The Mad Earl's Bride (10 page)

She had no business weeping about it. She knew it made Dorian happy to help her. Furthermore, Borson’s letter contained exceedingly valuable information. She had seen that in the first quick perusal. He had even enclosed a copy of the post mortem report, which would solve several nagging riddles . . . once she could get her mind to focus properly. And stay focused, which was not easy lately.

She kept forgetting things and missing things. She had spent a full week with Jessica before realizing her cousin was breeding. Gwendolyn had not been able to put the simplest symptoms together: physical evidence any medical student would have discerned, not to mention the uncharacteristic moodiness. Twice, while Gwendolyn had been there, Jessica—who never wept—had burst into tears for no apparent reason, and several times she had lost her temper over the most trivial matters.

Jessica had said nothing about it, and Gwendolyn had tactfully refrained from questioning her. After all, it was early days yet, and the first trimester was a notoriously uncertain . . . period.

Trimester . . . twelve weeks . . . symptoms . . .

Gwendolyn stared blindly at the autopsy report.

She had been wed for more than six weeks.

Her last menses had been two weeks before the wedding.

The report dropped from her nerveless fingers, and her gaze dropped to her belly.

“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered.

D
ORIAN S
AT IN
a private parlor of Okehampton’s Golden Hart Inn, not with the fictional Mr. Dobbin, but with Bertie Trent, whose square face was twisted into a painful grimace.

This was because Bertie was trying to think.

“Well, Eversham do need money,” Bertie said finally. “But he ain’t the sort that gets on with other fellows so well, which if he was, he wouldn’t be stuck in Chippenham, which even Gwen said, but he got on fine with her, and Aunt Claire liked him well enough, seeing as how he was the only one knew what to make of her spells.”

“He doesn’t need to get on with the other fellows,” Dorian said. “He only needs to tell us what to do. Dain and I agree that we need an experienced physician on the hospital planning committee.”

He also needed someone who could talk to Gwendolyn in her own language and make her listen and face facts. And take better care of herself.

But all that was explained in Dorian’s letter. The thick packet lay on the table between him and Bertie, who was eyeing it dubiously, still reluctant for some reason to take it up.

“It’s hospital information,” Dorian said. This was partly true, although the bulk of the contents consisted of his copies of Borson’s materials—so that Eversham would arrive armed with facts for his intellectual joust with Gwendolyn. “I hope he finds the proposal irresistible. If he doesn’t, I am counting on you to use your unique powers of persuasion. As you did with Borson.”

As soon as Dorian had realized he must write to Borson, he’d realized he’d need more than a letter. Physicians could be balky, and they did like to keep secrets, Gwendolyn had said. Also, they were often too busy with patients to attend to correspondence. Unwilling to risk a wait that could extend to months, Dorian had decided to send for Bertie.

What Trent lacked in intelligence he made up for in loyalty and stubbornness. He was loyal to Dorian, and Bertie would stubbornly persist until Borson gave him what he came for. Which Borson had done, when he realized there was no other way to get rid of him.

Dorian trusted that Bertie’s loyalty and obstinacy would serve equally well with Eversham. Gwendolyn’s hero had not sounded like the sort of man who would come running at the snap of a nobleman’s fingers.

“Still, if it doesn’t work, we can try something else,” Dorian added, because Bertie was still frowning. “I realize this will be more difficult than dealing with Borson. We’re asking Eversham to give up his practice and pick up and leave, which is no small matter. Even if he agrees, I realize it will take some time to settle his affairs. But you will make sure he understands I’ll cover all expenses and use my influence as needed. Make sure he realizes I’m a man of my word, Bertie—that this is no madman’s whim. If he has doubts, he can write to Dain.”

Bertie blinked very hard. “You ain’t mad, Cat. No more ’n I am—and looking well, too, better than before. She’s done you good, hasn’t she?”

“Of course I’m not mad,” Dorian said. “And it’s all thanks to Gwendolyn. She is wonderful and I am . . . exceedingly happy,” he added with a smile.
I want her to be happy, too,
he added silently.

