The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (14 page)

This time, Roman woke in a panic over the damned glass vial. In his dreams, he’d lost it in the fields near Waterloo. He’d been digging through the brush consisting of blankets and the dead bodies made up of pillows, desperately searching for the key to keeping his men alive. The key to keeping his longest friend, Captain Lewis Nichols, alive.

But Roman had found the damned vial, and Nichols and the rest of Roman’s men had died anyway.

And that was all months ago. Not now. There was no bloody danger in his bed, save himself. With a muttered oath, Roman disentangled himself from his bedding and stalked to the mantle. He bent and lit a taper in the low flames, then took it with him to the armoire to look at the time on his watch fob. Half five. He’d hoped to still be awake at this hour, not already waking from his fitful sleep.

One thing was certain. Now was not a good time to allow himself to go back to sleep. Roman pulled on some clothes as quickly as he could, retrieved the vial and tucked it into his coat pocket, unlatched all of the locks and bolts, and made his way across the Hassop House estate toward the now empty wood cutter’s cottage.

Few things in his current life could help him clear his mind the way he could whilst in the Dragoons. In those days, he could always find some sort of back-breaking, mind-numbing physical labor with which to occupy himself. Not only did it help keep him sane, but it showed his men he was one of them, willing to do any task necessary to get the job done. But here? Managing things? There was hardly a physical task he could find to do, and when he did attempt to do so, a footman or a groom or a gardener would rush forward, taking the task from him in an effort to prove himself worthy of continued employment.

It was part of the reason he’d taken enjoyment from repairing Miss Shelton’s fence. No one had attempted to thwart his efforts in that area. Well, no one save Miss Shelton, but hadn’t allowed her to succeed.

But at this hour, no one would stop him even here at Hassop House. At this hour, he could be free to do as he pleased, secure in the knowledge that the remainder of the household was well asleep, save a few kitchen maids who were just rising to start their days.

So, damn it all, he would chop wood since he’d not yet replaced the wood cutter. He’d chop a pile three times as high as it stood now, and keep chopping if he must, in order to clear his thoughts until he was once again safe to be around other people.

What other option did he have? None, to his way of thinking.

He chopped. As he worked, he sorted the wood into neat stacks which climbed ever higher and deeper. He built up so much sweat from his labors that he had to remove his coat and push up his sleeves, despite the intense chill in the air. As he placed his coat on the ground beside him, he was careful to situate the vial just so, protected between folds of fabric where it would not accidentally roll away—he could not lose it again. And still, when the sun started to peek up over the hills behind Hassop House, he was too restless to stop.

Yet he’d gone through the entire stack of wood waiting to be chopped. For a moment, Roman debated heading off into the forested area with a cart to chop down some new trees and haul them back to the wood cutter’s cottage with him, but that probably wasn’t the best idea. At this hour, the servants of Hassop House would be rising and going about their day, and they’d likely rush to his aid again.

No, he needed to do something else. Something different.

Roman cleaned up the small mess he’d created, put the axe back in its place, and then retrieved his coat, drawing it on even though he was loath to create more heat within his body. He absentmindedly patted his pocket until he felt the small bottle, and then took off on foot.

He didn’t know where he was headed. He just walked. And walked. And kept walking until, somehow, he stood before the Cottage at Round Hill, watching as a carriage rolled off down the road in the distance.

Devonport’s carriage. It had to be. The marquess and Miss Shelton’s two cousins had plans to leave at first light this morning. An odd frisson of foreboding shot through him at the thought that all of the gentlemen in Miss Shelton’s life had once again left her and her household alone.

Not that Devonport was responsible for her. He was no more responsible for her than Roman was. The man had only married her cousin a few months ago, after all, and there were many other men in the family who ought to handle such things.

Devil and blast, he shouldn’t be thinking like this. He owed her nothing, for Christ’s sake. He had no reason to feel so protective of her, to feel anxious at the thought of them not having a manservant to protect them.

