A Rake's Redemption Page 3
Breathing hurt, swallowing hurt, flexing his toes hurt, everything hurt! Ah, but there was a fresh scent in his nostrils that he could not identify, something sweet and tranquil and quaint, taking him back to a childhood memory of a maiden aunt who tended him once when he was sick and had to be taken out of school. She had sat by his bedside when he was at his fevered worst and bathed his hot forehead with lavender water. It was the first and last time he had experienced from a woman tenderness that did not demand a return.
But that lavender; could it be that it was he who smelled so . . . so maidenly?
Other scents overtook the lavender, the scent of country air, a mix of horse and flowers and grass and bread baking somewhere. Hardcastle reluctantly opened his eyes, though he did not feel able to move, and saw above him a papered ceiling, low and slanting, and off to his right a window that jutted out under the eaves. It was open, and a bird sat on the sill and chirped with an air of impatience. It hopped along the sill and with a flutter of downy wings was gone. It was through the window that the varied scents were wafting. Somewhere someone sang, in a sweet if untuneful voice, some Scottish air that he thought he might recognize if the singer were more on key.
He closed his eyes again and drifted for a moment, or an hour, while the scents and the sounds washed over him. In the distance a cow lowed and there was the splash and creak of a bucket in a well. A voice called out something and was answered, and then the humming began again, that Scottish air—
He was not home, but he didn’t know where he was, nor did he care. Here there was a measure of comfort in the midst of pain, and the knowledge that at least he was safe, and alive. And cared for. Someone would look after him.
He heard a light step in the hall outside the room in which he lay, and the door squeaked on hinges that needed oiling. He opened his eyes again. From his position on a bed he now realized was feathery soft, he saw a feminine bottom push open the door and back into the room, and then a young woman, a maidservant by the look of her clothes, carried in a tray.
If he could have he would have spoken, if just to ask where he was, but he was strangely bereft of curiosity, and voiceless, too. For that moment he was content just to lie in one spot; the tiniest movement seemed to hurt abominably. The girl approached the bed and set the tray on the table. She crouched at the bedside, even with his line of vision, and gazed at him with a crinkled brow.
She was pretty, he thought, and familiar to him in some way, though he could not quite place her. Somewhere, sometime he had seen her before. It was just at the edge of his brain, but the effort hurt too much. He would no doubt remember when his mind was clearer.
She sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, and his muscles screamed with pain. But he couldn’t utter a sound. To his alarm and embarrassment he felt his eyes water, and command it to stop though he would, one tear trickled down out of the corner of his eye into his hair.
“You are no doubt in abominable pain,” the young woman said, and he revised his opinion that she was a servant. Her voice was sweet and cultured, touching him with whispery comfort. He tried to nod, which only elicited another tear that made its way down the path of its brother.
“I have something here that will help. But first, you must take a little water. I cannot give you spirits, for we do not know if you have a concussion, but I will not risk you becoming dehydrated, either. I do not expect you to move, but you must help me a little by swallowing what I give you.”
She took a cup and a dropper, and gently tugging his chin down with one soft, small hand, eased the glass dropper into his mouth. A few drops of liquid that must surely be elixir of life trickled down his throat. He closed his eyes and felt the parched taste leave his mouth as she gave him more, just a few droppers-full.
“And now something to take the pain away,” she said, and some new liquid slid down his throat.
He opened his eyes again to find her watching him, her lips pursed and her gaze worried. A beam of light found its way into the room and lit up her coiled braid of golden hair. It looked like the aura he had seen in paintings of the Madonna in Italy. For one brief second he thought, My angel, she is my angel, but then drowsiness took over and he felt himself sliding into a dark place, not like the cold of the dark on the road, but warm and safe—
• • •
The doctor could not come. Sally carried the news up the stairs to Phaedra that there was apparently an outbreak of fever in Fordham Wells some miles distant, and Dr. Deaville did not want to carry it further. The message had come from Joe Mudge, the butcher’s lad, who had been told it by Dick Simondson, who had it from his employer, Squire Daintry, who had it from his daughter’s friend, Anna Listerton, who had heard it from a shopkeeper in Fordham Wells. And as to Phaedra’s other question, the answer was no, no one was expecting a gentleman fitting the description of the mysterious man on the bed. No wife had sent out the alarm, no family members were worrying themselves sick. Anna’s brother, the young Baron Fossey, had just arrived home the day before and would surely have mentioned if he was expecting company to follow him; he had not said anything of the kind. Nor was the man on the bed of an age to consort with a young man of three and twenty, for he must be above thirty, or five and thirty himself.
And so his identity would remain a mystery for the moment.
Phaedra smoothed back the glossy wings of dark hair from his brow—she had cleansed the road dirt from his hair as best she could—and felt the scruff of the beginnings of his beard as her hand caressed his cheek. She had been touched deeply by that single tear trickling down his face, one she felt sure he would be ashamed of if he were not in such great agony.
