Page 30

C rispin prevented Hazard from sending for Jasper, and thereby ruining the family’s holidays, by permitting him to summon a doctor.

He knew Hazard would have done so regardless.

James, a burly young man who appeared better suited for boxing than buttling, stood by the bedchamber door while a wizened fellow with yellow eyes looked in Crispin’s mouth, pressed on his abdomen, and then examined the contents of his chamber pot.

“And when did you say you last ate?” the doctor asked.

“This morning.”

“If I may, Major,” James said, “you had one bite of an apple.”

Crispin hadn’t the strength to scowl. “You tried to feed me sops, when I told you I would eat neither bread nor milk.”

The doctor tut-tutted. “You are suffering from a type of bloody flux. It is not food making you ill, but the lack of it will prevent your recovery.”

Crispin laid his head back onto his pillow, gritting his teeth, trying not to groan. He felt like a child again, with his mother’s hand on his brow, and yet another doctor telling her she must force him to eat. This while his insides turned themselves inside-out.

“It is true, though, that when he eats, he either vomits or he is seized with pains.” James gestured to the chamber pot.

“Laudanum will cure that.”

“I won’t take laudanum.”

“Come now,” the doctor scolded. “It is a ready cure.”

Hazard yelled from the hallway, “Do as the fellow says.”

Crispin swallowed back a bitter retort. He had been forced to take laudanum four times in his life.

Each time it had been after weeks of worsening ill health when nothing else worked.

The first time, he was just twelve years old.

It cured him by making him stuporous and stupid.

And yet worse than the drug was giving it up.

The lack was wrenching. It was always wrenching.

He’d told himself he would rather die than go through that again.

And the doctor was a fool. It was food making him sick.

All his life, he’d accustomed himself to gut cramps and bouts of nausea that came and went.

It was normal to always feel vaguely ill.

This was interspersed with weeks of more profound illness—which left him wrung out like a rag, yet grateful to emerge, still alive.

But with Adam’s guidance, he had, eventually, felt well .

It astounded him to think that others lived that way all the time.

Feeling well. And yet, he’d squandered that good fortune. Why? To spite Camellia?

No. To punish himself. He should not have lain with her. He was doing penance. Why wear a hairshirt when a cup of ale and a cheese sandwich would serve just as well?

The doctor fished around in his bag and pulled out a bottle.

“A spoonful three times a day. Morning, midday, and night. More often if your symptoms warrant. And eat healthful foods. Beef tea. Sops. Blood pudding. Marrow. A glass of brandy for sleep. It is no wonder your bones hurt. You are skeletal.”

Crispin wondered if that was supposed to be a joke.

“Leave it there,” he said, nodding to his bedtable. “James will see you out.”

While James escorted the doctor out, Hazard came in. The hair at his temples was now noticeably gray, and he had wrinkles about his eyes. The man had enough worries of his own, without designating himself Crispin’s keeper.

“I’ve seen your leech. Will you leave me be now?”

“Will you take the medicine?”

He considered lying. Yes. He considered saying what he wished to. No. He told the truth. “Maybe. I don’t know.” This was why he’d bought his commission and gone to fight Boney. To die without the torment of sickness. He hated to be weak. He had always hated to be weak.

“Crispin—”

“I know what will work.”

“James says you are determined to starve yourself.”

“Not to death.”

Hazard laughed without humor. “You cannot starve yourself to health.”

Perhaps not. But he was determined to try.

*

A week passed with no improvement. Rather Crispin’s health declined even further. He was too fatigued even to remain long in his chair. He had to take to his bed.

Hazard did not repeat his threat to send for Jasper. Instead, he and Alice hied off precipitously to Chaumbers. Vanessa had miscarried again. Crispin used to believe Taverstons were blessed. That Jasper was particularly blessed. He didn’t believe that anymore.

*

He was no longer sure what day it was. He slept more hours than he was awake. He’d given in, at last, to James’s entreaties to take the medicine. It didn’t matter. Drugged or not drugged—he could no longer rise from his bed.

He woke to the sound of pounding. Or was it the blood in his head? His head ached. Ached so badly he felt nauseated. He didn’t deserve this. Not for tupping a tart who had thrown herself between his legs.

“James?” he called. He needed a wet cloth to put over his eyes. “James!” There was no answer. He groaned and gulped air.

James stepped into the room. “Major, there is a caller. I told her you were not receiving, but she insists—”

He cast up his breakfast. Or perhaps it was his supper. Onto the floor, thank God, not in his bed. James grabbed a towel and basin from the chair just inside the door. He dabbed and sponged. “Major—”

“I’m not seeing anyone!” Good God! Like this? Was he supposed to receive callers like this? Who would come? Who even knew he was there? Vanessa? No, it would not be Vanessa. Olivia? Mother? Had Hazard spread tales? “Who—”

“She said her name was Miss Harrington.”

Camellia? The blazes. He was having a nightmare. Hallucinations. Pursued by the Furies. “Send her away.”

“I tried, Major, she said she won’t leave until you see her.”

“Then she may rot on the stoop for all I care. Go. Leave that.” The sick could wait. He was likely to add to it. “Get rid of her. Don’t tell her I’m ill. Just say I’m not at home.”