The clouds vanished from Bertie’s expression and a light shone in his pale blue eyes. “I knew you’d like her, Cat. I knew she’d do you good.”

Dorian understood what the light signified and had no trouble guessing what Bertie wanted to believe.

But Bertie had not read Borson’s account or the post-mortem report, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have grasped even the fraction Dorian had comprehended. And that was far more than he’d done the first time, seven years ago, long before Gwendolyn had explained about the brain’s unique self-sufficiency, which made it so susceptible to self-destruction.

Bertie wouldn’t understand that the destruction couldn’t be repaired or halted, even by Gwendolyn. He didn’t know that, once begun, the decay continued relentlessly . . . the way it had at Rawnsley Hall, quietly moldering under the surface until the roof caved in.

Bertie believed that “good” equaled “cured,” and Dorian hadn’t the heart to explain the difference.

“I like her immensely, Bertie,” he said. “And she has done me a world of good.”

G
WENDOLYN WANTED TO
build the hospital in Dartmoor.

Which meant she intended to stay here, permanently.

She stood at the library window, looking out, and Dorian gazed at her in despair.

He stood at the table, where he’d laid out several rough architectural sketches of the hospital, moments before pressing her for an answer to the question he’d asked every day for the past five days.

He had not wanted to press her.

Two weeks had passed since his clandestine meeting with Bertie, and Dorian had received no word from him. Meanwhile Gwendolyn was becoming ill. Her countenance alternated between weary pallor and a hectic flush, and she was becoming short-tempered, doubtless because she was sleeping poorly. Last night she’d bolted up from the pillows babbling about “extravavasation” of something or other.

“Gwendolyn, you can’t live here,” he said, his voice calm, his mind churning with troubling images of her future.

“I like it here,” she said. “From the moment I came, it felt like homecoming.”

“This is not a healthy climate,” he said. “Even in the valleys, the damp settles in and—”

“Poor people cannot afford to transport sick relatives to coastal resorts or travel back and forth to visit them.” She turned around. “The moor folk need a modern hospital. And damp is scarcely an issue. Bath is damp and cold, and people in all stages of illness and decrepitude live there while taking the waters.”

“This is not a healthy place for you,” he said tightly. “You’ve been here only two months and—” He thrust his hand through his hair.
Say it,
he commanded himself. It was time to stop pretending. She was ill, and he was making her so, and it was time to confront that, with or without Eversham.

The fellow should have been here by now, curse him, Dorian thought. Eversham would know what to do, what to say. He was an experienced, allegedly brilliant physician. He would solve the exasperating riddle for her, and make her face facts.

“You are not well,” Dorian said. “You don’t eat properly or sleep properly and you are tired and—and unreasonable. You sulked for two hours last night because dinner was ‘boring,’ you said.”

“She was supposed to use the spices,” Gwendolyn said stiffly. Her hands fisted at her sides. “I sent to London for them, and explained to Cook—about phlegm and congestion and reducing the pressure from excess fluid—and she went ahead and made . . .
pap.
”

Dorian sighed. He had talked to Hoskins, who’d talked to Cook, who’d said the pungent spices would give Her Ladyship indigestion, which was what kept her awake nights. Everyone knew they “raised the blood,” Cook had said.

“Cook is worried about you,” he said. “We are all worried about you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, this is lovely. I am on my way to a medical breakthrough, and no one will cooperate—because they have taken it into their heads to
worry.
” She marched to the table. “If I were a man—accepted as a
scientist
—I would merely be ‘preoccupied’ with my work. But because I am a woman, I am taking a fit of the vapors, and my blood must be lowered.
Lowered.
” She struck the table with her fist. “Of all the antiquated,
medieval
notions. It’s a wonder I can think at all, with so much nonsense and anxiety clouding the atmosphere about me. As though it were not enough trouble concentrating, in this cond—” She broke off, scowled at the drawings, and moved away from the table toward the door.

“I need some fresh air,” she said.

