Barbara Metzger (6 page)

“Pain? The boy is in pain and none of the medical morons can help him?”

“I believe the use of laudanum for a head wound was at the root of the physicians’ disagreement. Too deep a sleep and he might not awaken.”

Ian reached for a bottle. Any bottle. The ache in his gut felt permanent. Perhaps
he
should take the laudanum, if the liquor was not dulling his anguish. Then he could stop the clock from ticking, at least in his own mind. He could think of no other way to make the hours disappear, to get him through this night.

He did not want to forget; hell, he wanted the memories to disappear entirely.

How did one halt time, though, make the hands of the dial travel backward? How could a mortal man reclaim a moment, recall a hasty word, return a pistol ball to the gun barrel? There had to be a way, if only for an hour.

*

Athena had her Bible out, but she neither read nor prayed. She sang, instead. She was slightly off-key, but she crooned all of Troy’s favorite songs, there by his bedside. When she forgot the words, she hummed, and when she ran out of popular tunes, she sang Christmas carols and hymns. She was hoarse, but her brother seemed to rest more easily when he heard her voice, so she sang. When she was quiet, he started to thrash around, crying out at the pain, sending himself deeper into the fevers.

She had run out of things to tell him hours ago. How many times could you tell a boy that you loved him, that you would be furious if he did not get better soon, that everything was going to be all right? She told him about the heroic earl who had rescued him, the magnificent horses who had carried her there, and the concerned servants who were helping care for Troy now.

They were as far from the sullen, uncooperative, and overworked staff at their half-brother’s house as Derby was from London. Here, too, the Renslows were honored guests, not poor relations to be ignored and endured. The servants at home took their direction from their mistress, Veronica, Lady Rensdale, who saw Troy as a reminder of her barrenness. She saw Athena as a rival for the respect of their neighbors and tenants, although the viscountess made no effort to win anyone’s affections, certainly not her younger, prettier sister-in-law’s. The staff at Maddox House were eager to please, and obviously adored their generous, easygoing master. As Athena told her brother, one could tell a great deal about a gentleman by his servants.

Speaking of Spartacus and Veronica was too dreary, so Athena described for her brother the grandeurs of Maddox House that she had glimpsed. Why, the guest suite assigned to the Renslows was almost as large as the entire bedroom floor at their uncle’s house, and all tastefully done in soft blues and greens.

Troy groaned. Of course. What boy was interested in household furnishings? So Athena told him tales of their mother, stories secretly gleaned from the servants when she and Troy were children. Their half-brother, Spartacus, had disliked his frivolous young stepmother, blaming her for his father’s death of heart failure, and never wished her name spoken in his household. No matter to him that his orphaned, heartbroken little sister had cherished each memory of her beloved mama.

Later, the tales were often repeated in their nursery to comfort a poor, sickly, motherless boy. Athena told them again now, about the pretty woman Troy had never known.

“She wanted you so badly,” Athena told her brother as he drifted in and out of consciousness. “Even though the doctors warned her of the danger after she lost two infants before. She wanted to make our father happy—as if anything could. He was just like Spartacus, you know.” The former Viscount Rensdale had followed his second wife to the grave within two years, two years of never looking at his infant son.

“Mama was beautiful, you know. She had the same color eyes we have.”

Troy mumbled something. Athena leaned closer to hear.

“I can…see them.”

“No! No, you cannot! You see mine, Troy, my eyes, not Mama’s. She is in heaven. You have to stay here, with me. And Roma. We need you, dearest! You cannot join our mother. She would be wretched if you went to her now. Besides, our father might be there, too. I doubt it, but you would not wish to encounter him. Believe me, dearest, our father would not be pleased that you have not finished your studies, not taken up a career, not provided heirs to his title, if Spartacus fails.”

“Hurts.”

“I know. But you are strong.”

Troy tried to smile and Athena’s heart almost broke into tiny pieces.

“Not…strong,” he whispered.

She raised his head and held a glass of cool water to his lips. “You will be. I know it. Look how far you rode today.”

“Not like Marden.”

