Devotion (7 page)

"And then where will your dreams be, Miss Ashton? How will you manage to save enough money to provide your mother with a way out of her predicament? How do you intend to provide her a home, should you convince her to leave your father? Oh yes, my dear,
I'm
well aware of those aspirations as well."

Maria fled the room, took the stairs two at a time, losing her way along several passageways before locating the tiny chamber that had been her quarters upon arriving at Thorn Rose the evening before.

Flinging herself onto the bed, she buried her face into the musty pillow. The knot on her forehead throbbed pitiably, but it was the sense of disappointment that troubled her most; disappointment, not, surprisingly, at her circumstances or even the cold thread of shock that shivered like an icicle through her entire being, but at her behavior. Anger was not admirable, and such temper tantrums were unforgivable. Dignity came with equanimity. God frowned on such ill and grievous outbursts. Her father would have locked her in a box for such behavior.

She would face the duchess again, of course, and more calmly explain her reasons for wishing to leave Thorn Rose. Certainly, the duchess would find someone else—preferably a man—to tend her grandson, the Duke of Salterdon, or what still existed of him.

What
did
exist of him—that terrible corpse of a man, the beast, the monster lying so lifelessly in a bed fit for royalty, surrounded by more wealth than a thousand men would know in their entire lifetimes?

Gertrude entered the room, bestowing Maria a concerned, understanding smile. "I'll see to that bump on yer head now.
Oo
, that's a good one that. It'll be right blue for a while—"

"I don't want the poultice," Maria announced, and rolled toward the wall. "I should suffer dreadfully for my selfishness
. '
Twould
serve me right."

"'Tis everyone's reaction when they first see him, 'specially those who've known him before . . . family and friends, I mean
. '
Cept
there ain't much family and friends who come round anymore. Just his brother and the duchess . . . and
them
leeches
Thackley
and
Edgcumbe
," she added under her breath, and frowned. Shuffling round the bed and plopping herself onto the sagging mattress, the cherub-faced Gertrude tenderly placed the pungent bag of hot herbs on the swelling. Maria winced but offered no further resistance.

"I reckon it's just too painful to see him that way,
knowin
' how he was before and all. I often thought it a mistake to hide him away out here, but the duchess's advisors felt it would be less
humiliatin
' for her and him.
Knowin
' His Grace, I imagine he wouldn't care to have society
paradin
' through his home,
starin
' at him like he was some curiosity."

"Is he dying?"

Gertrude pursed her lips. "I don't rightly know.
Edgcumbe
"—her voice became tight—"says he's dead in here." She tapped her temple. "'Tis only a matter of time before the body dies as well. Course, if it were left up to
Edgcumbe
, His Grace would'
ve
long since been buried at
Menston
."

"
Menston
?"

"Royal Oaks Hospital for the Mentally Infirm at
Menston
.
Oo
, lass, it were a dreadful place. Full of lunatics and folk possessed by awful wickedness. The poor souls are chained and beaten like animals."

Maria swallowed.

Gertrude wrung her hands. "The idea of His Grace
bein
' interned
there . . .
it makes me furious when I see how
Edgcumbe
and
Thackley
are
wearin
' down Her Grace's resistance, constantly
tellin
' her that he would be better off there . . . and so would she. She ain't been the same since all this happened. It seems all the life has gone out of her."

"How was he injured?"

"Thieves wot jumped him as he left Epson Races. Aye, he
were
a rogue then, a real rakehell. He and his brother, Lord Basingstoke, were once the most eligible
bach'lors
in all England. Prime, they was, and handsome —twins,
ya
know.
Identical.
Then Lord Basingstoke up and married a lass from Wight and His Grace was left to fight off
the marriage noose,
as he always called it. He just lies there now,
makin
' his life and
ever'one
else's hell,
rousin
' only when he's a mind to, which ain't often. Only then it's to roar like a dragon or fling china at our heads."

"Can he neither speak nor walk?"

Gertrude's expression became odd, her hands nervous. Finally, she sighed heavily and tucked her wrinkled linen back into her pocket and started for the door.

"Gertrude?" Maria called, causing the servant to pause at the door and reluctantly look back. "Is he insane?"

"That ain't for me to say, lass."

Maria barely noticed the servant's exit, but lay with her head nestled into the pillow and stared at the ceiling. What next? Last evening's escapade was enough to put her in shock . . . now this.

She shivered, buried her face in the pillow again and tried to put the "beast's" image from her mind. Impossible! Unlike her brother, this man's personage was terrifying, his physique massive, and
he was quite possibly demented.

Oh, merciful Lord in
heaven,
was this to be her punishment for turning her back on her family and goodly John Rees, who personified virtue and uprightness? Was she simply to walk into this unseemly and questionable situation like Daniel into the lion's den? A lion would certainly seem less threatening!

She would not do it! She
could not!
Headstrong and determinedly willful she might be, but she was not irrationally stupid. She would request a day or two to consider her circumstances then ask—nay—demand that she be transported to some safer and more acceptable domicile. Until that time she would be in no way responsible for the duchess's ugly and grievous grandson.