Yet he couldn’t stop the sensation keeping him in its grips.

For long minutes, he stood there in the middle of the road, staring at the cottage. The sun was not yet fully in the sky, and it shimmered over the back of the house as it rose, painting the edges in pink—very similar to the pink she’d worn the first day he’d met her, in fact.

Roman shook his head as though to shake the thought from his mind, and then he turned, preparing to make his way back to Hassop House and his responsibilities there, only to be stopped in his tracks by shattering glass and a skull-cracking scream that rent the morning air. It came from Miss Shelton’s cottage.

He took off at a run.

“No! No, you have to let me in to see him.”

Aunt Rosaline’s panic had reached a new intensity—one Bethanne had never experienced before. She was practically clawing at Bethanne and Joyce as she tried to get past them to the broken window with a hole the size and shape of a chamber pot.

“Please, Lady Rosaline,” Joyce said emphatically, “you really must calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Mrs. Temple was working as quickly as she could to clean up the shattered glass before any of them cut their bare feet on the remains of the window.

Bethanne just wished she knew what Aunt Rosaline meant to do if she reached the window. She was quite afraid that her aunt meant to jump through it. Heaven help them if she got past them. She tightened her grip and wished her cousins had not already left. Now, more than ever before, she could use more help with Aunt Rosaline. Noah’s assistance in particular would come in handy, as he was as strong as Bethanne and Joyce combined.

It was more than a little unnerving how strong Aunt Rosaline was proving to be, considering how frail she’d become in recent years.

“But the nurse,” Aunt Rosaline screamed. “She said my Christopher is in that room, just through there. He needs me. You
have
to let me through.” Amidst her screams, a fresh wave of tears flooded down her cheeks, breaking Bethanne’s heart with their intensity. What would it be like to love a man so thoroughly, for so many years? That was something she’d never know for herself. Nor would she ever experience such torment from the loss, either.

Bethanne readjusted her grip on her aunt’s waist as thundering footsteps pounded up the stairs. What on earth?

Lord Roman burst through the door to Aunt Rosaline’s chamber looking as panicked as Bethanne felt. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

She was so startled by his sudden appearance that she jumped, losing her grip on Aunt Rosaline in the process.

Her aunt burst forward, dashing straight for the window with the sprightliness of a youth in the throes of first love. Bethanne made a grab for her but only caught a bit of her wrapper. It ripped in her hand, and the remnants tangled around Bethanne and Joyce’s legs.

Aunt Rosaline fell, landing in the pile of glass shards Mrs. Temple had swept up but hadn’t yet removed. In an instant, she was pushing back up to her feet as Joyce and Bethanne fell into each other in their attempt to reach her. They toppled to the floor.

Aunt Rosaline burst forward again before they could sort themselves out. A pool of red spread across the floor.

Blood.

Good God. And a lot of it. Aunt Rosaline had cut herself on the glass.

Mrs. Temple took up a position as though to block Aunt Rosaline’s exodus, but just before they collided, Lord Roman dashed into view and picked Aunt Rosaline up bodily. He carried her to the bed, with her screaming all the while. A trail of blood followed them and drenched the white nightrail she still wore.

Finally, Bethanne was able to stand. She scurried to his side.

“Cloth. And water.” He barked off terse commands without looking up as he fought with Aunt Rosaline to get her still.

“I’ll fetch them,” Joyce called out, then darted out the door he’d left open.

Bethanne started to follow her, but Mrs. Temple stopped her. “I’ll help her. You stay with Lady Rosaline.”

She nodded, then looked to Lord Roman for guidance. In most circumstances, she knew precisely what to do, and she simply and efficiently did it. For some reason now, when she most needed her head properly on her shoulders, she was at an utter loss.