“Pooh. He is an ox,” Athena lied for her brother’s sake. The earl was a fine figure of a man, not a clumsy giant, but she said, “You would not want to be so big. Why, you’d hit your head constantly on the kitchen door. And you could never visit Uncle Barnaby on his ship. You know how low the ceilings are onboard. And…and we do not own a horse strong enough to carry that immense weight.”

“Marden must. Neck or nothing rider, you know. Mad Dog Marden.”

“No, he was not terribly angry when Roma scratched his boots.”

“What they call him, silly.” Troy’s brow was starting to furrow as the pain washed over him. “That’s…why I went to see.”

Since she was already telling bouncers, Athena saw no reason not to tell a bigger one. “The earl offered us free use of his stables.” He meant she could send riders and messengers, she understood, but Troy did not have to know that. “I am certain he would be grateful if you helped exercise his cattle when you recover. He might even take you to Tattersall’s with him.”

Troy lay back, a smile on his face. Athena went back to singing.

*

Enough. Ian was no nursemaid, and had no idea of what to do in a sickroom. He had never been sick a day in his life, and had been away at school when his sister contracted the smallpox. His father had broken his neck in a horse race, so he had been spared even that. Still, he had to go offer his assistance. He could not very well go to sleep in his comfortable bed and ignore the boy’s struggle for life right down the other corridor. He had to check, at the very least, that his competent staff was managing the additional responsibility. He could offer to hire extra nurses, promise bonuses. Hell, he would carry coals and hot water, anything to feel that he was doing his share. He went upstairs.

Lud, the dog must be howling to get out. No, someone was singing, if you could call it that.

The guest room door was partially open, so he tiptoed in—easy enough, since he was still in his bare feet. By the firelight and the single candle left burning, he could see the girl curled in a chair at the bedside, her feet tucked under her, droning out a gloomy hymn, as if the poor boy did not have enough woes.

Ian had forgotten about the sister, or thought she’d be asleep by now. He had not forgotten about the dog, having come prepared with a slice of chicken from the untouched platter his butler had brought to the library. The cur was asleep, though, and had not heard him enter, naturally. Lucky pup, Ian thought, not to have to listen to the girl’s ear-mangling music. One of the maids was asleep in the corner, her mouth open, snoring softly. The room was hot, the fireplace piled high with coals. Attie, Miss Renslow, that is, kept brushing damp tendrils of blond hair from her cheeks, wisps that escaped the long braid that trailed down her back. At least someone had gathered the unruly mop into some semblance of order, he noted, and found a ribbon for her. Her cheeks were flushed, but he could not tell if that was from the heat or a whole day of weeping, the poor puss.

Miss Renslow wore the same shapeless pastel gown she’d had on this morning, and Ian had to wonder if she had rested at all, if she had been offered a bath, a meal, a drop of brandy. No, one did not offer a young girl alcohol for fortification. And of course his household had offered the female every amenity. He’d have them tossed out in the street otherwise. She must simply be afraid here by herself, and was staying at her brother’s bedside rather than sleep in a strange bed.

He stepped closer and spoke softly. “You can go to bed now, my dear. I will have a maid come to sleep in your room with you. You should not be here alone.”

Athena jumped to her feet and dropped a curtsy, blushing that their handsome benefactor had seen her sitting like a hoydenish schoolgirl. For that matter, she had tugged her braided hair loose from the coronet on top of her head and was looking frumpish again, she had no doubt. Since it was too late to do anything about it, she merely gestured toward the maid in the corner, who was stirring at the sound of conversation. “I am not alone. Sophie rouses at my call and fetches anything I might want.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll stay to watch over your brother, and get another nurse to replace this sleepy one. You need your rest.”

“I need to be with my brother.”

Ian admired her loyalty, but could not approve of her recalcitrance to follow his suggestion. He was the earl. He knew better, of course. “Really, Miss Renslow, you are doing your brother no service.” The singing alone would hasten anyone’s demise.

“I am keeping my brother from reopening his wound or aggravating his fever, my lord, the best way I know how.”

He could not argue with that, since the boy did seem to be lying peacefully. He was far too pale, with blue veins showing at his eyelids, but he was not thrashing about or drenched in sweat.

“How fares he, then?” he asked, his own stomach’s discomfort quickly forgotten.

