Autumn Rain (36 page)

"Not yet."

He waited only until Daggett was out the door, then he emptied the bottle into his cup. At first taste, he thought he would vomit, then he drank enough to add more port. Finally, he had it all down. His stomach churned, but he lay quite still, hoping it would settle. Then he waited until he began to feel drowsy, until he knew it would be too late. Slipping the empty laudanum bottle beneath his pillow, he rang again for the valet.

"Fetch—Lady Kingsley," he gasped. "So—little— time."

Mystified by the message, Elinor came back to sit with him. "What do you need?" she asked him. "Hold—my—my—hand."

She was used to his sometimes childish behavior, but just now he surprised her. Nonetheless, she took his hand between both hers.

His speech sounded even more slurred and she began to wonder if he were having another stroke. "Arthur—?"

He blinked, then roused. "Tired—so tired."

She leaned over him to pull him up onto his pillow, and saw the empty bottle. "What on earth—? Arthur, what is this?"

"Too—late," he mumbled.

"Daggett! Daggett!" Her voice rose. "Daggett— now!"

"Aye, my lady?"

"Send someone to fetch Dr. Beatty on the instant— and have him take a good horse!
Now,
Mr. Daggett!"

"Is aught amiss?"

She held up the bottle. "I think he drank it."

"It was full."

Arthur roused again, and his eyes blinked as they sought Daggett's. "Aye."

"But why, Arthur—
why?"
Her eyes were hot with unshed tears.

"Too—old," he mumbled.

"Arthur!" She half-crawled onto the bed with him and shook him hard, trying to keep him awake. "Arthur, you cannot—it's a sin!"

"Cannot—"

Mrs. Peake, Lady Ashton, Mary, Peake—full half the household came as she began screaming. But they were all too late. Arthur Kingsley slipped deeper, drawing away from the world that no longer pleased him.

By the time Beatty arrived, he shook his head. "Nothing to do but wait, I'm afraid. By the sound of his breathing, it would do no good to make him vomit. Besides, he cannot swallow now—it would go into his lungs."

She sat there, perhaps another hour, until the physician announced it was over. When she looked up, she managed a twisted smile. "It was Arthur, was it not? He was still determined to control what he could."

"Sometimes, Lady Kingsley," Beatty murmured, "it's easier to die than to live."

Two weeks after Arthur Kingsley was interred beside Charles, Eleanor, her parents, and Lord Leighton sat in the bookroom at Stoneleigh for the reading of his will. And the provisions of it shocked nearly everyone. The title he could not keep from his distant Cit relation was duly mentioned, but with it went nothing but one thousand pounds in total for its maintenance. No house, nothing else, as all of his possessions were acquired and therefore not entailed.

To Elinor, there was the customary one-third widow's portion, enough to make her incredibly wealthy for life— "on condition that she spend none of it beyond what I have mentioned on her relations," which amounted to five thousand pounds each to her sisters "for their marriage portions," and one last ten thousand pounds to "Baron Ashton," for a final settling of his debts, beyond which he must not apply to Elinor. And the jewelry, of course, was to be kept for her use "so long as she shall live, whereupon it shall be passed on to Elizabeth, my daughter." Stoneleigh was to go to her "during the child's minority," and then it would belong to Elizabeth, as would the remaining two-thirds of his estate.

In that one document, Elizabeth Charlotte Louise Kingsley had become a great heiress. His only request was an odd one—he'd have Elinor and the child visit his grave annually in remembrance of him. It was, Lord Ashton whispered, "a small price to pay for the enormous fortune he's left the both of you."

But perhaps the most startling portion was that which named "Lucien, Earl of Longford, my daughter's guardian during her minority, which shall for these purposes be determined to be the age of twenty-five. In the event of his absence from the country, I should ask George, Viscount Leighton to act in his stead."

It was at that point that her father started from his chair. "No! By God, it's a miscarriage! The guardianship ought to go to me—as the babe's grandfather, it's my right!"

The solicitor looked up over the rims of half-spectacles. "Lord Ashton, I am afraid Lord Kingsley was most specific in his preference. Thrice I asked him, and thrice he said it was to be the Earl of Longford. I'm sorry, my lord."