She had sent out the word that the highwaymen were getting more vicious in their attacks, for in past they had contented themselves with robbery, not stopping to beat their victims so badly. But the local constable was stymied, and no one knew who they were, nor how to apprehend them. Mr. Hodgins felt that this gent had put up a struggle, or the robbers had feared he would, which explained the degree of brutality in the attack. And yet surely that stepping-up in the level of their barbarism must signal their growing confidence that no one should apprehend them. They must be caught, and Mr. Hodgins was eager to talk to “the gent,” as the injured man would likely be known until a name was forthcoming.
But no one would have access to him until he was able to talk. Standing, Phaedra gave her patient one long look and departed the room. It was time for Papa’s luncheon, and she had bread to get out of the brick oven in the yard. She must see if the Widow Lovett would mind helping her with her patient. There was much work, as always, and not sufficient hours in the day.
• • •
He thought it had been a few days, for he remembered waking twice, or perhaps more times, when it was dark, and then when it was light again. And always his angel—yes, he thought it was the same, the angel from the morning he was beaten—would be there with water, or laudanum, or just a soothing word. There was another woman who came in, too; she helped him with more personal duties, her strong arms turning him to allow him to relieve himself, her no-nonsense movements seeing to his intimate cleanliness.
But his angel was there to administer to him in the night and in the morning, bringing him water and washing his face and hands, combing his hair. She sang in that sweet off-tune hum he recognized as a part of his dreams, and she invariably patted his hand gently just as she was about to leave. He had drifted through those days, not sure what had happened, not remembering nor caring for anything but the relief from pain she brought with her, but now he felt his mind sharpening, coming out of a haze.
It was another brilliant spring morning, and she was about to leave, after which, no doubt, the other woman would come in and see to his personal needs. But he caught her hand as she squeezed his, and she stopped, gazing down at him.
“Are you feeling a little more the thing, then?” she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
He risked nodding, and thou
gh his head hurt, it did not feel as though it were going to split like a ripe melon anymore. She smiled and it was as if a lamp had been illuminated behind her eyes, so light blue and glowing! No wonder he had thought her an angel, for her hair, a golden color and crinkly-curly, had been down around her shoulders. How odd that he could remember not only the sight of her but what he had thought and felt. He had thought she was an angel, and that he was dying. And he had wanted to be good enough that she would stay by him, had actually regretted some of his debauched and devilish life.
The delusions of a severely injured man. He had never regretted indulging himself in any and all pleasures of the body, and he was not going to start at four and thirty. He had had a rich and rewarding life of earthly delights.
She was gazing at him with a question in her eyes. “What do you want? Do you want to know where you are?”
Ah, she had guessed. She seemed to read his eyes. He nodded very slightly.
“I am Miss Phaedra Gillian, and this is the home of my father, Mr. Phineas Gillian, retired vicar of this parish, and myself. I know it is odd for a vicar to retire, but my father is a gentleman and a scholar, and the rigors of preparing a weekly sermon were most detrimental to his health. You are in Oxfordshire—” She paused and cocked her head, an appealing bird-like movement. “That meant something to you, did it not? There is something about Oxfordshire. Do you have family here? Friends?”
He shook his head slowly, painfully. What was he doing in Oxfordshire? There was something, some task . . . but taxing his brain was hurting too much. He let go of her hand and lifted his own hand to his brow.
“And now you need to rest some more. Mrs. Lovett will be in to see to your needs, sir, and I will bring in some broth for your lunch after you have had a nap.”
In the hallway Phaedra accosted the woman coming down the hallway. “Mrs. Lovett, our patient is awake and on the mend, I most fervently pray. Do you have any idea who he is yet? Has anyone said anything about someone expecting a visitor? Or a family member?”
“No, Miss Gillian, not a soul, though all the village is agog, I must say. Such a handsome man, and so very . . . well! So very manly!” She hefted the water jug on her hip. “If he is awake I should tend to his needs. Must say he is a cut above my usual patient in most ways,” she said with a wink. “The personal business is not the drudgery it usually is.” She chuckled and moved off toward the bedroom.
Phaedra flushed at the good woman’s broad references to the stranger’s physique. If Mrs. Lovett had a failing, it was a sometimes too-earthy sense of humor and an overly vigorous appreciation of male beauty. But then the woman was a widow and more was allowed of women of that class who were more experienced. But still! She really should think of who she was talking to. Phaedra determinedly set her mind to thinking of other things, and went to see about the candle-making Sally was attempting in the yard.
• • •
He was in a hot dry place, parched and black, and yet he could not get away, could not move, it seemed. And then there was the scent of lavender, and he felt a small hand on his chin and a trickle of cool, delicious water wet his mouth. Blessed relief! He opened his eyes to find his angel sitting on the edge of his bed in her white night rail and with her hair down around her shoulders. There was a candle sputtering on the table beside his bed. “More,” he whispered, and she gave him more, caressing his cheek with the palm of her hand after she had given him some.
She picked up the bottle of laudanum from the side table. “Would you like some of this? Would it help?” Her voice was a soft whisper in the darkness.
He shook his head. He didn’t want the fuzziness that the medicine induced anymore. He wanted to see and feel and heal without it.
“That’s all right, then. We won’t give you any more unless you want it. You need only ask, sir, and it will be yours.”
He nodded. She squeezed his hand and was about to stand, but he grasped her hand in his. “Stay,” he managed, his voice a croak.
