Page 6 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 6
Helping the Sick
B etty’s hands moved swiftly across Marguerite’s hair, weaving the dark strands into a simple coiffure suitable for a morning of estate business. Through the looking glass, Marguerite observed her maid’s furrowed brow.
“You needn’t accompany me to the Hayworths’ farm,” Marguerite said, reaching for a plain bonnet. “The walk will do me good.”
“Begging your pardon, My Lady, but with your position so delicate—”
“My position?” Marguerite pulled the ribbons of her bonnet snug beneath her chin, adjusting the angle to frame her face properly. “You mean my engagement to Lord Guilford?”
“The servants talk.” Betty’s voice dropped lower. “They say his lordship visits the tenant farms alone, at odd hours. That he speaks to no one save his butler.”
“Then perhaps it’s time someone spoke to him.” Marguerite rose, smoothing her dark blue dress. The fabric, though fine, had seen better days—much like the family’s finances.
“But the Hayworths, My Lady—”
“They need assistance with their youngest daughter’s fever,” Marguerite said, gathering her reticule. “I won’t ignore their request simply because my father doesn’t want me to be around the farm’s tenants.”
“Nor would he want you to cross paths with his lordship there by mere happenstance,” Betty muttered under her breath.
“Perhaps not.” Marguerite hesitated at the door, her hand brushing the polished wood. “Yet, even if our engagement is a pretense, my obligations are not. I will do what is required of me.”
M ud had left the path to the farm treacherous, forcing Marguerite to take Betty and a footman to ensure safety. As she picked her steps carefully, her thoughts wandered to Lord Guilford—how he had defended her at the picnic and the distance he maintained the following days even when closeness was needed to make their ruse believable.
M eanwhile, at Carlisle Manor, Tristan stood before his desk, examining the stack of correspondence his steward had delivered. The letters detailed mounting problems across his estate—repairs needed, rents unpaid, tenants struggling.
“The Hayworths sent word about their daughter,” Mr. Thorne said from the doorway. “The fever persists.”
Tristan clenched his teeth behind closed lips, the tendons in his neck becoming pronounced. “Send for the physician.”
“Already done, My Lord. Though perhaps a personal visit—”
“Would be inappropriate.” Tristan turned to the window. “I’m hardly the sort to offer comfort to sick children.”
“You were, once.”
Their words seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. The room felt smaller, more confined. “That was before Spain.”
“Everything was before Spain,” Mr. Thorne murmured. “Even living.” The Viscount did not hear those last words.
Tristan’s fingers curled against the windowsill. “Ready my horse.”
The ride to the Hayworth farm allowed him to avoid his butler’s knowing gaze. The familiar weight of his stallion beneath him, the clip-clop of hooves against packed earth, required no social graces, no cautious masks.
His arrival at the farm coincided with an unwelcome sight: Lady Marguerite, her blue dress easily recognizable against the worn wood of the farmhouse. She turned at the sound of his approach; her eyes widened before narrowing, the color rising in her cheeks as understanding dawned.
“My Lord.” She dropped into a shallow curtsy. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Evidently.” He swung down from his horse without flourish, his boots meeting the ground with ease. “Does your father know you’ve wandered so far from home?”
“Does yours?” Her brazen words, daring him to object, drew his attention to her face—to the slight lift of her chin and the twinkling in her dark eyes.
“My father is dead.”
“As is my ability to seek your approval for every movement.” She turned toward the farmhouse. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick child to attend.”
He caught her arm before she could step away. “You cannot simply—”
“Cannot what?” Her gaze dropped to where his fingers still gripped her arm. “Visit a sick neighbor? Offer aid where it’s needed? Or perhaps you’d prefer I maintain the facade of the delicate lady, too refined to soil her hands with common concerns?”
The sound of approaching footsteps forced him to release her. She stepped back, removing herself from his reach. Mrs. Hayworth appeared in the doorway, a toothy smile spreading on her worn face at the sight of them both.
“Oh, M’lady! And his lordship, too!” She bobbed a curtsy. “I didn’t expect such grand visitors today.”
“How is Mary?” Marguerite asked. The anger had drained from her voice, leaving only weariness.
“The fever’s down a touch, but she’s still weak. Please, won’t you both come in?”
Tristan straightened, prepared to refuse the request, but Marguerite had already stepped past him, following Mrs. Hayworth into the farmhouse. Unbidden, the interior stirred a memory he’d long sought to bury. The faint scent of drying herbs hung in the air, mingling with the warmth of the hearth. Though modest and worn, the furniture bore evidence of care—a mended chair leg here, a freshly scrubbed tabletop there. And Mrs. Hayworth herself, her back as straight as a soldier’s despite the threadbare state of her dress, commanded respect in her quiet resilience.
In a small bedroom just off the main living area, a child no older than six lay in a narrow bed. Her fair hair clung damply to her forehead, the sheen of fever robbing her face of all color, rendering her as pale as parchment.
