Autumn Rain (24 page)

His legs were long and well-muscled. Feeling very much as though she violated his privacy, Elinor washed them all the way up. An old wound, possibly the one that Leighton had mentioned that day in the park, had healed just below his groin. A few inches above and he might have bled to death from that. Her hands shook as they crept higher, passing over the curling hair, scarce touching his masculinity, and she averted her eyes, trying not to stare at it. It was difficult to believe that Arthur had ever looked like the man before her. By the time she had managed to drag the wet cloth over the flat, almost concave plain of his belly, she was perspiring from her own nerves.

"There," she said finally. "I have done it."

"Damn you, Jack!" the earl said more distinctly. "Damn you to hell for what you do to me!" he shouted.

"Surely he does not mean his father," Elinor whispered as her mother pulled his nightshirt down again.

"It's likely he does. From all I ever heard of him, Mad Jack was utterly unprincipled. There were tales—not all of which I credit, of course—that even decent females were not safe around him. Indeed, but—" She stopped. "It does not signify."

"What doesn't signify?"

"One should not repeat old rumors, dearest."

"You witch! You lying, cheating witch!" Longford called out. "You're no better than he is!" His whole body seemed to quiver, then he relaxed. "Get out of my house," he said clearly. Apparently, whoever he addressed spoke back to him in his mind, for he added, "Jack wasn't enough, was he?" Then, "I'll never touch you again—do you hear me?" His voice had risen to a near shout. "Never! No more lies—no more lies! D'you hear me? No more lies!"

"Lord Longford, you must try to lie still," Lady Ashton told him. "You are but fevered. Nell, get him a bit of the water—just a bit into the corner of his mouth."

"Here now—what the devil's going on?"

Both women looked up, startled by Thomas Ashton's voice. "We are trying to tend Longford," Elinor's mother answered quietly. "And do keep your voice down."

"Keep it down?" he roared. "No, afore God, I will not! Man cannot get a decent night's rest in the place! Tell
him
not to shout!" He reeled slightly, and his speech, for all that it was loud, was slurred. Clearly he'd been drinking.

"Thomas!"

"Papa, he is terribly ill. We have summoned Dr. Beatty again."

"Humph! No great loss if he was to die, if you ask me."

"That's enough, Thomas."

"Well, the man's indecent—left his wife—blood's bad, if you want the truth of it," he declared, unrepentant. "And I won't have either of you tending him, Nell—it's unseemly in the extreme!"

"Papa, he may be dying," Elinor whispered.

"Witch! Never wanted you—never—believed Jack, that's all! You can burn in hell for all I care!" Longford tried to turn, then fell back, mumbling, "Burn with Jack."

"Well, if he's dying," Thomas decided, "there ain't no doubt where he's going."

"Papa!"

"Boy died," the earl whispered. "Didn't mean for it—tried—"

"Hush, my lord." Elinor leaned over him, placing her mouth near his ear. "You are at Stoneleigh."

"Stoneleigh," he repeated, and for a moment, she thought he understood, but then he began to ramble again. "Couldn't stop it—couldn't—Wilson, Cox, Humphries—the boy—all dead. Too late. Couldn't take out the guns on the first charge—tried." He caught at Elinor's arm, clutching it, his eyes open but unseeing. "Don't let 'em take the arm—don't let 'em take my arm! Can't feel it—can't feel it at all."

"Your arm is fine, Lord Longford." Elinor poured a small amount of water into a cup and tipped it into a pocket she made by pulling down his lip. "You are at Stoneleigh," she repeated. "You have an abscess, that's all."

He swallowed and choked. And when he began to cough, he nearly came up from the bed. It was as though the force of it racked his whole body.

"I never heard the like," Thomas Ashton muttered.

"It's pneumonia—his bad lung is inflamed also."

"Then he's a goner," he said brutally. "And I don't want either of you here to see it. You get that maid—or the Friday-faced housekeeper. You ain't got no business—"

"Go on," Longford whispered.

"See—even he don't want you here."

"He's confused, Papa."

"Go on," the earl said again. "I saw the blood—take care of the others—I know, Sarah—I know. It's my lung."

"Who's Sarah?"

"I told you he was confused, Papa."

"Sorry about John—good man. Sorry about the boy— she was right—he was a good boy." His hand came up as though he meant to wipe his mouth, then fell back to the bed also. "Damned funny—Jack died at home, Sarah—I'm going in Spain." He coughed again. "Tell her—tell Kingsley's wife—I tried to save the boy."