She sat back down. “All right. Would you like me to read to you? No? Sing? No? Talk? Ah, talk. Hmm. About what, I wonder.” She gazed into his eyes, searching for some clues, perhaps, and then nodded. “All right, I will tell you about myself and my life, though there isn’t a lot to tell. I expect you to reciprocate, sir, when you are able, for I am quite eaten up with curiosity about who you are and what you were doing on the road in the night. By the by, the robbers that did this to you have not yet been apprehended.”
He shrugged. For some reason it did not matter. He closed his eyes and listened to her soothing voice as she told him about herself.
• • •
Phaedra thought for a second. She had suggested telling him about herself because in his position, she would want to know with whom she was staying. But now she wondered what to say. Her life, to someone of his class, would likely be dreary. However— “I have lived here all my life, near Ainstoun. It is a dear place, with good people, for the most part, and I have been fortunate. My father was the vicar during my growing-up years, and my mother an exemplary vicar’s wife. We lived in the vicarage, then, a rather larger house, and my father had two livings, so we did not do badly. I had a nanny, a formidable Scots lady with whom I still correspond, though she has gone back to her little seaside village on the Firth of Lorne.” She gazed at her patient and saw the subtle changes that indicated he was relaxing, hopefully to sleep, for sleep was the best healing agent she could think of for his battered body. She reached out and smoothed his hair back and touched his cheek.
“My mother was a good vicar’s wife, as I said,” she continued, quieting her voice as his breathing took on an even rhythm. “She had a garden that I loved, and grew lavender and hollyhocks and herbs that she used to tend to the sick. I remember once when I was ill, she brought me in a broth of herbs and made me drink the whole cup, though I protested. I was well by morning, and ever after I always thought of her as ‘the Doctor.’ My mother died when I was fourteen, and I still miss her a thousand times a day. I miss having her here to talk to, and to ask advice of, and just to laugh with. My father misses her too, and was never able to do his work so well after she passed away. ’Tis why he retired.” Phaedra felt the tears well up in her eyes and dashed them away impatiently, then glanced at her patient. He was asleep; she could tell by the slow rhythmic rising and falling of the bedcovers over his chest. She leaned over, tucked them up around him closer, and kissed his cheek, the familiar brush of whiskers like her father’s face in the morning.
“Sleep well,” she whispered. “Sleep well, and may God have his hand in your healing, and may I help just a little.”
• • •
Hardcastle awoke to the knowledge that sometime in the night he had passed some milestone in his healing, some point past which his body would begin to respond to his commands. It was small things at first. He could turn his head without pain, and move his legs—his bare legs, for he realized he was clad in a nightshirt considerably shorter than one made for him would be—under the covers, which he had not been able to do without shafts of pain shooting through him before. And though his first experiment with turning over onto his side elicited an involuntary groan from him, he did it.
Mrs. Lovett’s help was still required, but now he was conscious enough to be embarrassed at the intimacy of her ministrations.
She gave him a wry smile, noting, perhaps, the reddening of his cheeks. “You’ll not be needing my help much longer, I’m thinking,” she said. “Pity. I could get used to nursing the likes of you. It’s a fair change from tending to old Mr. Fogerty and his piddlin’ in his pants if you don’t watch him.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t be going shy, sir, for I have the feeling there’s been many a woman handling what I’ve been handling. Mayhap not for the same reasons, but it’s all the same in the end, I say. Women there at your birthing, women there in between, and women there to help when yer getting old.”
Mortified by the indignity of being
an invalid, Hardcastle had still not recovered his equanimity when Phaedra came in laden with a tray. She set it down on the side table and gazed at him, head cocked to one side. Relief flooded her blue eyes. “You are getting better, aren’t you?”
“I believe I am,” he croaked. “Thanks to you.”
Her face flushed, but she beamed a happy smile. “I am so relieved. Dr. Deaville was not able to come but gave me some advice by letter, and I was so praying and hoping and—well, you’re getting better. Now, perhaps you will be better able to answer some questions, for I have been terribly concerned about your family, and how they must be worried about you. I will get word to them now, if you tell me your name, and to whom I should write.”
He cleared his throat, but the hoarseness would not go away. “I am—” A sudden reluctance to tell her his name, notorious as it was, overcame him. He had no way to know if a young woman of such limited experience would recognize it, but he did not want to take that chance. And yet he must. She had been so good to him. Exhausted, he croaked, “Lawrence—Lawrence—” But he couldn’t say another word. He closed his eyes against the pain that was clogging his throat.
“Well, Mr. Lawrence, pleased to make your acquaintance. For now I think you should have your breakfast, then you can dictate a letter to your family to tell them you are all right.”
Drowsily, knowing he should correct her impression of his name but reluctant to do so, he muttered hoarsely, “I have no family.”
He opened his eyes to find her gazing down at him with pity in her lovely eyes, and he caught his breath. What was it about her that even pity, an emotion he had rarely experienced and could not bear toward himself, was acceptable from her? Was it a sign that he was still very badly hurt that he did not mind her feeling sorry for him? He closed his eyes again, the effort of talking exhausting him.