But Dorian got there before she did, and blocked the way. “Gwen, It’s raining,” he said. “And you . . .” The rest of the sentence faded as he took in her appearance. Her face was flushed and her bosom was rising and falling rapidly, as though she’d been running for miles, and . . . He frowned. “Your frock has shrunk.”

She looked down at herself.

“It’s a wonder you can breathe,” he said. “It’s a wonder the seams of your bodice haven’t split.”

She retreated a pace. “It is not a wonder,” she said, her gaze averted. “This happens to all the women in my family. We are so obvious.” She drew a long, shaky breath. “I’m . . . breeding.”

“Oh.” He sagged back against the door. “I see. Yes. Of course.”

The room was dark, reeling about him, while within, another darkness settled like a vast weight. His eyes ached, and his throat, too, and his heart was a wedge of solid pain in his chest.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t you dare give way, Dorian. Don’t even
think
about sickening now.” She flung herself against him and his arms closed, reflexively, round her.

Her head pressed against his aching chest. “I am happy,” she said shakily. “I want our baby. And I want you to be there.”

“Oh, Gwen.”

“It isn’t
impossible,
” she said. “Another seven months or so, that’s all we need.” She drew back and gave him a smile as wobbly as her voice. “If I were an elephant, it would be different. The gestation period is twenty and a half months.”

He managed a shaky laugh. “Yes, let’s look on the bright side. At least you are not an elephant.”

“I shall look like one at the end,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”

He wove his fingers through her wild hair. “No, I wouldn’t, sweet. You present me with an irresistible temptation.”

“I hope so.” She patted his chest. “The patient’s motivation can have a pronounced effect on treatment, Mr. Eversham says.” Her voice was nearly returned to its normal cool efficiency. “I should have told you about the baby sooner, but this is an uncertain period, and I did not want to get your hopes up for nothing. Still, perhaps I was overcautious. It is rare for the women of my family to miscarry.”

Seven more months, Dorian thought. He’d been given less than that before she came, and she’d been here for two months now.

Yet he was doing better than his mother had at this stage. The visual chimera had not worsened, blossomed into demons. His temper remained relatively even. No sudden black melancholy or inexplicable fits of gaiety or rage.

Instead, there was the fierce rapture of their love-making, and the moments of quiet contentment, and the joy of working with her, planning something worthwhile.

According to Borson’s account, Mother had continued articulate to the last. Mad, and living in a perverse world of her own, but articulate . . . and cunning, even devious at times. Perhaps she would not have sunk into a demon-plagued world of her own if the real world had offered understanding and joy and a sense of being useful and valued and worthy of affection. Perhaps she might have lived a little longer and died more peacefully.

It was not impossible.

A few extra months, he told himself. Long enough to see their baby. That would be wonderful. And if it did turn out to be impossible, at least he would have given Gwendolyn a child, which would surely gladden her heart and banish any sentimental inclination to mourn for him.

Nevertheless, her wishing to remain here was not a good sign. She needed to start a new life, in a new place, away from sad memories. But Eversham would arrive eventually, Dorian assured himself. Her mentor would set her right.

Dorian drew his wife tightly against him. “I shall try to maintain a positive attitude,” he promised softly.

“And you must speak to Cook,” Gwendolyn muttered into his shirt front. “Remind her who is the doctor in this house. I ordered a curry for dinner—and it must be
hot.
”

He chuckled. “Yes, crosspatch.” He kissed the top of her head. “But first, let us see what Doctor Dorian can do to sweeten your temper.”

Chapter 7

T
EN DAYS LATER,
Gwendolyn was recalling that conversation and the methods Dorian had employed to sweeten her temper. He had used the same techniques every day since, kissing and caressing the irritation away, drawing her out of her annoying moods and into his strong arms, to take her to heaven and back, and leave her dazed with bliss.

Now, sitting in Mr. Kneebones’s surgery, she focused on those blissful sensations in order to keep her temper from taking over and leading her to do the physician a severe, possibly fatal, bodily injury.

