An Inconvenient Wife (27 page)

“What are we going to do? He
will prosecute Bill. I’m scared, Maggie, so scared. No one will believe me! He
has fooled everyone into believing him a decent man.”

Maggie brushed her hand
against Anne’s bruised cheek. “I think the Major suffered a fall when he left
the house today. Hit his head on one of the gateposts, maybe. Bill has friends
who’ll help get the cur to the barracks.” She stood back, her expression grave
and worry in her eyes. “We’ve made a bad enemy, Miss Anne. He won’t forget
this. We must get away before he recovers. Go and change, child, and put some
things together. Mr. Fenton will go to the docks as soon as we are done here
and find a ship.”

Anne watched as her
dream-self ascended the stairs, just as she had done that day, clinging to the
banister, so nauseated she scarcely was in her bedchamber before being ill.
Every part of her felt bruised, her breasts throbbed and the cut on her mouth
stung from the salt tears running over her cheeks. How could this happen? She
had
not
led the Major
on.

Anne curled up on the floor,
not wanting to move, until the sense of time passing prodded her to her feet.
There were things she had to do. The dress first—she would have nothing
he’d
touched near her. Stripped down to her corset and petticoats, Anne rinsed out
her mouth and scrubbed her face and arms until not a hint of his scent
remained. Hair next, brushed ruthlessly, and swiftly braided.

A traveling gown of dark
blue was the closest thing she had to mourning clothes, and she pulled it over
her head. The laces were in front, as with many of her gowns, to allow her some
independence in dressing. She fastened them, changed into a pair of half boots,
and then dragged a small trunk from under the bed. Sensible dark colours and
sturdy fabrics were needed, but her hand lingered on a favorite morning gown of
white India muslin, embroidered with flower sprays in brightly coloured woolen
threads, a birthday gift from her father, and his favorite. Not at all
practical, but nevertheless, Anne folded it and placed it in the trunk with a
shawl he had also brought her from India. The small space was quickly filled
with clothing, shoes, her Bible and a book of Shakespeare’s plays. The lid
closed and locked, Anne pushed the trunk onto the landing for Bill to collect
and crept down the stairs. The house felt empty but….

It
was
empty, the
Fentons not yet returned, and Anne steeled herself to enter the parlour, only
the knowledge that she had to gather up her father’s papers; marriage lines,
her baptismal certificate, the direction of his man of business, and the like,
driving her forward.

“We will need money for the
passage, Miss Anne.”

Startled, Anne whirled
around. “Oh, Bill. I did not hear you come in. Where is Maggie? Did you get…?”

“Major Reynard is resting
comfortably after his fall,” Bill said. “One of his officers went for the
company doctor and not a question asked. There is no love lost there, I’d say.”
He looked toward the desk. “Your father has a strongbox in one of the drawers.
Do you know of it?”

“Yes, he showed it to me,
and also the papers I need to prove my inheritance. He arranged a small annuity
for me, but of course it is in England.”

“I need money for the
passage, Miss Anne. I don’t know of any ship sailing for England, but we’ll get
something. Maggie is in the kitchen. Get some tea or broth in you, lass. It will
help, I promise you,” he added, when she winced at the mention of food. “I’ll
bring down your trunk when I get back from the docks.”

Anne unlocked the strongbox,
counted out what Bill felt was needed, and he hurried out. Perhaps he was right
and tea might settle her stomach. The kitchen then, as soon as she finished
sorting through her sheet music to choose a few of her favorite pieces. Her
flutes had their own case; which she carried personally. She was
not
leaving them, nor the guitar still upstairs.

The stairs spiraled, up and
up, fragmenting around her, heavy hands dragging at her skirts. Back and back,
until she was falling, falling….

“No!” Anne jerked awake, her
heart racing. “A dream, Anne, just a dream.” She sat up and folded her arms
across her stomach, rocking back and forth until the nausea passed.

