Give All to Love (40 page)

“We sh-should've gone at once, my Tulip,” his lordship muttered. “Y'know once or tw-twice I've had the notion old D-Dev ain't been quite— By God, Harry! They've pulled up in front of Belmont's n-new place!”

The two elegant young men eyed each other, then two more horses were racing along the sedate street. They drew rein in time to see Mitchell Redmond hand a strained-looking Josie from the leading vehicle and run up the steps of Lord Belmont's establishment to ring the bell.

Guy Sanguinet's pleasant face appeared at the window of the chaise, and he called to his friends as they dismounted, handing their reins to outriders.

The porter having opened the door, Josie ran precipitately inside. Two men who had been sitting in the luxurious waiting room sprang up as she entered. The Reverend Mordecai Langridge watched sympathetically as she ran into Leith's outstretched arms. “Oh, Tris,” she gulped, blinking away tears. “How is he? Have they—have they—”

The tall Colonel bent to kiss her cheek. “They started to operate an hour ago, love.”

Langridge, patting her shoulder kindly, added, “Lyon's in there, child. Never look so fearful. Alain is in God's hands.”

Trembling uncontrollably, she sat beside Leith while the clergyman went to shake hands with his nephew.

Tristam said, “You got here very fast, dear. Did you drive all night?”

“Yes. I was able to sleep a little, but the servants were so good. Wolfe, and Hutchinson, and Mrs. Robinson are with us—they were all so grieved. And—and Cornish rode off ahead.”

“I know. He found Langridge and me at Watier's. We've sent word to the others.”

She whispered, her lips so stiff she could hardly make them obey her, “Is it—his leg?”

Leith squeezed her hand. “Yes. I'm afraid it is.”

“Oh … God!” She closed her eyes and shrank against him, and he slipped his arm around her. “They—they're never going to … oh, Tris! Lyon told us only a little while ago he had amputated a poor man's leg—”

“W-well, then, there you go,” said Lord Jeremy, hurrying into the room and taking off his hat as he dropped to one knee beside her. “Not a th-thing to fret about. Old D-Dev—game as they come.”

She stretched forth her icy little hand, and he bowed his yellow head to kiss it. “But—the p-poor man—died,” she finished. “Lyon said—if it had been a little lower, there—there would have been more chance, but—”

“Tush, Milady Elf,” put in Harry Redmond, coming in with Guy. He crossed to lean over Josie and plant a kiss on her ear. “Dev's only three and thirty. Got a long way to go yet. He'll likely be up and—and prancing around in no—” He broke off as a rear door opened, and Lyon Cahill, wearing a long white robe and looking unwontedly stern, started into the room, only to check, aghast, as he saw Josie surrounded by the staunch group.

Clinging to Leith, she stood, her eyes enormous in her pale face. “Is it over?” she whispered.

He nodded and came forward to take the hand she held out.

She gulped. “He is—not…”

“No, no. He came through it very well and without a whimper.”

She collapsed against him, and he held her close.

“'Course not,” said Sir Harry, indignant. “Old Dev's not—” He met Lyon's eyes over Josie's shoulder, and blanched and was still.

Dashing away tears with an impatient hand, she said, “I want to see him, Lyon.”

“He's unconscious, dear,” he said kindly. “Just at the end, he drifted off. We don't mean to do anything to bring him round, but you can—”

Again, the outer door was flung open. With a swirl of ermine, a breath of perfume, and a cry of agitation, Lady Isabella swept into the rapidly filling room. “Is it truth?” she demanded shrilly, gazing wide-eyed at these men who shared a comradeship that was already a legend in this old city of legends. “I could not credit it, when my maid had it from the greengrocer's boy! Good God! What happened? Did that silly cold turn into…” She paused, noting their solemn faces, and because she loved Devenish, insofar as she was capable of loving any man, she whitened. “He's not … dead?”

Taking pity on her, Josie went to hold her hand. “No, dear ma'am. And it is so fortunate you are come.” She managed to smile, though tears were blinding her. “I wish I did not have to break it to you, but—but they have had to—to take poor Dev's leg off.”

Isabella's lower jaw dropped and her glorious eyes fairly goggled with shock.

Josie went on gently, “He will want to see you. Why do you not go in.”