"Here now—what's he doing talking about you, puss? Don't like the sound of that."

"Go to bed, Thomas."

"Ain't going without you," he maintained stubbornly. He stumbled toward a chair. "Going to sit until you come with me—indecent for you to be here."

"Thomas—"

"Go on, Mama. I can manage—really. If there is any change, I shall waken you."

"No, you won't," her father declared belligerently. "Be good thing if he was to die. Can't have him talking about you, puss."

There was a loud pounding on the door below, the shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices, steps on the stairs. Dr. Beatty rapped on the doorjamb, then came on into the room.

"I collect there has been a change?"

"Man's ranting!" Thomas Ashton shouted at him. "Expect you to do something about it!"

The physician cast a quizzical look at Elinor. "My father," she murmured, embarrassed. "Papa—go to bed."

"Not without her!"

"I'm afraid he's been drinking," she offered apologetically.

"So I see. Yes, well, I should like all of you to leave-except Lady Kingsley, of course."

"What the devil d'you need her for?" her father demanded. "Ruining her rep!"

"She has a strong stomach—a rare thing these days."

"All right, Thomas," Lady Ashton said tiredly, "I am coming with you."

"Going home with me, too," he told her thickly. "Tired of the place. What with the old man a-staring and her forgetting what she owes her papa, it ain't anywhere I'd like to be."

As her mother dragged her father out, Elinor turned her attention to Beatty. "Perhaps I should not have sent for you, but I cannot get his fever down. He's so restless—his mind wanders—he sees things—"

He nodded, not unkindly. "It's to be expected, I'm afraid."

"And the cough—it's terrible."

"Aye." He leaned over Longford, frowning. "If it was but the wound—or the inflammation of that lung, I should give him a chance, but—"

"Is he—is he much worse?"

"You summoned me," he reminded her.

"Well, I thought perhaps there might be something to ease him—he cannot thrash about and shout all night." She felt utterly foolish, as though she ought not to have bothered him. "And he is so very hot. Surely there must be something that can be done."

"Even if he should get better, he will worsen first."

"Worsen? He cannot!"

"Lady Kingsley, he is corrupted with infection. Bring the candle over here."

She did as he asked, then leaned over his shoulder to watch as he unwrapped the shoulder. When he lifted the salt pork, yellow-greenish pus clung to the meat, and the wound beneath it was wet. And once again the rotted smell permeated the air.

"At least it still drains—there is no sign the abscess is reforming," he noted with some satisfaction. Noting her revulsion, he added, "I mean to change this in the morning." His manner changed abruptly. "How much is he coughing?"

"Quite a lot, I think."

"Bringing anything up with it?"

"You mean like blood?"

"I mean anything, Lady Kingsley."

"Not—not much of anything that I have seen."

He laid his head against Longford's chest, listening to the rales. "Too low—middle lung, I think. It must come up if he is to have any chance at all."

"How?"

But Beatty had lost interest in explaining. Instead, he rolled the earl over onto his side and began striking blows to his ribs in the back. For a moment, Elinor thought he too had lost his mind.

"You cannot—the man's sick!"

"If this does not loosen, he's dead," he retorted, continuing to beat on Longford's back. "Got to make it come up."

"But the pain—perhaps some laudanum?"

He shook his head. "It will impede his cough. You want him to cough—between the corruption in his shoulder and that in his chest, he's poisoned. Anything that can be got out of him in either area is to the good." He shifted the earl, hanging his head over the side of the bed, then began to thump his back anew, until his patient began to cough. It was a raw, deep bark at first, but as Beatty persisted, it grew productive. Longford gurgled, then gagged. Beatty looked up at her. "Think you could do this?"

"Yes—if someone can turn him over for me."

"Get one of the men for that. I don't want them pounding on him, for they don't know what they are doing. You don't either, but at least you are not as like to make the lung hemorrhage. You want to strike him here— and not too hard. The trick of it is to do it steadily until that stuff inside loosens."

"I see. But his fever—"

"Wipe him down with cool water. If it gets too high, get him into a tub." He pushed the earl back onto the bed, then turned to rummage in his bag. Taking out a small jar, he opened it. "You can try a bit of this powder—a teaspoon or so in water—but I have not much hope of its helping." He rose to stand over her. "I have left word with Mrs. Beatty that I shall be staying the night here. I require nothing fancy, Lady Kingsley."