Marguerite moved swiftly to the child’s side, her hands sure and cool as they rested lightly on the girl’s clammy forehead.
“Has the physician come yet?” she asked, her voice steady but edged with concern as she glanced back at Mrs. Hayworth.
“Yes, M’lady. His lordship sent him straight away.”
“And the medicines he prescribed?” Marguerite’s gaze flickered to Tristan, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly, her eyes softening.
“We…that is to say…” Mrs. Hayworth twisted her apron. “The cost…”
“I’ll see to it,” Tristan said before he could stop himself.
“Thank you, My Lord, that is most kind. Would you care for some tea?”
“We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Marguerite responded with a smile.
“Not at all, my Lady, not at all.” Mrs. Haywoth gathered her skirts and departed with quick steps. Marguerite turned to face him fully. “That was kindly done.”
“It was necessary.” His steps carried him away from her, toward the relative safety of the window’s view. “Nothing more.”
“Of course.” A note of laughter colored her response. “Heaven forbid anyone suspects you are capable of genuine feelings.”
Before he could form a suitable retort, a low rumble of thunder shook the windows. Dark clouds had gathered while they spoke, turning the morning light grey and threatening.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hayworth said from the doorway, teacup rattling. “Looks like we’re in for a proper storm.”
Marguerite moved to the window beside him, watching as the first heavy drops struck the glass. “I should walk home before the weather worsens.”
“You walked here alone?” The disapproval in his voice drew an arch look from her.
“No, My Lord,” she replied with a faint smile, “but I’ve sent Betty and Jimmy back to fetch provisions for the Hayworths. Though, with the rain coming down as it is, I doubt they’ll be able to return quickly.”
Another rumble of thunder, closer now, made the little girl whimper in her sleep. Marguerite returned to the bedside, adjusting the blankets with gentle hands.
“You cannot possibly walk back in this storm even with Betty and the footman,” Tristan said, his voice lowering to avoid disturbing the child. “The path will be dangerous.”
“Then what do you suggest?” She asked as she turned to face him. “That I remain here indefinitely?”
“To take you home.” His mouth betrayed him, the words tumbling forth before his mind could catch them. “Once the worst passes, I can take you home. My horse can carry us both,” he said as he moved away from the window.
Marguerite’s eyes widened. “That would be most improper.”
“More improper than remaining here for who knows how long?”
Their eyes locked across the crowded room, each studying the other’s countenance for signs of weakness.
Mrs. Hayworth returned with more tea, her gaze darted between them like a trapped bird seeking escape. “Perhaps…that is, if it would help…”
“What is it?” Marguerite asked.
“My husband keeps a cart in the barn. If his lordship wouldn’t mind…”
“That would be indeed most kind, Mrs. Hayworth.” Tristan returned to the window but turned to face Marguerite. “Then it’s settled. I’ll take you home using Mrs. Hayworth’s cart.”
Their eyes locked across the crowded room, each searching the other’s face for any flicker of vulnerability. An exceptionally bright flash of lightning lit the space, throwing every detail into stark relief. The thunder that followed, deafening and instantaneous, reverberated through the walls.
Tristan’s breath quickened, his chest tightening as an invisible weight pressed down on him. He turned sharply, striding out of the house without a word, his movements deliberate yet edged with urgency. The barn loomed ahead, offering the solitude he desperately needed. Once inside, he leaned against the rough wooden wall, his hands trembling as he struggled to slow his racing heart, forcing himself to draw air into his lungs.
Back at the farmhouse, Marguerite stood up. “Very well, Mrs. Hayworth, I’ll return tomorrow to check on Mary. Please let me know if her condition changes.”
I t was late afternoon, and the rain continued to fall in earnest as the Viscount and Marguerite started on their trek back home. They knew they couldn’t stay at the farmhouse any longer. Marguerite needed to return home, and Lord Guilford was bent on ensuring she got there safely.
Before getting in the cart, Lord Guilford’s hand at her elbow steadied her over the increasingly muddy ground. His touch was impersonal, yet it anchored her thoughts.
As they approached, his stallion stamped impatiently, its breath misting in the chill rain. Tristan moved with practiced ease, his hands steady as he checked the girth of the saddle. He turned to her, his gaze softer now, despite the storm’s tumult around them.
Marguerite reached for the cart, the wood slick beneath her fingers. Her foot slipped as she tried to climb, and she gasped as her balance gave way. Before she could fall, his arms were strong and sure, catching her against the solid breadth of his chest.
The rain fell heavier now; a curtain of droplets blurred the world around them, leaving only the two of them in sharp relief. His hands gripped her waist, firm yet gentle, and her heart stuttered as she looked up.
Tristan’s gray eyes locked onto hers, darker than the storm clouds above, the distance between them impossibly small. His breath, warm against her damp skin, mingled with hers as the rain traced rivulets down his cheek. For a moment, neither spoke; the air between them charged with something unspoken, something undeniable.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, though he made no move to let her go.