It was hardly the first time she’d humbled herself with doctors, she told herself, and Dorian was far more important than her pride.

She treated Kneebones to an apologetic smile. “I only want to know whether those materials prove absolutely what made Mrs. Camoys’s brain start breaking down.”

Kneebones scowled at her, then at the autopsy report in his hand. “One cannot prove anything
absolutely
in such cases. One makes logical inferences based on observable facts and the patient’s history. Mrs. Camoys did not drink to excess or indulge in opium eating, which rules out toxic insanity. She had not sustained a high fever prior to or during the decline. And if she had suffered a blow to the head, as you surmise, do you not think Mr. Budge, the family physician, would have mentioned that little detail in his account of her medical history?”

“What if he didn’t know?” Gwendolyn persisted.

“Budge is a competent man. I reckon he knows a concussion when he sees one.”

“But one can’t, precisely,
see
them,” Gwendolyn said. “She had lovers. What if one of her lovers did it? If he did as great an injury as we’re talking about, she might not have even remembered.” She tipped her head to one side. “Did you question her maid, by any chance? Servants often know more family secrets than the family does.”

Kneebones took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I do wonder how it is that Lord Rawnsley is not in a straitwaistcoat by now,” he muttered.

“That is what I am wondering, too,” she said. “Otherwise I should not have come to pester you. I know there must be a logical explanation, but I cannot find it.”

Kneebones set his spectacles back on his nose. “That may be due to an overactive—and highly
melodramatic
—imagination and underactive attention to observable facts.”

“Tell me where I’m wrong,” she said.

He pushed the autopsy report toward her. “Let us suppose your little theory is correct, Lady Rawnsley. Let us suppose Mrs. Camoys’s condition arose from a blow to the head, sustained many months before the early symptoms of traumatic insanity appeared, as often happens. What difference does it make? Her son’s history easily allows for physical violence, fever, alcoholism, not to mention a host of morbid conditions of the system, all of which produce similar consequences. Perhaps this has not occurred to you. Nor do you seem aware that a man may inherit character, and with it a predisposition toward an irrational, self-destructive mode of life. You fail to take into account the patient’s degenerate morals, irrational behavior, and savage appearance. No matter how the initial damage began, these symptoms clearly indicate progressive deterioration.”

At this, Gwendolyn’s fraying patience snapped. She stood up. “My husband is not and never has been degenerate, irrational, or self-destructive,” she said stiffly. “He has a powerful instinct for self-preservation—else he would never have survived a month in the London slums, let alone years.” She took up the autopsy report and stuffed it into her purse. “I cannot believe you overlooked that,” she said, “and I cannot believe that you, a man of science, would diagnose him as insane, simply on account of his
hair.
”

She stalked out.

L
ORD
R
AWNSLE
Y DID
not know that his wife had been quarreling with Mr. Kneebones in Okehampton. She was supposed to be making a tour of possible hospital sites with Hoskins and quarreling with him, because his orders were to
(a)
find fault with all sites and
(b)
keep her busy until teatime.

Unaware that she was racing home at this very minute, obstinately immune to all Hoskins’s delaying tactics, Dorian stood by the library fireplace. His hands were clasped tightly at his back and his gaze was fixed on a disconcertingly young and gentlemanly physician.

Eversham stood at the library table. Having finished perusing Gwendolyn’s latest notes, he was now thoughtfully perusing Dorian.

“She’s very near the mark with your mother’s case,” Eversham said. “The same theory occurred to me when I read your letter and your copies of Borson’s materials.” He smiled faintly. “Very handsomely written they were, my lord.”

“Never mind my penmanship,” Dorian said. “You were about to tell me what you learned in Gloucestershire.”

Eversham’s arrival had been delayed, it turned out, on account of a detour to the Rawnsley Hall estate in pursuit of information about Aminta Camoys. He had made the detour partly because Dorian’s letter had aroused his medical curiosity and partly because of Bertie Trent’s tear-filled litany of Dorian’s noble and heroic qualities. It had taken them several days to locate Mother’s former maid.