"Yes, of course. I shall waken Mrs. Peake to show you to a bedchamber."

"No need—just direct me, and I shall find the way."

He wasn't going to sit up with Longford. She started to protest, then thought better of it. He was the physician, and when it came to treating the sick, she was little more than a green girl. At least he had come when she'd sent for him—at least he would be no farther than a few doors down the hall.

"There are several empty chambers, sir—there is one two doors to the left."

"No need to point it out—I can count that far, my lady," he assured her.

After he left, she sank back into the bedside chair and tried to stay awake lest Longford should need her. But he seemed to have calmed—whether from the bathing or from the thumping, he seemed to be resting more easily. She started to doze, only to be awakened by the awful, racking cough. At first her body would have her deny she'd heard him, then she forced herself to lean forward with a cloth to wipe his mouth.

"Helpless as a babe," he muttered.

Hope surged. He was not entirely unaware. But then he turned his head away, mumbling, "Tell Barry we need more powder. Damned sorry about the leg—meant to be there to the end."

Curious, she asked him, "What leg—do you mean your leg, my lord?"

There was no answer.

Sometime after that, she fell asleep and knew nothing until someone shook her awake. "Nell—Nell—it's Mama. Get you to bed, and I shall watch him."

"No," Elinor mumbled. "Cannot—got to thump him."

"What?"

"Thump," the girl managed drowsily. "His back."

"In the morning."

She opened her eyes and passed a weary hand over her face. "Is it morning?"

"No. The clock has but struck three."

"Can't go."

"You have to—Arthur will have need of you tomorrow."

"Arthur has no need of me, Mama. Don't you see? I gave him Almack's, and there's naught else he'd have of me."

"He grieves—as do you."

"Sarah, how fares the boy—how fares young Kingsley?" Longford croaked. "Told her—" His words disappeared in a fit of coughing.

"Mama, you go to bed, else Papa will be vexed with you. I am all right."

"Nell—"

"No—I am all right. Please."

"Nell," he whispered. "That's a pretty name."

Once again, she thought he was aware, but then his mind wandered. "Charley's Nell. Cannot write forever, you know—not that much to say to a female." He tried to turn and could not. "Thirsty—Sarah, I thirst."

She mixed the powder into a small amount of water and managed to give him a drink without strangling him. Then, throwing modesty into the wind, she did as she and her mother had done before, washing him down with cool water. And when she was finished, she leaned her chair back gainst the wall and closed her eyes. This time, sleep did not come as her conscious mind fought to survive. In the space of less than a day, Lucien de Clare, the despised Earl of Longford, had become exceedingly important, for a time crowding her grief from her mind. In her fatigued fancy, she was locked in an impossible battle for a man's life. And she was going to win.

Fleetingly, she wondered about Sarah—was she a woman he'd left in Spain? All the world knew of Diana— but Sarah? For a moment, she felt a painful stab of jealousy—not for the man, but for the woman Sarah. For the moment at least Longford lived, while Charles lay cold and still within the confines of a box. No, she could not think of that now. Later—later, when Longford survived, she would remember Charley.

CHAPTER 22

Outside, the early morning rain pelted the house, while inside most of the household still slept. Exhausted, Elinor had sought her bed but a few hours before, leaving a reluctant Mary to watch over Longford. Now, too tired to sleep, she lay listening to the rain, wondering how a man could endure what the earl had and still live. For whatever could be said of him, he was not going tamely into his final good night.

As the days had worn on to a week and more, the duties of nursing him had had to be divided, until now even the stiff, cold Mrs. Peake unbent enough to take her turn watching him. But his progress, if any, had been minute, and if there was anything encouraging about his condition, it was that he still lived at all.

She'd thumped, bathed, spooned sustaining broths, and watered him, held his hand to soothe him, listened while he raved until she almost felt a common bond with him, a common struggle for each labored breath. But this night just past had been the worst—for his fever had soared, and he had cried out at unseen demons, denying them. Finally, she'd summoned two of the stouter footmen and between them, they'd managed to soak him in a tub of cool water. He'd calmed then, slipping into a quieter sleep, and she'd come to bed.

Every muscle ached, every limb was weak from wrestling him down. And to make matters worse, her father, announcing he did not mean to stay where the house was at sixes and sevens, had finally managed to drag her mother home with him, so that for the last two days the ordering of everything had been hers. Even now, when she thought of her parents, she felt guilty, for she'd been too tired to protest, too tired to weep even when they left. She could scarce remember her mother's tearful embrace, her whispered words of encouragement.