At last, much to her consternation, she found her way back to that terrible place of illness and impending death, where she discovered the duchess, flanked by
Thackley
and
Edgcumbe
, standing at her grandson's bedside, weeping softly. Despite her earlier anger, Maria's first instinct was to run to the frail duchess and comfort her, but then she sensed that few people had ever witnessed this particular woman in a weak moment. Still, the need to console her was strong. Despite her revulsion of the appalling premises and its inhuman inhabitant, she understood the feeling of helplessness and despair. As the duchess felt for her grandson, so had Maria felt for her brother. Her Grace felt that his life was as her life, and that his death, or the very contemplation of such horror, would make the world so black that to look upon it drove the pain of loss to the very core of her soul.

"Trey, Trey, my darling boy," the duchess wept, her voice quivering in grief and anger. "What shall we do now? How could they have allowed you to become this . . . monster? How could they have treated you so despicably? You are my grandson! The Duke of Salterdon . . ."

"There, there, Isabella," comforted
Edgcumbe
. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see this. My own heart is broken that Trey has come to this. You know I have loved him like my own son over the years—"

"As have I,"
Thackley
said.

Having joined Maria, Gertrude gasped, her round face becoming flushed as she discovered the terrible condition of the room. "
Lud
," she groaned, then hurried to the duchess, offered an abrupt curtsy, then proceeded to wring her hands.

"Beggin' yer forgiveness,
Your
Grace. I ain't been on staff in a fortnight—only arrived back just a few short minutes before you come. Rest assured, Your Grace, that this terrible situation won't happen again."

The duchess said nothing, just stared down at the still as death form in the bed.

Gertrude gave
Thackley
and
Edgcumbe
an impertinent sniff then turned on her heels and exited the room, not so much as glancing toward Maria. There came heated voices from the hallway: Gertrude's and Molly's.

"Daft girl, wot the bloody hell were ya thinkin' to allow His Grace to get in that condition?"

"I'd like t' see you risk a conk on the noggin—'
e's
dangerous, I vow, '
urlin
' china at our '
eads
—"

"More likely you were
occupyin
' that
blazin
' stable boy Thaddeus. I wouldn't blame Her Grace if she dismissed you. I'd see to it
meself
if—"

"Ya won't be
seein
' to aught, ya silly
ol
' bugger, cause ya know ya won't be
findin
' anyone else
willin
' to put up with his stuff. And we both know the duchess don't want the rest of England to know what a bloody idiot he's become."

Maria closed her eyes and sank against the wall. "Blazes," she whispered.
"Blazes."

"You'll write me the moment there's been any change," said the duchess as she boarded her coach, along with
Thackley
and
Edgcumbe
.

"Of course."
Maria stood aside as the coachman closed the door and latched it.

Peering down at her through the window, her face slightly ashen and her eyes a trifle red, the duchess managed a smile. "Are you certain you like the room? You may change at any time, if you so desire. I felt your being near him would help—"

"The chamber is lovely," she assured her.

The duchess gazed up the facade of the immense house. "I've informed the staff that you have total control over this house and my grandson's welfare."

" 'Tis
a tremendous responsibility, Your Grace."

"Of which you are perfectly capable," she replied with a touch of her old authority, then added with a dignified lift of one thin eyebrow, "I sensed it the moment I saw you—your strength and moral fiber. You shall do him good, I think."

"'
Twould
do him better to be with his family and friends, I think," Maria stated boldly, causing a twinge of despair to cross the duchess's brow. "Would you depart so soon, Your Grace? Would you not remain a day or two, to assure yourself that I'm competent for the task, if nothing else?"

"Were I yet young at soul as well as heart . . . but my soul is weary and my heart is broken, my dear. I cannot stand to see him that way for very long. I was never strong where my children's welfare was concerned. Please understand . . ."

With a lift of her hand, and a last faint smile, the duchess bid Maria goodbye and the coach rolled under way.

Maria gazed after her, long after the stately conveyance had disappeared over the horizon and silence and winter's emptiness had filled the world again. She thought about calling after the duchess, of explaining one last time that the thought of spending one moment in her grandson's presence filled her with a fear she had not known even with her father.

A thin snow had begun to fall. It covered the countryside with sheer white, allowing patches of dark earth to show through. All seemed peaceful and she could not help but turn her face up and allow the cold sprinkles to dust her closed lids and nose and lips.

Ah, but she and Paul had loved the snow—had loved to sneak away from their father's stern eye to frolic like puppies, to build snow castles, to slide daringly across the perilously thin pond ice. Many a time, in those last months of his life, they had gazed out his window and watched the snow fall and shared their most intimate secrets: secrets about would-be lovers strolling through snow-dusted wheat fields
together . . .
of kissing until their noses turned red from cold and their mingled breaths formed sparkling icicles on their mouths.