"Sorry! Sorry?" Ashton's voice rose. "I had quite counted—" He stopped, and it was as though he could hear Arthur speaking from those years before, saying it was never wise to count another man's money. "I don't suppose the provisions can be broken?" he inquired hollowly.

"Only if Lady Kingsley and all other heirs can be brought to agree."

He turned to Leighton, appealing, "You've no wish for the duty, have you? And Longford—Longford—" He fairly choked on the name. "Well, I'll not abide it, sir! Not after what he has done!"

Leighton shrugged. "I shall, of course, do as Lady Kingsley asks me. I quite count myself a friend to both her and Lucien."

"Puss—tell him—"

She sat there, her hands gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white. Arthur had named Lucien Elizabeth's guardian. Why? There could be only one answer—only one. For a moment, it was as though her heart stood still, then relief flooded over her, bringing tears. And she could scarce contain what she felt in that instant.
Arthur had lied.

"Lady Kingsley, are you all right?" Leighton asked gently.

"Yes. Yes." She bit her lip to maintain what composure she could. Looking up at her father, she managed to shake her head. "I am satisfied with the terms, Papa," she whispered.

"It's a disgrace! You shall be a laughingstock—or worse! When the world gets a look at Elizabeth and makes the connection—"

Lady Ashton rose. "That will be quite enough, Thomas," she told him sharply.

"Enough!" he howled. "It'll be a scandal! She cannot recover! The child—"

"The child will be so wealthy I doubt any will cavil over an old scandal," Leighton cut in coldly.

Elinor's father turned on him. "You did this!" he accused.

"Papa, stop it!" She looked across to Leighton. "If you do not mind it, George, I would that you wrote Longford of this. And tell him that I do not object."

"Puss, you cannot!"

She stood to face her father. "Papa, do you not understand? I am rich enough to do as I please—you saw to that when you sold me." She nodded to the solicitor, then to Leighton and her mother. "If I may be excused, I should like to tend to my daughter."

The black silk skirt of her gown swished against the petticoat beneath it as she passed her father. He started to reach out to stop her, then dropped his hand. He stared at her in bewilderment before looking at his wife.

"Why?" he asked.

"When you sold her to Kingsley, you gave up any claim to her, Thomas."

"I did it for her!"

Lady Ashton met his eyes for a long moment. "Did you, Thomas? I don't think so." Moving around him so that she did not even touch him, she left the room also.

Behind her, she could hear him insist to Leighton and the solicitor, "I did it for her own good—tell them—"

"Yes, well—" Leighton reached for his hat. "If there's naught else to be attended to, I shall go home and write Longford."

"Tell them!"

But the solicitor ignored him. "There's naught else for now, my lord," he told Leighton. "You may write the earl that I shall await his instructions."

CHAPTER 35

August 30, 1813: Outside St. Sebastian, Spain

It had been a grueling month since he'd arrived, one that had seen appalling losses among Britain's ill-fed Spanish allies, so many that after their victory at Sorauren, they'd been unable to pursue the French back over the Maya Pass. And now they were poised for another assault on St. Sebastian, which still held out. Rumor had it that Marshal Soult was preparing a force to relieve the British siege from across the Bidassoa, so time was short.

Lucien, who'd spent much of the day in his saddle, riding up and down the assault lines, returned to his tent to discover Leighton's letter. Bone-weary, he ordered his aide to pour him a cup of port, and he sank to his cot to read.

My dear Luce,

It is my not altogether sad duty to apprise you that Arthur Kingsley has died by his own hand, which may or may not surprise you. The poor fellow was confined to his bed, and I suppose ultimately it affected his mind.

In any event, in his final disposition, he proved more than fair, leaving Elinor her widow's portion as well as a fortune in her jewelry. Most of the rest goes to the child, Elizabeth, with yourself chosen to act as guardian and conservator until her majority. Under the terms stated, in your absence, I am to carry out your directions and act in your behalf, until such time as you are come home to deal with matters more directly. So I suppose I must ask what you would that I did, although I cannot think it much, for the infant is too young to require more than her mother provides for her.

Lady Kingsley herself is well, having routed Ashton from Stoneleigh, and her mother remains with her. Whenever I can, I intend to ride over to guard your interests there. One disquieting bit of news has come my way, however—Sally Jersey writes that Bell is seeking to purchase a place in Cornwall. Shall I give him the heave-ho for you?

I remain, as ever, your friend. George.