James handed him the basin and dropped the towel on the floor. Crispin reached to the table for the laudanum. He pulled out the stopper and took a swig, then threw the bottle against the wall.

He lay curled up and shivering. Sweating and shivering. After several minutes, his brain floated somewhere above his body. The shivering stopped. James finally returned.

“Is she gone?” Crispin thought his voice sounded disembodied. It could not have come from his mouth.

James nodded. He held out a folded piece of paper. “She said to give you this.”

Crispin’s gut cramped. “Did you read it?”

“Of course not, Major. But I gave her my word—”

“Put it in the fire.”

James grimaced. “She said it was important.”

“And I said, put it in the fire.”

*

Camellia walked across the field between her home and Manfred’s.

After two weeks of pacing her bedchamber, crying her eyes dry, this was the only possible solution she could see.

She’d been certain Major Taverston would do the honorable thing.

She’d been wrong. He wouldn’t even see her, though she had begged, begged his butler to let her in.

She could understand that he was too angry to speak with her.

But to not respond to her letter? After a fortnight?

She could not believe he could be so cold-blooded.

Would he abandon his own child to the disgrace of illegitimacy?

Did he think she was lying? Did he despise her that much?

Manfred’s butler, a staid, elderly fellow, admitted her with a lifted chin and downward stare of haughty disapproval.

A lady did not come alone to call upon a gentleman.

Camellia knew that. Yet she was making a habit of it, and it was far from the worst thing she had done.

He brought her to the receiving room and asked her to wait while he went to see if Sir Bodwell was at home.

She waited, rocking nervously on her feet.

The room was overfull of mismatched furniture and the drapes were drawn.

It smelled of dust. It had been years, she realized since she had been here.

Manfred always came to them. She would not have believed he might be visiting Neville for cheer and comfort for himself , but if this was where he spent the rest of his days…

“Camellia?” Manfred walked into the room, then closed the double doors. His movements were slow and stiff, not as though in pain, but as if taking great care. “What is it? Is it Neville?”

She shook her head. He came forward, stooped and shuffling. His hair was almost completely gray now. His expression remained masked.

“Sit down, Camellia. You look faint.”

He directed her to the couch. The upholstery was worn smooth.

The carpet, too, appeared shabby. A woman’s touch was missing.

How many years had it been, she wondered since his wife had died?

Six? Seven? Camellia had never known the woman, a shadowy presence at rare local events.

Had he loved her? Manfred was a mystery she had never bothered to probe.

“Would you like tea?” he asked. His eyes were worried. “Or a bit of sherry?”

“No.” She cleared her throat. “No, thank you.”

It was quiet for a moment. Then he sat beside her and took her hand. “What is wrong?”

She drew a deep breath. And another. Then she blurted, “Do you still wish to marry me?”

He stared. “You have forbidden me to ask. What is this about?”

“I seem…I seem to find myself in need of a husband.” He dropped her hand. His eyes darkened. She hurried to speak. “Manfred, I have to be honest. I know this is a terrible thing to ask of you—”

“Who was it?” he growled. “Taverston or some blackguard in London?”

“I don’t wish to say.”

“Taverston. I should call him out. He forced himself upon you?”

She started. Then shook her head. “No. No it wasn’t like that.”

“He seduced you. Camellia, I should have warned you. Neville should have warned you. Men like that, scoundrels like that—damn him to hell!”

She couldn’t tell him the truth. “Neville doesn’t know. Please. I don’t want him to know.” Her brother was retreating more and more into gloom. He was more demanding. Nothing pleased him. She couldn’t possibly let Neville know.

“No, of course not. It would kill him. He trusted the rogue.”

“I don’t”—her voice caught—“I have nowhere else to turn.”

“Have you told him ?”

She nodded.

“And still, the devil abandoned you. Have you told anyone else?”

She shook her head. She hadn’t even confided in Marianne. She was far too ashamed.

“Ah, don’t fret. I’ll marry you, Camellia. I would be honored to marry you.”

“I don’t have a dowry. You should know that, too. I spent it all on the house.”

“You don’t need a dowry. I don’t care about that.”

She burst into tears. How good he was, and what a selfish, wanton fool she was.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed to say. “I should have said yes to you before. You are so good.”

“It isn’t from goodness.”

“I know you want an heir. Not a…” She couldn’t say the word. “Not another man’s baby. I hope this is a girl, Manfred. And I will give you a son. I-I’ll be a good wife to you.”

“ This child must be mine. I will swear it is mine,” Manfred said, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket and pressing it into her hands.

“Dry your eyes. Listen to me. My cousin is a black-hearted devil. A worse man, I daresay, even than the major. I won’t list his crimes, but believe me, I’d rather any man’s bastard inherit this estate than my cousin.

You must promise me, swear to me, that you will tell no one else. ”

“I won’t tell another soul.”

He settled against the back of the couch, expressionless. Surprisingly calm. “This is all very strange. It changes everything.”

She nodded.

“Camellia, the major left when? Was it two months? Roughly two months?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think we had better have the banns read. And marry as soon as possible.”