Chapter Twenty-one

Knowing that any dream of
that terrible day in Gibraltar meant further sleep was out of the question,
Anne slid from the bed, tossed a robe over her shoulders and found her
slippers. Before dressing, she wanted to see Nicholas. Quietly, not wishing to
disturb him, she opened the connecting door. A larger screen now stood by the
bed, shielding the light from Maggie’s candle. Bill was nowhere to be seen, and
Anne tiptoed across the room.

“You will go blind, sewing
in this light,” she whispered. “How is he?”

“Sleeping, as he has most of
the night. Mr. Fenton gave him a little more brandy and he has slept ever
since.” She looked critically at Anne. “You don’t appear to have gotten much
rest and you’ll need it if you still plan to watch over the man today.” She set
aside her handiwork and got stiffly to her feet.

“I do,” Anne said firmly.

“Then go and dress. Mr.
Fenton will be here soon to help his lordship take care of his needs. I want to
change the bandage before I go to bed myself. Mostly you need to keep him
company, help him sit up later so he can get some food in him, and keep him in
bed, which I daresay is the biggest challenge.”

“Get up?” Anne repeated,
shocked at the idea. “Westcott is in no condition to be up and about.”

“He won’t agree, and he’d be
a fool to do so, but then most men are fools a good bit of the time.” Maggie
put her hands on Anne’s shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a little
push. “Go. I’m having a meal sent up. You can take yours in here.”

Reluctantly, Anne did as she
was told. Always wise to mind Maggie and besides, she wanted to see for herself
how Nicholas was when he awoke.
Westcott, Anne. Better not to think of him
as Nicholas if you mean to keep a distance.
Which she did not, but he
clearly did, and besides, she had to tell him about the Major, although in the
light of day, her surmise seemed far-fetched. What the Fentons thought about
this shooting was something she meant to discuss with them sometime today. If
they had a similar notion…..
Nonsense
,
you are imagining things, and
hardly surprising, given yesterday’s scare and almost no sleep.
Impatient
with her wandering thoughts, Anne threw the robe onto a chair and rang for her
maid. No time for a bath; but clean clothes and a good wash, yes.

“Are the children up,
Clara?”

“Yes, my lady. Cook said
Janie called for their breakfast a few minutes ago.”

“Umm,” Anne said around her
toothbrush. She rinsed her mouth, then dried her face and hands. “Ask Miss
Caxton to come to his lordship’s chamber in an hour. I’ll know by then when
Miss Sarah can visit her father.”

“Lord Westcott must be doing
better,” Clara said.

“So far. He is asleep still,
but Mrs. Fenton felt confident his lordship would heal and be up and around in
a few days.”

“Shocking, it is, my lady.
Downstairs never heard of such doings as long as anyone can remember.” Clara
chattered as she laid clean petticoats and a morning gown of yellow muslin
across the bed, looking to Anne for approval.

“Yes, that will do. Help me
dress, and then you can see to the room.” Anne exchanged her slippers for soft
shoes, stepped into her petticoats and waited impatiently for Clara to lower
the dress over her head. “A shawl, please, the wool, I think.” After seeing her
reflection, Anne curbed her impatience and sat at the dressing table while
Clara brushed out her hair, wound it into a loose knot, and pinned it to the
back of her head. “Thank you.” Anne rose. She was dreadfully pale, but there
was not much to be done about it. Nevertheless, she rubbed hard at her cheeks
as she hurried from the room.

Westcott slept still, she
saw, surprised and alarmed, until a glance at the window reminded her it was
just a little after dawn. Bill had returned, and Maggie was clearing the small
table that stood by the bed.  Perhaps this would be a good time to speak to
them about her wild notion that the Major was responsible for the attempt on
Westcott’s life; if that is what it really was. It might be that St. Clair
would return with an explanation this morning.

“Maggie,” Anne whispered,
and gestured to the couple to follow her into Westcott’s dressing room. Harman
was there, and she sent him off to bed. “For you will be called upon to sit
with his lordship tonight.”

