Autumn Rain (35 page)

CHAPTER 34

For two days, she lay in a near stupor, drugged while her body began to heal. And when she'd finally wakened, her mother had told her that Lucien had gone, that England was finally going to invade France. And she had turned her face to the wall to hide her tears. For all that she was bitter, for all that she had tried to hate him, she could not help feeling abandoned all over again. She listened dully as her mother explained that Longford had settled it with Leighton, that the viscount was going to broker her return to Stoneleigh. That Arthur had suffered a fearful stroke and was no longer a threat to harm anyone.

Her father, who'd journeyed posthaste on the mails, afraid that she might jeopardize her widow's portion, added his own assurances. Her mother would stay with her as long as needed, and Lord Leighton stood ready to receive her if anything went awry. It was better for everyone, he argued, for at Stoneleigh, the babe could be properly christened, averting further scandal.

Leighton himself came to call, saying that he'd been to see Arthur, and that the old man was in sad case. He was beginning to regain his speech, but Beatty doubted he would ever have much use of his limbs. The prognosis was that Arthur Kingsley would be abed the rest of his life. But he'd understood, or so Leighton thought, and he'd managed to nod his head as the viscount had outlined Longford's terms: Elinor would return, saving him the pity of his neighbors, and he would acknowledge the child. Beyond living in his house, she was not expected to have any further discourse with him.

"And he agreed to it?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," Leighton declared simply. "Longford was right—as ill as he is, Kingsley still has his pride."

"I see." She looked up at her father, who nodded approvingly. "Very well—it would not seem as though there is much choice, is there?"

"Well, you could remain here, of course. Longford said if you decided to, he would make provision for you and the child." Leighton's blue eyes regarded her soberly. "But I should not advise it. For the babe's sake, if not for your own, I think you ought to go home."

"Make the babe an heiress," her father insisted. "Can't deny her his fortune, can you? Besides, you got your widow's portion to consider."

Leighton flashed him a look of considerable dislike, then turned again to Elinor, his face a mirror of sympathy. "You have but to send to me, and I will come," he promised. "I gave Lucien my word I would see to your safety."

For public consumption, it would be given out that Lady Kingsley's lying in had been an exceedingly difficult one, and that she had curtailed all activities while she recovered. Then Arthur's own illness had further complicated matters, explaining why no one, not even the vicar and his wife, had been invited to view the babe. And as she had the sympathy of the entire household staff, including Daggett, it was unlikely any gossip would escape from Stoneleigh.

It was done. There but remained the matter of taking her home, which Leighton did within the week, providing a closed carriage for her, the babe, her mother, and her father. Already rumors floated about the infant, with many going so far as to speculate that if it were indeed Kingsley's, perhaps because of his age, it was either an imbecile or deformed. It was time to show the child before the talk got worse, Lord Ashton insisted. Despite Arthur's condition, plans must be made for a public christening.

Her first two days home, she kept to her chamber, nursing and tending her babe, trying to reconcile in her mind once again that Lucien had never loved her, that it had been as Arthur had told her. Finally, she came out, dry-eyed and composed. She was a woman grown now, not a child, and she would do what she must to protect her still-unnamed daughter.

That afternoon, to take her mind from what her papa called her "unreasoning fear" of him, she visited Arthur, totally unprepared for what he had become. He seemed shrunken, smallish like a curled spider, and he was as helpless as Leighton had painted him. His eyes followed her as she came into the room, and there was no mistaking that he was glad enough to see her. He lifted a frail hand as though he would beckon her closer, then he let it fall limply to the covers. "You—came—home."

"I had nowhere else to go," she said simply.

Tears formed in the rheumy eyes and spilled over onto his sunken cheeks, and he had not the coordination to brush them away. "Sorry—for—it," he whispered.

"For what?" she asked coldly.

"Ever—Every—thing."

As much as she hated him, she felt a certain pity for him. To a man of his pride, how it must gall him to have to lie there like that. She pulled up a chair and sat down. "Do you hurt, my lord?" she managed to ask him.