"My lady—?" Mary inquired tentatively from the doorway.

"I'm not asleep."

The maid came into the room. "I think we ought ter send fer Beatty." Elinor sat up on the instant, her heart in her throat.

"He—he's not worse?"

"He ain't doing nothing."

Throwing back the covers, Elinor hit the floor running, her mind racing silently, praying.
Please—not now—not after what he's been through—not after Charley. You took Charley—surely Longford must not go also.

When she got there, the room was strangely silent, and she knew the worst had happened. She turned back to Mary. "Tell Dickon to run for the doctor."

"Already did," the maid admitted.

Elinor approached the bed gingerly, afraid of what she would find. The flickering light of a hastily lit candle cast an eerie orange and yellow glow to pale skin. Longford looked as though he'd been carved from white marble. Very cautiously, she reached to touch his forehead. It was cool, almost cold, and her stomach knotted.

"My lord—" She'd lost the battle, and now she was losing what little control she had over herself. She caught at his shoulders, shaking him, screaming at him, "You cannot die! Not now—not after all I have been through!" Her head went down, buried in his shoulder, and she began to weep hysterically. "Why? Why Charley? Why this?" she sobbed. "If there is a God, He does not listen to me!"

"Lady Kingsley!" Mrs. Peake gasped, shocked. "It's blasphemy!"

But the sobs racked the girl's body. "I tried—I tried!" It was then that she became aware of movement beneath her. He breathed.

"Cannot"—it was the merest croak—"breathe," he finished. "Heavy."

She sat up and wiped at her streaming eyes. "Longford— ?" she whispered.

"Aye. Been to—hell." He coughed, and the loose rattle was like music to her ears. The congestion was breaking up. "Hell," he murmured again. With an effort, his eyes fluttered open, staring up into hers. "Mistaken—heaven." And he closed them again, leaving her to wonder if he was still out of his head.

"Gown's soaked," a still-dressing footman observed from behind her shoulder. "Ought to get him dry."

"Oh—yes, yes—of course." She rose self-consciously, aware now that she'd not even put on her wrapper over her nightgown, that her hair tangled in wild disarray, falling over her shoulders nearly to the dark circles of her nipples beneath the thin lawn gown. "Uh—if you will change him, I shall make myself presentable for Dr. Beatty," she mumbled, crossing her arms over her breasts. Her eyes flitted to Mary. "I think he's better," she offered in understatement. But even as she spoke, she exulted. Longford lived.

Half an hour later, the physician was confirming it— the fever had broken rather precipitously and showed no sign of coming up again immediately. And a new examination of the shoulder wound revealed that it had all but ceased draining. But most encouraging of all was that awful cough, for it was now producing, bringing up the congestion from his lungs.

"That'll be with him awhile, I expect," he decided, "but the inflammation's breaking up. Oh, that don't mean to say he's out of the woods yet, you understand, but I'd say he's got a damned good chance of living." He stopped. "Sorry—shouldn't have said that—forget sometimes—should have said 'deuced good chance,' I guess. Mrs. Beatty's always a-getting on me for it."

"Doctor Beatty, as long as you are telling me the worst is over, you can say anything you want," Elinor insisted gratefully. "Thank you. Thank you." Overwhelmed, she choked back tears.

"Lady Kingsley, if there is any credit to be given, it's to the Almighty—and you. And so I mean to tell his lordship." He looked at her and smiled. "Best brace yourself, though—fellow's a long way from well. Be weeks before he regains his strength, and in the meantime, he'll run a fever now and again. Still have to keep the lungs draining also, but God willing, he'll soon be able to help you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hang himself over the bed while the phlegm is being loosened. Got to keep that up, you know." He gave her a kindly pat on the shoulder. "Best get yourself off to bed and sleep while you can. He'll have bad times yet."

When she emerged into the hall, Mary was waiting, her lower lip quivering, and then the maid burst into tears. "We done it, my lady! We done it!"

"It's not over yet," Elinor cautioned her. "Dr. Beatty says it's weeks before he is well."

"But Dickon was a-listening at the door," the girl admitted. "Heard him say his lordship was a-going ter live!"