“Very well, Madam. You will
wake me if Lord Westcott needs me?”

“Of course.” Anne waited
until he closed the door behind him.

“I know you are going home
for some well-earned rest, but I want to hear what you think about this
shooting. Who you feel might be responsible, I mean.”

“They’re saying outside it
might be a poacher, or more probably, a lad sneaking off with his father’s gun
and firing at shadows,” Bill said after a quick glance at Maggie.

“I know what is being
said
.”
Anne’s gaze went from Maggie’s set face, to Bill’s nonchalant expression. “I
want to know what you
think
.”

“No sense guessing when we
don’t know any more than you,” Maggie said shortly. “Don’t borrow trouble.
You’ve enough of your own. See to his lordship now. He’ll be waking up and no
one there.”

Clearly, the discussion was
at an end, and Bill had already disappeared. No wiser than before and
considerably more annoyed, Anne returned to Westcott’s bedchamber. She was not
a child needing protection. They might at
least
share any suspicions.

Be honest, Anne. What you
wanted was assurance that your imagination is running wild and suspecting the
Major is nothing but a flight of fancy.
She wanted it to be so,
badly, but it was a fancy she found impossible to completely dismiss.

~* * *~

Westcott heard the door and
the stealthy footsteps approaching, and feigning sleep, waited curiously to see
what Anne would do. He knew it was she, her light step familiar by now, and the
floral scent of her soap teased his nose. He felt her eyes on him and her soft
breath warmed his cheek when she leaned over to touch her fingers to his
forehead. They lingered a moment, her hand brushing against his hair, and with
a little gasp, she moved away. Feeling foolishly bereft, Westcott opened his
eyes, watched as she blew out the candles still burning on the table behind the
screen, and went to partially open the heavy drapes. “Harman will tend to
that,” he said quietly.

Startled, she whirled around
to face him. “I woke you! I’m sorry.” Looking distressed, she hurried to him.
“How do you feel? Are you in much pain?”

“No.” The denial was
automatic. In fact, his shoulder hurt like hell. “Uncomfortable, but nothing I
can’t manage. Especially once I get something to eat.” He began pushing himself
into a sitting position. Dammed if he’d eat lying down.

“Let me help you.” Anne put
her arm beneath his uninjured shoulder and raised him enough to put pillows
behind his back. Cur that he was, he allowed it, enjoying the warmth of her
breath on his neck.
That bullet did more than put a hole in you, Westcott.
It addled your brain as well.
Annoyed with himself, the situation, and a
weakness he despised, he snapped, “I’m fine. Don’t fuss,” and winced when she
jerked away.

“As you wish.” Her cool tone
at odds with the flush staining her cheeks, she slanted him a look of reproach
that clearly showed her thoughts on his ill manner. “Since you don’t need me, I
will see what has happened to the meal Maggie ordered.”

“Anne….”

Ignoring him, her head held
high, she fled, giving St. Clair the briefest of greetings when she brushed by
him at the door.

“Ah, you are your usual
charming self again, I see.” The sarcasm and forbearing lift of St. Clair’s
brows hit home, and Westcott grimaced. “She saved your life, you know.”

Stung by the quiet rebuke,
Westcott looked away. “I know it,” he said sourly.

St. Clair stared at him and
then shook his head. “Sometimes you are an ass, Nick.”

Frost icing his words,
Westcott glared at him. “If you are done voicing your opinion, help me from
this bed. I need to piss.” He did not need to be told his behavior was
childish. He was well aware of it.

St. Clair grinned, damn him,
a knowing look in his eye, and Westcott felt his neck grow hot. That was the
problem with friends. They knew you too well. He swung his legs over the side
of the bed, and taking the earl’s outstretched hand, heaved himself to his
feet. The wound did hurt, blast it, and he stood rigid for a few minutes until
his head cleared and he felt confident he could reach the commode without
falling on his face.

“What have you been able to
determine about this insanity, Dev?” he asked, once he had shuffled back and
collapsed onto the bed.