“You’ve got to help me hold her still,” he ground out. For the first time, Bethanne truly looked down at the situation before her. Lord Roman was draped across her aunt’s thrashing form. He looked as though he was trying desperately to keep her from gouging out his eyes with her claw-like fingers.

“Christopher!” Aunt Rosaline screamed at full blast. “I have to get to him. He needs me.”

With every flailing movement her aunt made, more blood seeped into her nightrail and the bedding. It covered Lord Roman, as well, from head to toe. Bethanne pressed her eyes closed, feeling faint. Now was not the time for this.

“Miss Shelton!” Lord Roman snapped at her. “Take your aunt’s hand immediately.”

The urgency in his tone brought her back to her senses. Bethanne opened her eyes and took the hand he indicated, using all her might to keep her aunt in place.

“You’ve got to put pressure on it. Steady. Firm.”

She did as he instructed, pressing down over the cuts on her aunt’s palm even as she used her other hand to hold her in place.

Joyce rushed back in with ripped sheets and a pail of water. “Here you go. Mrs. Temple is coming up with more in a moment.” She set them at Lord Roman’s feet and then flew to the other side of the bed, holding Aunt Rosaline’s other arm. Then, taking a look at the blood seeping beneath Bethanne’s hand, Joyce passed one of the cloths over to her. Releasing her hold long enough to set it in place allowed more blood to ooze, but not too much.

Once Lord Roman could freely move, he ripped open Aunt Rosaline’s nightrail, exposing her fully. Bethanne let out an outraged gasp on her aunt’s behalf, but was unrelenting with her grip. He dipped a rag into the water and then used it to clean off Aunt Rosaline’s skin on her arms and neck, sparing Bethanne a frustrated glance. “I have to find all of the cuts. We have to know how deep they are and be certain all the glass is out.”

Bethanne nodded. Words had utterly failed her. Bother, she’d never felt so incompetent in her life. Mrs. Temple raced in with more pails of water, and then helped in holding down Aunt Rosaline’s legs.

Each time Lord Roman cleaned over a particularly sore mark, Aunt Rosaline struggled anew and cried out. Gradually, her aunt lost a bit of her fight, until she was whimpering more than anything else.

Eventually, he’d cleaned all of the wounds on Aunt Rosaline’s chest and arms, covering them with bandages as he went. After he was done, he took a fresh blanket and drew it over her. He looked her over again, then nodded toward the hand Bethanne was holding. “I need to clean those cuts now. Lady Rosaline, will you hold still while I care for your hand?”

She nodded, biting her lip. Her eyes were so large in her head it was a miracle they hadn’t burst free. Lord Roman held out his hand. Bethanne tried to loosen her grip on her aunt’s wrist, but she’d been holding it so long that her hand didn’t seem able to obey her mind. Finally, she released her fingers and passed the hand over to Lord Roman.

As she did so, the cloth she’d been holding over the hand pulled free, and a fresh wave of blood seeped out of the cuts. A wave of dizziness assaulted Bethanne at the sight, but she struggled to remain on her feet.

He immediately set to work cleaning the wounds and checking for bits of glass, but glanced up at her when she nearly buckled at the knees. “Miss Shelton, I suggest you sit now.”

“Oh, but—”

But there really was no possible way she could prevent herself from falling over if she didn’t do as he said, so she suppressed the urge to argue with him.

Mrs. Temple rushed over and helped push her into a chair. “There you are, miss. It’s been a right trying ordeal, hasn’t it?” She took a bowl of water and a towel, and started to clean the sticky, drying blood from Bethanne’s hands and arms.

She sat there, letting her housekeeper tend to her and watching Lord Roman tend to her aunt, with a numb sensation taking over her body and creeping through her limbs. Her breathing had turned shallow, in sharp contrast to the short, gasping breaths Aunt Rosaline was taking. Lord Roman, however, seemed as unruffled as though he were reading the newssheets in the afternoon over tea.

“I’ll need a needle and thread,” he murmured after a few minutes. “This one is too deep.”