"No—cannot feel—beyond"—he gave up for a moment, marshaling his breath before going on—"beyond my—arms."

She sat there, not knowing what to say, trying to separate the pitiful creature before her from the husband who'd cost her so much. Finally, she started to rise.

"Don't—go—yet. The—the babe?"

"She looks like Lucien," she told him brutally, "so we are both cheated, aren't we?"

"Sorry for—that—also." His voice was thin, breathless, and so faint she could scarce hear him. "Misjudged him." Then, sucking in air again, he managed to ask, "What name—do—you—give her?"

"I don't know. I'd thought perhaps Elizabeth—it's my second name."

He nodded weakly and closed his eyes. Once again, she started to leave, only to have him stop her. "Not yet," he gasped. "Stay—read—anything."

She would have denied him, but she could not deny a certain pity for him. Reluctantly, she reached for the book that lay on the small stand beside his bed. To her surprise, it was
The Iliad,
the book Lucien had teased Bell with in what seemed another lifetime. She opened it to a folded-down page and began to read, losing herself in the epic tale of fabled heroes. After an hour or so, when she laid it aside, she heard him whisper, "My thanks."

Later, early in the evening, word came that he wanted to see "his daughter," as Daggett reported it. Taking her mother for support, Elinor carried the infant into his chamber that he might see her. Yet, as helpless as he was, she kept her daughter beyond his reach. But he held out his hand, trying to touch her, and finally she drew close enough that his wasted fingers found the babe's arm.

"Pretty—like you."

"Thank you."

"Elizabeth—Louise—Char—Charlotte—Kingsley."

The next day, when the vicar and his wife made a late afternoon call to finalize preparation for the babe's christening, Eliza Thurstan made over Elizabeth, saying that she was honored to have the child named for her. And she remarked with a completely straight face how much the infant looked like Arthur.

She took them up to see him, thinking perhaps it would lighten his spirits. Eliza gushed over "little Elizabeth," to which he replied, "Named her—for—my mother— also. Pretty little—thing." After they left, Elinor started to thank him for carrying on the sham, but he shook his head. "Got to—keep—my bargain." He gestured to the laudanum bottle on his bedside table. "Might—as well— give me—some. Cannot do—aught—but sleep."

"Are you hurting?"

"No."

Once again, she felt sorry for him. A man who had striven so hard, sacrificed so much for the emptiness of money and station, and he had nothing worthwhile left to him.

"I could read to you again," she offered.

"No. Go on—got better—things—to do."

But she didn't. She picked up the book and read aloud again, until Mary came to tell her that Elizabeth was rather insistently hungry. As she laid aside
The Iliad,
she saw that Arthur slept. Without the laudanum.

After that, as much to pass her time as his, she took to reading to him twice each day, and when she was informed that he'd quit eating, she began feeding him also, ordering that instead of gruel and jellies, he ought to have what the rest of the household ate minced for him.

Still, he did not seem to want to eat. After a few bites, he pushed feebly at her hand.

"Don't know what your lay is, Nell," her father complained. "He ain't like to push off if you keep it up."

It seemed odd—after nearly six years of waiting for him to die, she was prepared to see her elderly husband live, and until he was gone, she'd do her duty to him. After all, despite everything else that had passed between them, he had given Elizabeth his name.

When the christening came, it drew the curious, but she managed to hold her head high as she watched the vicar dribble the baptismal water over her child's head. At her side, Lord Leighton stood godfather in the absence of any other. And it was duly recorded in the parish register.
Elizabeth Charlotte Louise Kingsley, b. 6 July, 1813, d. of Arthur, Baron Kingsley, and his wife, Elinor.
She was officially now and forever legitimate, despite Elinor's rearrangement of the names Arthur had wanted. Somehow they sounded better in that order.

Afterward, she took the babe, still in the exquisite christening gown he'd ordered from Switzerland, to show Arthur. And once again, he pronounced Elizabeth pretty. She and the infant stayed for a while, until he said he was tired. He appeared despondent, and despite her offer to come back to read, he shook his head.