Mitchell Redmond exchanged a sardonic glance with his brother.

Isabella, paler than ever, sat down suddenly. “The … shock…” she muttered.

Misunderstanding, Lyon said, “Yes, that's our greatest threat, but I must tell you—”

“If—I could have a … glass of water,” whispered Isabella.

“At once.” Lyon turned to the inner door, but glanced back. “It will be quite all right for you to come now, ma'am. Under the circumstances. In fact, it might give Devenish an incentive to—”

Isabella swayed, and her eyes closed. Leith leapt to support her.

“I'll come,” said Josie, and followed Lyon.

He led her along an immaculate hall that smelled of soap and medicines and tar. She could hear the murmur of voices from two rooms as they passed, and then Lyon opened the door to a large, darkened room, where a tall man stood at the foot of a narrow bed. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the dim light, Josie saw first that the bedclothes were fashioned into a sort of tent, extending from about hip level to the end of the bed. Then her eyes found Devenish and everything else faded. She did not hear the great surgeon speak, nor Lyon's quiet response. She was beside the bed, bending over the still figure, the sight of the worn, ashen-pale face and darkly hollowed eyes wringing her heart. Dimly, she saw a vase on a small table beside the bed, and the handful of wilted flowers it held so wrought on her that her vision blurred and a muffled sob escaped her. With a hand that shook, she touched the short damp hair, and tears splashed onto the small curls that had plastered themselves across his brow.

The cold feel of those tears troubled Devenish, and drew him back from the void where he had escaped pain at last. He thought for a minute that he was still alive, but then he saw the adored face bending above him. He smiled, but registered a faint complaint. “Didn't think it would … hurt so much, after I was dead.”

Josie threw a hand to her mouth and battled for self-control.

Lord Belmont paced forward. “I'm afraid you will be rather uncomfortable for a little while, my dear fellow,” he said softly, “but—”

“Eh?” Devenish's eyelids, which had started to drift down again, jerked open. “The devil!” he gasped. “I
am
still alive!”

Josie sat on the bedside chair, took up his limp hand, and kissed it repeatedly. “If you had—died,” she gulped. “I'd never—
never
have forgiven you, Dev.”

He smiled, and his hand turned to caress her cheek. “My little … Elf. You should not be here, but—I'm deuced glad you—” He coughed, and turned his head away, his lips gripping together.

To see him so weakened and in such pain was tearing her to shreds, but she fought for calm and, stroking his hair, said with loving reproach, “Dev, my darling Dev, how
could
you? How could you shut me out? Don't you know how—how I worship you?” He turned a blurred gaze back to her and she added, “Admit, wretched,
wretched
creature, that you do know it. And—and that you love me, too.”

He was exhausted and pain-racked, and convinced there was very little time, his defences crumbled at last. A look of such tender adoration lit his ravaged face that Lyon, seeing it, held his breath, and Belmont frowned and stepped back to allow them this moment together.

His voice barely audible, Devenish murmured, “I have loved you for … so long, my little one. So very long. But—it was quite useless. No hope. On top of—everything else, there was this … stupid leg. I knew if I told you, and if I lived, you'd … devote your lovely life to a—sick half man, rather than following … your own heart.”

‘He came here, all alone, to die,' she thought, anguished. ‘He'd never say these things unless he thought he
was
dying!' And, terrified, she sobbed, “My darling! My idiot!
You
are my heart!”

He stared at her, coughed, and grabbed at the coverlet. Josie bent to press her cool cheek against his, and say achingly, “My dearest—is it very terrible?”

Terrible, perhaps, he thought. But how wonderful to feel her nearness just once more. To smell the sweet fragrance of her—to see the love in the piquant little face he had thought never to glimpse again. He frowned suddenly and answered in some confusion, “Not nearly so bad as I'd expected. I thought, after they sawed through a bone, y'know, it would be pretty—hideous.” He peered downwards and, seeing more clearly now, discerned the tented bedclothes, the two physicians standing watching with sombre faces, and on a side table, a long, narrow box.

Lyon said, “Well, we didn't use a saw, Dev.”

“Good Lord!” gasped Devenish, wrenching his eyes from that sinister box and looking about for the axe. “Shortcut, eh? I—I never … dreamed…” He was very tired now, and he closed his eyes and lay still.