For a moment, Lucien was too stunned to think, then he reread the letter. Kingsley was dead. Elinor was free. He looked at the date at the top of the page and realized that Arthur had not waited very long after he'd left to do it. And now he sat in a stinking tent waiting to strike another blow against the French.

He read the words again, feeling a sense of unease over the bit about Bell, thinking perhaps he ought to have told Elinor he loved her, after all. But then there was the question of his own mortality. If she'd believed him, if she'd loved him in return, he'd not have her grieve twice. No, it was better to wait. Still, Arthur's will gave him a reason to write to her.

Ordering his paper and pen, he sat there, trying to compose something to encourage her. What he wanted to say, he could not—it had to be small, this opening, like the first breech in her defenses. Otherwise, she might consign his words to the flame. She might anyway. Finally, he sucked in his breath, exhaled fully, and began to write.

"My dear Lady Kingsley," he began, then stopped. Too formal, considering what they'd once been to each other. He crumpled the paper and tried again, this time addressing her as "Elinor, Lady Kingsley." That too landed in a wad at his feet. Perhaps just Elinor. But even that did not satisfy him. Telling himself he'd soon run out of the precious paper, he started over the last time.

My dear Nell,

I am in receipt of George's letter, and had I liked Arthur better, I should offer my condolences. Suffice it to say that I leave it to God to judge him. George tells me that you and Elizabeth are both well, and for that I am thankful.

It's odd that you should have chosen to call her Elizabeth, for that was my mother's name. May she have a happier life than that namesake.

He stopped. There was so much that he yearned to tell her, but none of it was suited to a letter. If he wrote his thoughts, he should sound as moonstruck as Charley. No, this was his opening, nothing more. He went on.

If you should find Arthur's instructions onerous, if you would rather have another guardian for the child, I can recommend none finer than George. However, lest you think I want out of it, let me say I will count myself honored if you will but let me be a part of Elizabeth's life.

I saw her, you know, while you slept. And were it not for that black hair, I should count her a beauty like her mother. Myself, I rather preferred your red hair.

He stopped again. If he ran on like that, he'd be declaring himself before the end. The child. He had to focus on his daughter.

I do not suppose there is much a guardian does for an infant, but if she has need of anything, I shall direct George to provide it. It will not be until later, when she is possessed of your looks and Kingsley's fortune, that we shall have to guard her against the rakes and rogues like Bell and myself. In between, we have but to look forward to governesses, schools, dancing and music masters, all the while taking care that she does not become merely another insipid cipher for some self-centered fellow. If we are fortunate, perhaps she will be like you—possessed of everything from wit to kindness.

He'd said enough. Every sentence tried to turn to that of a lover rather than a guardian. He quickly penned a closing of "Until I may see the both of you again, Lucien, Longford."

But long after his aide had taken it out to add to the dispatch bag, he sat upon his cot, thinking of her. Despite the discomfort, despite the flies, he could close his eyes and smell the lavender in her hair, and he could remember the feel of her beneath him, the yielding of her body to his, and the answering urgency of her passion. His mouth was dry, and his whole body ached with the memory of how it had been. Mad Jack had been wrong—there were more than the right holes to a woman. There was tenderness, there was giving—even where it was undeserved.

When he got home, he was going to win her again, even if it took every power of persuasion he possessed. And God willing, he could make her remember the good times, the times before she'd come to hate him.

"My lord—?"

"Huh?" He looked up. It was Barry, come to drag him back to the present, to the war, to the terrible, awful onslaught that was coming. He wasn't going home to Elinor. He was going to France over the Pyrenees, and he was going to fight until the last Frenchman laid down his arms. And then if he survived, he was going home.

"Are you quite all right?"

"Yes." It was then that it came home to him, that Arthur Kingsley had made him guardian to his own daughter. And he knew why—he knew that Lucien would keep that enormous fortune intact for the child. "Yes," he repeated.

"Soult's coming. If St. Sebastian falls, it will have to be tomorrow. Old Douro means to attempt a daylight assault."

"Daylight?"

"Got to, he says—for the artillery to be effective. Cannot afford to fire on our own men. Going to start firing in the morning." Barry looked away. "A lot of us are going to die."

"Probably one in three," Lucien agreed grimly.

"He wants a staff meeting over supper."

"I'll be there."