She turned back to the bed. “At times he is fine, speaking to me and sipping some water. Sometimes he sleeps. Then the pain grows too strong for him to sleep. He grows restive, which jars his head or the other wound, and his fever climbs. Then I awaken the maid to help me bathe him with cool cloths. Your Mr. Hopkins comes to help change his nightshirt—your nightshirt, my lord, thank you—when it is damp.”

“And his legs?”

“His legs do not matter now.”

They would to the boy, if he lived. Bui Ian saw no reason to mention that to the sister, who did seem to be competent in the sickroom, despite his misgivings. Hopkins and Mrs. Birchfield would never have left her on her own here otherwise, he was sure.

The heat in the room was stifling. “Did the physicians say he should be kept so warm?”

“The physicians said many things, all contradictory. I know the room should be kept hot, for chills are worse. Troy does not need pneumonia on top of everything else.”

That made sense, Ian supposed. He’d talk to the doctors in the morning himself, which, he realized, he ought to have done before. He took off his jacket and loosened his cravat.

“My lord?” she asked with a gasp of surprise.

“Excuse me, but I would swelter in here otherwise.”

Athena quickly averted her eyes from the earl’s undress. She was well aware that polite manners did not matter one whit here at Troy’s bedside, and she was relieved in a way that her own hurly-burly appearance was equaled by his lordship’s casual dishabille, but she was still embarrassed to be noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. She looked down—to see his bare feet. Goodness!

Her cheeks flooded with color, Athena said, “There is no need for you to stay.”

“I am staying.”

“But you have done so much already.”

If only she knew…

Ian supposed that he should have stayed and had dinner with the chit. Alone with strangers and servants,
she had to be frightened. And worried about her brother, of course. “I have not done enough.”

The girl and the maid were sitting on the two upholstered chairs in the room, and he was not about to sprawl on the low pallet in the far corner. Ian found a wooden chair at the desk in the sitting room. It was small and looked uncomfortable, but ought to hold his weight. He brought it back to the bedchamber and placed it next to Miss Renslow’s. “I will just sit here, in case you need me.”

So close? “No,” Athena said. “Mr. Hopkins is waiting for you. He promised to return as soon as he had seen you to bed.”

Ian was beginning to grow weary of having the chit contradict his every word. “I am staying. Hopkins has a cot in my dressing room. Let him sleep a bit longer.”

Giving up in the face of his lordship’s kindness and admirable sense of duty, Athena nodded and turned away, feeling her brother’s skin.

“How does it feel?”

“Warm, but not burning.” She wrung out a towel from the nearby basin and started to bathe the boy’s face and neck.

“What can I do to help?” Ian felt foolish asking a little maiden.

“Help? Why, you can tell him about your horses, I suppose.”

“But he is asleep.”

“That is not really sleep, but a state halfway between sleeping and waking. He hears me, I know, and seems comforted by the familiar.”

“But I am not familiar to him.”

“Ah, but horses are. He adores highly bred cattle, and can recite the lineage of half the Thoroughbreds at every race.”

“I would feel foolish telling an unconscious boy about my stables.”

Athena clucked her tongue. “Would you rather I sing?”

“Diogenes Jim sired Lady Tiffany out of Sweet As Cocoa, who went on to win at Newmarket…”

Chapter Five

Women are weak. They need protecting.

—Anonymous

Women need protection from arrogant, autocratic, overbearing men. A well-placed knee is usually sufficient.

—Mrs. Anonymous

The boy grew warmer, weaker, then wilder, as he cried out and thrashed, as if trying to escape the pain that tormented him. Ian held him down so he did not injure himself worse. Athena spooned fever potions and herbal infusions into his unwilling mouth. They took turns wringing out sponges and towels and bathing his heated skin. If he had a minute to think about it, Ian might have been proud of himself, turning competent at this unfamiliar task.

He knew he was proud of Attie. The girl had bottom, all right. He could not imagine another female of his experience, no matter what age, who had the stamina and the stubbornness to keep going all through that long, long night. The well-bred women he knew had paid employees to perform such duties. They did not even feed their own infants, but hired wet nurses to do that job. Yet here was a slip of a girl, not even the boy’s mother, working herself to exhaustion. Such devotion was inspiring to Ian.