Trembling, Josie allowed Belmont to move her gently aside.

A soft-footed nurse materialized from somewhere to draw the curtains, and pale winter sunshine flooded in. Lyon led Josie to a far corner of the room and began to speak very softly. Belmont turned from his patient to find the girl weeping in the young doctor's arms.

Cahill asked, “How does he go on, sir?”

Belmont scowled at the bed. “Not as well as I'd wish. I take it you are fond of him, my dear lady. You must—”

Josie gave a gasp. “Oh! My heavens! Lyon—Dev is betrothed to Isabella Scott-Matthias!”

“I saw the announcement. Why in God's name did he do so stupid a thing?”

She dried her tears and went to stand looking down at this man she had loved most of her life and without whom there would be no life. “Because he thought he was going to die,” she said quietly. “Or be a one-legged burden. For which I could scratch him very hard. He wanted me to be free of him. He knew I loved him and that I wouldn't leave him unless he managed to convince me he—cared for someone else.”

“He chose a fine barracuda,” growled his lordship, secretly enormously impressed by all this.

“He used her, you mean,” said Lyon. “The lady is waiting outside. I'd best go and tell her—”

“Wait!” Josie spun around. From the corner of her eye she saw Devenish move his head restlessly. She lowered her voice and spoke urgently. Lyon said nothing, watching his patron with marked unease.

Belmont gave a snort of indignation. “Madam, I think you do not quite appreciate the situation. Devenish hides it well, but it was a most difficult and lengthy operation. He endured gallantly, but he has been through a harrowing ordeal, he is weakened, worn to a thread, and unless I mistake it, has no will to live. Every moment counts and—I'll own I don't like his colour! It is his life you play with. If you persist, I accept no responsibility.”

Josie quailed before this terrible warning. Closing her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed …

Some minutes later, Lyon ushered a white-faced Isabella into the sickroom. Josie hurried to take her hand, and at that instant, his mind wandering, Devenish coughed again and moaned faintly.

Cold with fear, Josie said, “Thank heaven you are here, ma'am. He will need you so. Perhaps, were you to speak to him…”

Lyon took up a tray at the rear of the room, started out, then checked. “My lady,” he said gravely, “I cannot tell you how I admire you. Poor old Dev will need constant care for a long time to come. I can well imagine how much it will mean to him to have you for his comfort and support.”

Turning glassy eyes, my lady saw the pile of crimson-soaked swabs and lint, and with a little yelp, she recoiled.

The sound restored Devenish's awareness. Blinking at her, his dry and cracked lips smiled and he said weakly, “Hello … Bella. Did they send for you, then? Very good've you … to come.” His hand went out to her, but drooped as she edged back.

“I cannot stand—sight of blood,” she quavered.

“Your pardon.” Lyon set down his tray hurriedly and took up the long box. “Shall I take this, sir? You mean to donate it to—er, the hospital, I presume?”

Belmont, beginning to thaw, said, “Never donate what you can sell, my boy. It's a fine specimen. We should be able to get five pounds, at least.”

His brows drawing together, Devenish managed to raise his head. “Hey!” he croaked, indignant. “That's my leg! Devil take it, you've no right to sell me off like dog's meat! Bella—don't let 'em!”

“I assure you it is quite the accepted thing, old chap,” said Lyon, walking to Isabella with the box. “As you can see, ma'am—”

She shrieked as he started to lift the lid, and flung up a shielding hand. “My God! How can you be so callous?” Retreating, thoroughly panicked, she wailed, “I—I cannot stay here…!”

Devenish's head turned on the pillow. “Bella—don't go. I am so sorry I didn't tell you, but—”

“Well—you should have,” she gulped. “It was monstrous unfair!”

“Lady Isabella is coming down to Devencourt to nurse you, dearest.” Josie took a rag from a bowl on the table, wrung it out, and bathed his face very gently. “I would stay, but my uncle has sent word he wishes me to join him in Paris.”

Because he was very weak, he could not keep the desolation from his eyes, and his valiant smile quivered in a way that almost overset Josie, but he said staunchly, “Of course. You run along, little one. No need for you—to stay.” But as she turned away, his smile faded into a sigh and his eyes closed.