"We hope so." Elinor felt her own heart was nearly filled to overflowing, and she could maintain her calm no longer. "Oh, Mary! We
did
do it, I think!" She felt a hand on her arm, and when she turned around, there was Mrs. Peake, her sharp features quivering, her eyes red. Wordlessly, Elinor embraced her, holding the thin, stiff body. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Here now—it was nothing," that woman muttered gruffly. "Christian duty, that's all."

And there was Daggett waiting also. "My thanks, Mr. Daggett," she told the valet. "I know how very difficult this has been for you, what with my husband and—"

He nodded. "His lordship would speak with you, madam."

For a moment, she thought he meant Longford, then she realized it was Arthur. Arthur. In the week past, she'd scarce spared a thought for him. Well, whatever he said to her, whatever names he cast at her, he could not dampen the exhilaration she felt now, the exhilaration of knowing she'd actually done something worthwhile.

"Yes, of course," she murmured.

This time, her husband's bedchamber was dark not from being closed up, but rather from the gloomy rain outside. As early as it was, he was sitting, his thin body wrapped in a blanket, looking out the window into the garden below. She sucked in her breath, then exhaled it slowly before she approached him.

"Good morning, my lord."

"I hear Longford lives," he rasped.

"Yes—at least for now."

"Cannot see you." He lifted a bony hand, motioning her to come around him.

She moved to face him, standing at the side of the window. For a moment, she looked down, seeing the red roses that climbed the garden wall. When she looked back, her husband was watching her.

"Look like the very devil—I've seen harridans in the markets as were more kempt than you," he declared sourly.

"I've not had much time to attend my toilette, I'm afraid."

"Still got your tongue, I see."

"My sword and buckler, I suppose."

His hand reached for what appeared to be a tall, slender book in his lap. "I considered burning this, Elinor," he admitted, "but having read it, I have decided to let you have it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The foolish ramblings of a foolish boy—no doubt worth more to you than to me." He held it out and looked away as she took it.

"What—?"

"Charles's journal," he said simply. "I collect Longford meant to bring it to you."

Her exhilaration, her exultation evaporated as she looked at it. Opening it almost cautiously, she saw the familiar scrawl and felt the painful tightening within her chest. She closed it quickly, not wanting Arthur to see her cry.

"Thank you, my lord," she whispered.

He stared out into the rain, and for a moment, she thought he'd not heard her. But finally he spoke. "It's sad reading, you know. I cannot recommend it."

Her chin quivered and the lump rose in her throat. "He loved you, Arthur."

"Aye—but you more than me."

The bleakness in his voice was unmistakable. "Arthur—"

"I scarce knew him, I'm afraid—or his father either," he mused slowly. "It was always my fortune as came first, and now it was for naught." He looked up at her, his blue eyes rheumy and reddened. "You behold a man with an empty empire, Elinor. A man builds for his heirs, and now I have none. It's all gone but the money."

For all that he'd railed at her, for all that he'd accused her, calling her whore and worse, she pitied him now. "Arthur, there is yet good to be done." She moved closer, laying a hand on his shoulder, and was surprised when he reached to clasp it.

"I did not build a fortune to establish hospitals or schools, Elinor—I built it for the Kingsley name—I built it for my blood. I'd thought to know there would be a Kingsley at Stoneleigh after me."

She let Charles Kingsley's journal slip from her other hand and very gently she brushed the wispy gray hair back from his forehead. "We cannot always have what we would, my lord," she said softly. "God—"

"God!" he spat. "Pfaugh! What sort of god takes Charles and lets the likes of Longford live?" he demanded angrily. "Do not speak to me of God!"

Having felt much the same herself before, she had no answer. Instead, she continued smoothing his hair. He stiffened as though he meant to recoil from her, then both his hands came up to hold her waist. His thin shoulders shook, and it was as though their roles were reversed, as though she were the elder and he were the child. For a moment, he wept against her.

Abruptly, he collected himself and pushed her away. "Go on," he ordered curtly.

The brief intimacy was over, leaving her once again separate and alone in her grief. She bent to pick up Charles's last recorded words and started to leave.

"Ought to have burned it," Arthur muttered behind her. "But I could not."

When she reached the door, she turned back, but he was once again staring out the window, mumbling something more about his empty empire, about how the only relations he had were distant, and every one of them smelled of the shop. What she did not hear was his avowed determination to see that they did not receive a farthing. To him, the notion of a clerk or worse as Baron Kingsley did not bear thinking.