“And whose fault is that?” she whispered, her lips trembling—not from the cold, but from his nearness.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his grip tightened as though he wasn’t quite ready to release her. Slowly, reluctantly, he set her back on her feet, the warmth of his touch lingering even as the rain continued to fall.
“Careful now,” he said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “We wouldn’t want you to slip again.”
Marguerite swallowed hard, her cheeks flushed despite the chill, and turned toward the cart, acutely aware of his steady gaze lingering on her.
Neither spoke as the horse picked its way along the muddy path to Fitzroy Manor.
Marguerite kept her eyes fixed ahead, but her gaze was inexorably drawn to Lord Guilford as he mounted his stallion with effortless grace. The reins rested lightly in his hands, strong and confident, guiding the restless beast with a quiet command that spoke of years of mastery. His dark hair, dampened by the rain, clung to his forehead, framing the sharp lines of his face—each feature a study in rugged elegance.
Her breath caught as she watched him. The proud set of his shoulders and the determined tilt of his jaw exuded a strength that both unnerved and fascinated her. The storm seemed to frame him, the driving rain only heightening his striking presence, as though nature itself conspired to cast him as the very embodiment of gallantry.
A warmth she couldn’t entirely attribute to the rain crept through her, blooming like the first rays of spring sunshine after a long winter. She tried to fight it, but couldn’t.
This man, so complex and enigmatic, stirred feelings she had no words for—feelings that made her heart race and her carefully constructed defenses falter. She tore her gaze away, hoping he hadn’t noticed the faint blush rising to her cheeks, though her thoughts remained helplessly tethered to him.
As the horse moved forward with a powerful stride, she was captivated by his every movement, her romantic notions betraying her better judgment. With all his flaws and brooding charm, Lord Guilford was quickly becoming far more than the man she had agreed to a mere arrangement with.
By the time they were halfway to Fitzroy Manor, both were thoroughly soaked. Rain streamed down, soaking through their cloaks and chilling them to the bone. The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the ground and the horse’s steady gait were the only sounds until the heavens split apart with a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a deafening crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very earth beneath them.
Lord Guilford’s reaction was immediate. He froze, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the reins. The horse reared slightly, startled by his sudden tension, but he didn’t move to steady it. Instead, he slid off the saddle and stumbled to the ground, crouching low with his arms wrapped tightly around his head.
“My Lord!” Marguerite called, alarmed. She climbed down from the cart as quickly as her soaked cloak and dress allowed, her boots sinking into the muddy ground. She rushed to his side, her heart hammering as she saw the vacant look in his eyes.
He wasn’t with her anymore.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t draw air. His trembling hands clutched the wet earth, and his lips moved silently, forming words she couldn’t hear. His entire body shook, and his face was contorted in an expression of such anguish that it took her breath away.
“My Lord Guilford,” she said softly, crouching beside him despite the rain streaming down her face. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing his shoulder, but he didn’t respond.
“My Lord,” she tried again, louder this time. He flinched at her touch, his eyes wide with fear as though he was seeing something—or someone—not there.
With a sinking heart, she realized he was trapped in a memory. Somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible.
“Madrid,” he murmured brokenly, his voice barely audible. “The ball… the explosion… God, no…”
Her breath caught at his words, and she felt her chest tighten with the weight of his pain. This was the war, she realized. This was what haunted him, what he never spoke of.
Marguerite swallowed hard, steadying her own trembling hands as she crouched closer. “Tristan,” she said firmly, trying to cut through the haze of his memories. “It’s not real. You’re safe. It’s over. Look at me.”
But he didn’t seem to hear her, his mind trapped in the horror of that night. Desperation gripped her as the rain poured harder, soaking them both to the skin. She couldn’t leave him like this—not here, not now.
“Come with me,” she urged, her voice gentle but insistent. She slipped her arm under his, tugging at him as firmly as she could without startling him further. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move for a moment, his muscles locked in the grip of his memories. Then, slowly, he blinked as if her words had pierced the fog. His gaze, unfocused and dazed, flickered to her face.
“That’s it,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to mix with the rain. “I’m here. Come with me.”
With great effort, she guided him to his feet, his body trembling under her hands. He leaned heavily on her as she helped him toward the cart, each step slow and unsteady. She could feel the weight of his anguish in every faltering movement.
Once she managed to get him into the cart, she approached the horse, her own limbs shaking with cold and effort. She took the reins and led the horse, turning him toward Carlisle Manor, her decision made.
She couldn’t let her family see him like this—vulnerable, broken. It wasn’t pity that drove her but something deeper, something she couldn’t yet name. She would bear witness to Lord Guilford’s pain, and in this moment, she would be his strength.
The rain blurred the road ahead, but Marguerite set her jaw and urged the horse onward, her focus on the man behind her and the sanctuary waiting at the end of the journey.
“Oh, God,” she pleaded with her Father in Heaven, “please help me get Tristan back home safely. Only Thou canst help him in this hour of need. Please watch over us. Please calm his mind and his heart…Please help us…”