Even a suggestion that perhaps on the morrow Jeremy and Daggett might take him down to sit in a chair on the porch did not seem to improve his spirits. She quarreled with her father over that, sending him home in a huff, muttering if she continued, Arthur was going to outlive him. But as agreed, he left her mother, advising her privately to keep an eye on his expectations. His departure suited both of them.

Two days later, Arthur spent perhaps an hour with the solicitor he'd demanded. And later he surprised everyone by asking to be carried downstairs. He lay upon a settee, watching as Elinor sat stitching, her bright hair falling forward as she leaned toward the light from the window. Aye, she was as beautiful as ever, a woman to do a man credit, and for all that she'd betrayed him with Longford, he did not blame her for it. It had been his idea from the beginning, and it had not taken much suggestion for the earl to act upon it.

If he regretted anything, it was Charles. He lay there, propped against pillows, remembering reading the boy's journal, thinking how little he'd known him. And a man ought to know his own flesh and blood, for in the end, money had no memory, money did not grieve. Now he had no one to cry for him, and even if he chose to live, it was unlikely that little Elizabeth would remember him as anything beyond a sick old man. What Elinor and the infant needed was a strong man like Longford, someone who could take care of them with more than money.

He looked again to Elinor, thinking that her real worth lay not in her beauty, but rather in her capacity to forgive, to live and survive in adversity. If anything, her beauty had been enhanced by it, for it gave her a certain character that so many lovely women lacked.

If he'd made mistakes in assessing her, his worst he supposed was in assuming she was as fickle, as empty as the rest of them. Despite her professed hatred of Longford, he did not doubt that there was still a bit of a spark there, something that could be rekindled when he was gone. And the realization brought with it a pang of regret that he'd not been younger when he'd wed her.

He could still remember the triumph she'd given him in London. He had made it to Almack's. He had hobnobbed with the
ton,
speaking with the likes of the Jerseys, the Seftons, the Melbournes. She'd gained him the entree he'd asked for. And had it not been for poor Charles, she'd be the reigning Incomparable still.

She looked up, aware of his scrutiny. "You look a trifle hagged, my lord. Perhaps you have been down too long."

"Aye."

She rang for the footman, ordering that his lordship be carried back to bed. As they bundled his blanket about him, he asked for a bottle of port, surprising her. He still had difficulty swallowing. But if Daggett were there... She nodded.

It was not even his household anymore. He was so helpless he had to ask for everything. And to him it was as though he'd lost all consequence, as though he were merely
de trop,
as though the world had already left him, and there was nothing left for him to do—except one last thing.

She laid aside her sewing and followed them up to see that he got his port. She reminded Daggett that someone ought to stay with him lest he choke, then she left to feed Elizabeth, who could be heard wailing down the hall. To him, it was almost obscene that she'd chosen to nurse the infant herself, but he supposed that was another thing that had passed him by. In his day, his first wife had nursed his son because he'd not had enough money to engage a wet nurse. And he'd always felt sorry about that.

He let her go, then stared for a time at the ceiling, seeing the gold-leaf rosettes he'd had copied from Marie Antoinette's bedroom. He'd managed to get it all—more money than he'd ever dreamed existed when he was a boy. But a man had to be ruthless to get what he wanted, and he wondered briefly if he'd see any of his enemies again.

He took the glass Daggett poured him, then waved him away, muttering that he was not a child. The faithful valet hesitated as though uncertain as to whether to obey him or Lady Kingsley. In the end, habit triumphed, and he left also.

Arthur lay there for some time, sipping slowly, thinking of his life, wondering if much of it had been worth the price. Finally, he poured himself some more of the port, spilling a great deal of it on his covers. Then he reached for the bottle of laudanum he'd been hoarding beneath some papers in a bedside table drawer. His hand trembled so much he was afraid he'd drop it, that he'd spill some of it, but he managed to get it. "Daggett—"

"Aye, my lord?" As always, the valet hastened when the bell was pulled.

"Get—the—stopper out, will—you?"

"Aye."

"And do not—set it—tightly, for I may—have need— of more later."

"Would you have a dose now? Should I inform Lady Kingsley you are in pain?"