closing the door on your way out.”

              Laurel scrunched her face. “I was going to stay. I thought you would need –”

              “No.” She hadn't meant to snap. Her head throbbed almost too much to keep her eyes open, but she didn’t trust anyone to touch her yet. She might need someone's help, but she certainly didn't want it after months of forced dependence, not even from Laurel.

She managed a smile for Laurel's benefit. “Thank you, but I'd feel better doing it alone. Can I call for you, if I need help?”

              The compromise pleased Laurel, who nodded. “Just call out. I'll be in the next room.”

              Alone again, Alix scrunched her belly and tested her ability to sit. Finally, she rolled onto an arm and pushed herself up. Sparks erupted at the edge of her vision; she was going to be sick. Panting, she closed her eyes and after a moment it passed.

              Getting her feet onto the rug was easy enough. Putting weight on them was an entirely different matter. It took the help of a nightstand, a curtain, and the mantle to get herself to the tub. Trembling arms braced her against its wooden edge, requiring an exhausting amount of maneuvering to step in, sit down and not dump the whole thing. The process left her gasping and sobbing quietly, but she would not give up.

              Steaming water seared her skin, biting her wounds and turning her red from her toes to the tops of her breasts. She welcomed the sensation. Any feeling other than numbness was a blessing, made her feel awake and aware. Taking a towel from the hearth, she rolled it up, stuffed it beneath her head and leaned back as much as the tub would allow.

              A bath would make her feel better, she'd told herself, but despite the hot water on her skin, it didn’t really help. She gave herself a cursory scrub with the soap from head to toe, and then she lay in the water until it was cold, waiting for something to happen. Mind unoccupied, her attention settled on her wounds.

She tensed, pulse hammering in her throat. Panic beaded into sweat along her forehead. It was the second time in as many days, when thoughts of Paulina tried to slither inside her mind. She couldn’t summon up one single recollection of the torture, but a churning in her gut and the urge to run screaming in any direction told Alix that some part of her had been aware as it happened.

It was over now, done. Thanks to Spencer, Paulina was imprisoned and Chas was finally being made to face his part in things, however passive.

Spencer
. He felt so far away; had he forgotten her? She couldn't really conceive of how much time had passed. It felt like years. Her memory wasn’t just a flash of blank space. She almost wished it were; that might have been easier. Instead, she had just enough spots of lucidity, enough memory to light the darkness, to feel how much had been stolen from her.

              She took the towel from behind her head, rested it atop her knees, and buried her face in it to hide the sobs. Terror lashed at her from the shadows. A part of her could sense heat burning her skin, or stabbing pain piercing her flesh. Fingernails tearing at her neck, or forcing her head back to drink. They were just sensations, vague hints of memory. Somehow, they felt worse than actually remembering every moment.

              When she'd got hold of herself, Alix wiped her face and dared standing up. It was a little easier this time, though her stomach clenched and her limbs trembled. Toweling off, it occurred that she was hungry. She could call for Laurel, ask for something to eat. She opened her mouth to call out, but couldn’t make the words come. An emptiness welled up inside her, drowning her courage.

Instead, she ignored clean clothes and fell onto the bed. Rolling onto her side, she drew the blankets up almost over her head, and lay there. She stared at the wall, blinking, willing sleep to come.

*              *              *

              Two mornings later she woke ravenous, less delicate and more determined to put space between now and her awful memories. Laurel consulted Doctor Ashby, who agreed that she could be allowed downstairs for breakfast which sated her desire for company, the first she’d felt since waking.

              No one avoided her eyes or made a fuss, and Alix was grateful. John and Laurel picked things up as though she had just seen them the day before, including her without singling her out.

              She had held her breath down the stairs, hoping that Spencer would be there, afraid to ask and be disappointed. He was not at the table, only John and Laurel. For a moment she thought tears would come, and disappointment strangled her words. Swallowing an ache in her throat, she nodded to John, who was just getting up. “Leaving already?”

              “Business in the village. Someone has to pick up all of Reed's slack,” he teased.

              Laurel swatted as he passed, shaking her head and casting Alix a look. “Secretly John enjoys it.”

              Alix kept silent until he'd gone, overly focused on slicing a boiled egg. She worked up her courage, exchanging a few glances with Laurel. “Where … Where is Lord Reed?” she asked, hating how weak and yet formal the words sounded.

              Laurel blinked, surprised. “You mean
Spencer
? He's in London testifying against –” Laurel glanced away, “Testifying in the inquest.”

              “Oh.” Crushed, Alix stiffened her face and went on scraping at her egg. She couldn’t name her gratitude, her love for him and what he must be suffering now. Fear at his absence melted away.

              “John had a letter from him early this morning.” Laurel sounded surprised. “Third this week, and he is not much of a writer. He starts every one by asking after you.”

              The news warmed her, and something like peace settled in.

              Laurel leaned over, laying a hand on hers. “If you'd like to write, John can send it with his answer tomorrow.”

              Alix stared at her plate, thinking of how she would begin, of what she should say to him. Wondering what she
had
said to him when she wasn’t herself. The simple human contact of Laurel's hand was a welcome comfort, and she pressed back.

              “He would not stay away for anything less, Alix. He visited you every day when … He never abandoned you. But his bloodlust is up, as John puts it.” Laurel’s green eyes narrowed to slits. “He'll see Paulina gets what she deserves.” A squeeze, and Laurel took her hand away. “It's hard on him, but he would do anything for you.”

              Alix groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God, I don't remember it. It's as though we've been apart forever. Sometimes I hear things in my mind, inconsequential things. Who bought a new horse, the price of corn.” She laughed. “I hear them in Spencer's voice. From his visits? They don't feel real.”

              Laurel shook her head, eyes wide. “Such a nightmare. What
is
the last thing you recall?”

              Alix pressed her eyes shut, struggling for anything. There were fragments of London, of an argument with Chas, Paulina and a letter, but nothing fused together. “My last easy memories are of my week at Haywood.”

              “Stirling, you mean,” corrected Laurel, pouring more tea.

              “No, I mean Hay –” Her eyes snapped open, meeting Laurel's, “Wood.”

              Laurel’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned close as though trying to read Alexandra’s mind. “
Lord Reed
was at Haywood.”

              A smile spread against her will, and Alix looked away. “You are correct. He was.”

              “Hmph.” Laurel pursed her lips, folding in a grin.

              “What?”

              “Nothing. It's no great matter.”

              “What?” Alix demanded again, hating that she had been baited.

              Laurel shrugged, studying her nails. “It's just that Spencer never invites anyone there. Not even John.”

              “Oh.”

              “How did you pass the time during your week at Haywood?”

              Laurel was her only close friend; if she could confess herself to anyone, now was the time. “How would you and John pass a week at Haywood?”

              “Little clothing and plenty of wine.”

              Alexandra nodded, not fighting a grin. “Precisely.”

              Laurel's smile was triumphant. “Mm. You should write him this afternoon.”