“Shall I be delicate or brutally direct?” Eversham asked.

Dorian’s heart pounded. “Brutal, if you please.”

“Your mother had been having an affair with your Uncle Hugo,” Eversham said dispassionately. “They were meeting secretly, in the estate’s laundry house, when her maid came to warn them that your grandfather had returned unexpectedly. Your mother panicked, tripped, and hit her head on a stone sink. Since she seemed to recover almost instantly, there seemed no reason to summon the doctor—and risk discovery of the accident’s circumstances.”

Eversham went on to explain concussions, which could be insidiously deceptive: internal injury with no external evidence, sometimes no discernible symptoms for weeks, months, even years—by which time it would be difficult to connect the symptoms with an apparently minor accident of long before. Thus she had been misdiagnosed initially as suffering a “decline,” or constitutional breakdown.

“As you may not be aware,” Eversham said, “the brain functions—”

“I know how it works,” Dorian cut in. “Gwendolyn explained that—and how it breaks down as well.”

Eversham nodded. “It seems to break down in more or less the same way following a trauma—a blow, for instance—as it does in a number of other, quite different maladies. The point is, my lord, your mother evidently suffered a severe concussion, which it is impossible to inherit.”

He took up one of the sheets containing Gwendolyn’s notes. “Furthermore, Her Ladyship has detected in you none of the usual symptoms of brain degeneration. That is not surprising, since there are none to detect.”

Eversham eyed Dorian assessingly. “You are remarkably fit,” he added, “especially for a member of the upper classes. Your brain is in excellent working order. Both your penmanship—evidencing superior motor control—and the logical and orderly presentation of highly personal and emotionally-laden information leave that in no doubt.” He returned his attention to the sheet in his hand. “She reports no lethargy or fatigue. No restlessness or sleeplessness. No difficulties with attention to detail and concentration—as your proposal for the hospital clearly demonstrates.” He cleared his throat. “And it would appear that the reproductive functions are—er—functioning.” He looked up, smiling. “I congratulate you, my lord. That is a pleasant event to look forward to, is it not?”

His Lordship had only just managed to digest the matter of a concussion he could not possibly have inherited. It took him a moment to catch up with the rest, during which he stared stupidly at Eversham.

It took another moment to force the words out. “What are you saying?” he asked, dazed. “Look forward to—? I have—You have—” He thrust his hair back. “Haven’t you overlooked something? The things. The—the ‘visual chimera’—‘first you see stars, then the pain hits.’ Physiological phenomena, common to a host of neurological ailments, my wife said.”

Eversham nodded. “Indeed, quite common. Among others, these are classic symptoms of migraine headache. That, I collect, is what’s ailing you.”

“Migraine?” Dorian repeated. “As in . . . ‘
megrims
’
?
”

“Not merely headache—which is what most people mean by ‘megrims’—but severe, debilitating headaches. Still, they’re not fatal, for all that.”

“You are telling me,” Dorian ground out, “that all this time . . .” His face heated. “All these months, I have been playing bloody tragic hero—and all I’ve got is a bleeding, damned
headache?
”

Eversham frowned and returned the paper to the pile with the rest and straightened them, while Dorian listened to the silence stretch on and wondered what would come to fill it. Eversham had just said they were headaches. Not fatal. Why then, was he hesitating?

G
WE
NDOLYN HAD THOUGHT
she heard Dorian’s voice, but when she reached the library door, all was quiet within. She opened it for a quick peep to be sure.

At that moment, another, equally familiar masculine voice broke the silence.

“I wish I could say otherwise, my lord, but the ailment is incurable. Though it has been studied for centuries, it remains a medical enigma. I have never yet encountered two cases precisely alike. I am not sure I can even promise you relief, which I deeply regret, for I know it is murderously painful. And I cannot promise that it will not be passed on to your offspring, for there is strong evidence that it is an inherited predisposition.”

A choked sob escaped her.

Two masculine heads swiveled sharply, and two gazes—one blue, one golden—shot to her before she could retreat.