After Barry left, Lucien drained the last of his cup of port. It was as well that he'd not written anything else to Elinor. He'd be damned lucky if he saw the sun go down tomorrow. And if he survived that, there were dozens, perhaps a hundred such battles to be fought between St. Sebastian and Paris.

There was smoke and fire everywhere—from the belching guns to the flames that licked along the walls of the little fortress town. And the roar of the cannon was deafening, so much so that Lucien had stuffed lint into his ears against the sound. With a handkerchief tied over his nose to allow for breath, Lucien rode along the wall of men, urging them on, watching helplessly as they fell back. The hills were covered with red-coated bodies, some still quivering and jerking, while others heroically braved the fire to carry those that lived back down. And through it all, he told himself that he had to survive-that he had to go home this time.

Later, it was calm save for the cries and the moaning. Above, St. Sebastian was naught but a smoldering ruin, over which flew the British flag. It had been another costly victory—some regiments reported casualties of more than half, some more than one-third, and nearly every one had lost at least a quarter. Outside the fortress itself, four thousand French, those who'd come in vain to raise the siege, lay dead. In the twilight, a French flag, its standard still clutched in a stiff hand, fluttered alone.

This time he'd been lucky. Aside from soot and blood that smeared his face and uniform, he'd been untouched by it all. He sat on the grass alone, wiping the bloody blade of his bayonet with the dirty handkerchief that had covered his face.

"One down—God knows how many more to go," Barry murmured, dropping down beside him.

"It's a long way to Paris."

"Aye—but that's how it's done—one victory at a time."

"I know."

"Mad Jack would have savored this."

Lucien threw his handkerchief away, then rose. "I'm not Mad Jack. I've got someone to go home to." He looked down at Barry. "Jack didn't have anyone. Fool that he was, he didn't know he needed somebody." Then, feeling somehow ungracious to the older man, he clapped his shoulder. "Your pardon, but I've got a letter to write."

On September 3, a semaphored message was received from offshore, telling that Austria and Prussia had joined Russia against France. It was what Wellington had been waiting for. But first the British army had to break through Soult's mountain defenses. They were going to have to fight their way through the heights and passes, pushing the French back mile by bloody mile.

All manner of alien places came into Lucien's vocabulary, rolling off his tongue as though he'd been born to speak them—Hendaye, the Bidassoa, the Nivelle, St. Jean de Luz. They had to close off any means of restricting supplies from the sea.

On October 7, the light companies of the 5th Division waded armpit deep across the Bidassoa River to surprise the French on their frontier. Another bloody battle, and then the Pyrenean heights, from whence they looked down into France itself. And still Lucien lived as the lists of casualties sent home mounted, some of them taking a full dispatch pouch crammed to the buckle.

By November, they'd broken through Soult's lines along the Nivelle. It was rough country—hard, high, craggy—in some ways as barren and rocky as parts of Cornwall. But they took it and moved on. And again Lucien wrote to Elinor, not as a lover, but as Elizabeth's concerned guardian. But with each subsequent battle, he began to feel as though he would eventually go home alive.

Now as they pushed into France, there were half-buried, half-decayed corpses of Napoleon's
Grand Armee
everywhere, but the Little Corporal would not yield, preferring to live with the fantasy that he could somehow survive. It was going to be a fight to the death between the French and the world, for little countries once subjugated, fell into the fray on the allies' side now. And Wellington, fearful of an early peace, one that would not leave Napoleon beaten, pushed harder and harder.

To Lucien, it began to seem as though the war would never end. Christmas, the new year of 1814, a winter of battle after battle, of heavy casualties offset by heavier ones on the other side, of massive French desertions, of surrenders that strained the supplies. Still, he wrote Elinor, sending perhaps a letter a week, telling of where he was, what he did.

And to his surprise, she finally answered. It was old news, having followed him for two months, but it was from her nonetheless. But he read it and reread it, seeking something not said, and found nothing. She talked of the child, of its first tooth, of how much the little girl grew—but nothing beyond "as for me, I am quite well." Not much to pin great hope on.

By now, he knew he loved her desperately, that if he could have honorably done so, he would have gone home to put it to the touch. He no longer even worried about Mad Jack—he'd proven to himself he was different. Yet still he could not bring himself to write it. When he poured out his soul, he wanted to be home.