“Oh,” she said. “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt.” She hastily shut the door . . . and fled.

Gwendolyn ran blindly down the hall, yanked the front door open, hurtled through it and down the steps—and ran straight into Bertie.

“I say, Gwen, where are you—”

She pushed past him and hurried to his gelding, which one of the stablemen was leading away.

She snatched the reins from the groom.

Bertie hurried up to her. “I say, Gwen, what’s happened?”

“Give me a lift up,” she said tightly.

He bent and clasped his hands together. “Don’t tell me Cat’s gone and bolted again,” he said as he hoisted her up. “I thought he’d get on well enough with Eversham, and I was just setting out to let Dain know, when I seen you turn into the drive and never was so astonished in all my life. You were supposed to be in—”

“Gwendolyn!”

Bertie swung round. “There he is, Gwen. Ain’t gone after all. What was you—”

“Let go of my foot, Bertie.”

He let go, but Dorian reached them in the same moment and caught hold of the bridle. “My dear, I don’t know what you—”

“I am a trifle . . . out of sorts,” she choked out. “I need . . . a ride. To clear my head.”

“What you need is a cup of tea,” he said soothingly. “I know it was a shock to see Eversham, but I—”

“Oh, I wish he’d never come!” she cried. Her voice shook, and her eyes filled. “But that is silly, I know. It is always better to know . . . the facts. And you have made me . . . so happy—and I love you—and I shall love you always, no—no matter what h-happens.” Her voice broke then, and with it the last shred of her control. She wept, helplessly, and when he reached up and grasped her waist and lifted her down, all she could do was cling to him, sobbing.

“I love you, too, sweet, with all my heart,” he said gently. “But I do believe you’ve got this backwards.”

“No, I heard,” she sobbed. “I heard what Eversham said—and he knows. He’s a p-proper doctor. Incurable, he said. Kneebones was right and I was wrong, and I should have known b-better.”

“Backwards, indeed,” Dorian said as he threaded his fingers through her hair. “The London experts, Borson, and Kneebones all got it wrong. So did I. You knew better than any of us. I feel like an utter dolt. But your Mr. Eversham says my brain is functioning and one cannot inherit concussion, and so I collect you are stuck with me—and my confounded megrims—indefinitely.”

She lifted her head, and through her tears, she saw the truth glimmering in his golden eyes. “M-m-megrims?”

“Migraine, he calls it,” Dorian said. “Providence has played you another joke, I’m afraid. You came all this way to nurse and comfort a dying madman in his last wretched months, and advance the cause of medical science by studying his fascinating case . . .” He smiled. “And you wound up with a perfectly healthy fellow with a boring old headache.”

She reached up and stroked her husband’s hair back, blinking at him through the tears that continued to fall though she no longer had anything to cry about. “Well, I love you anyway,” she said.

She heard the gelding snort, and looked round to see the groom leading the horse to the stables and a worried-looking Bertie hurrying back to her and Dorian.

“By Jupiter’s thunderbolts—I say—Good gad, Cat, what’s happened? What’s she bawling about? I never seen Gwen do that before.”

“It is perfectly normal, Bertie,” Dorian answered while he gently stroked her back. “Your cousin is going to have a baby. It makes her emotional.”

“Oh. Well. Oh, that is—I mean to say—Oh, yes. Jolly good. Indeed.” Gingerly, Bertie patted her head. “Well done, cuz.”

“And you may be godfather.” Dorian drew back to peer into her face. “That’s right, isn’t it, sweet?”

Gwendolyn gave a watery laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course Bertie will be godfather.” She let go of Dorian’s lapels and wiped her eyes.

“And you shall have a lovely hospital, with a lovely new physician with modern ideas,” her husband told her as he gave her his handkerchief. “And we shall make tiresome old Kneebones go away, so that he can’t interfere or make obstacles or quarrel with sensible people. We shall send him as private physician to the dithering old Camoys ladies at Rawnsley Hall. If their own quacks and patent medicines haven’t killed them by now, it’s unlikely Kneebones can do them any harm.”