Читать книгу Beauty for Ashes - Dorothy Clark - Страница 9

T he cabriolet swept smartly into the courtyard of the Wetherstone Inn and rolled to a halt opposite the entrance. At last! Justin stretched the travel stiffness from his body, tossed his lap robe aside, and glanced at his bride—she was still sleeping. “Madam, wake up—we have arrived at our destination.” The carriage swayed as the driver climbed from his seat. The horses snorted. “Madam?” There was no response.

Justin grasped his wife’s shoulder and shook her lightly. Her head, hidden by the fur-lined hood, lolled forward onto her chest. A scowl creased his forehead. No one slept that soundly. The woman must be ill. Footsteps signaled the driver’s approach. A blast of cold air hit him as the door was opened.

Justin scooped his new wife’s limp body into his arms, climbed from the carriage and hurried toward the inn. With one booted foot he gave the door a solid, satisfying kick.

“Breams? Josiah Breams! Open the door!”

There was a protesting squeak of cold hinges. The door opened.

“Good evening, sir. We’ve been expecting you and your— Good heavens, sir!” The proprietor of the inn stared down at the cloak-draped body hanging across Justin’s arms. “Has there been an accident, sir? Is your wife injured?”

“No, there’s been no accident—she’s taken ill.” Justin pushed past the portly proprietor and headed for the stairs. “Have you prepared the room?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” The little man closed the door and scurried forward, hurrying to get ahead of Justin’s long-legged strides. “It’s all exactly as you asked.” He puffed his way up the long flight of stairs, using the banister to pull himself upward. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased. I laid the fire and—”

“Save your air. You’ll have an apoplectic fit.” Justin followed the puffing, panting little man down the hall to a small, corner room.

“Yes, sir.” The corpulent proprietor gasped out the words and opened the bedroom door. Justin brushed past the little man’s protruding paunch and headed for the bed.

“There!” He deposited Elizabeth on the quilt-covered mattress and turned toward the proprietor who was busily poking up the fire. “I’ll do that. You go get your wife to—What is it?” His eyes narrowed as he peered down at Josiah’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“My wife’s not here.”

“Not here? Then who is going to tend my wife?”

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance.”

Justin pivoted. A tall, thin man with dark, penetrating eyes and brown hair stood in the open doorway. There was a black leather bag in his hand. “And who might you be?”

“Thaddeous Allen…at your service.” The man gave a small, polite bow of his head. “I am a physician with the Pennsylvania Hospital.”

“Come in, Dr. Allen, come in!” Justin crossed the room in three long strides and waved the doctor inside. “I would be most grateful if you would tend my wife. She has collapsed, and I am at a loss as to what to do for her.”

“Yes. I witnessed your arrival. You seemed in need of aid, so I went for my bag.”

“In need of aid?” Justin’s left brow lifted. “You are a man of great tact, Doctor. I freely admit my helpless state.”

“Then, if you will permit me?” The doctor’s gaze slid past Justin to Elizabeth’s still form as Josiah Breams left the room. At Justin’s answering nod he crossed to the bed and placed his black bag on the nightstand. “Tell me, Mr. Randolph, when did your wife collapse?”

“You know me, Doctor?”

“Indeed. All of Philadelphia knows of Justin Randolph—especially those of us who have occasion to visit the waterfront.”

Justin dipped his head. “You’re too kind, Doctor. Now, about my wife…” He scowled at the inert form on the bed. “Perhaps collapse was too strong a word. She fell asleep while traveling and I was unable to rouse her upon our arrival.”

“I see. I have one more question before I proceed. Is your wife with child?”

“With child? Of course not. We—” He stopped, staring at the doctor in sudden, stunned silence. How could he know? It was certainly possible. With child! Justin gave a short bark of laughter. So much for his clever plan. He had been tricked again. Made a fool of by a…a—

By sheer dint of will, Justin forced down the anger surging through him. “I cannot answer that question, Doctor. But, if you should find that to be the cause of her collapse, I would be most grateful if you would inform me at once. You see, we were married this evening.”

There was a knock on the door. Justin whipped around and yanked it open. “What is it?”

“I’ve returned, sir. Josiah sent me. He said your bride’s taken ill and you had need of me.” The proprietor’s wife glanced toward the bed.

“I do indeed.” Justin stepped to one side allowing the woman entrance. His gaze swept to Thaddeous Allen. “Daisy will assist you in anything you require, Doctor. I shall be downstairs, awaiting your diagnosis.” With a curt bow of his head he left the room.

The doctor whistled softly as the door clicked shut. “That is one angry man.”

“He has a right. Likely he didn’t plan on a weddin’ night like this.” Daisy Breams trudged to the bed and began to undo the fastenings on Elizabeth’s cloak. “Likely she didn’t either.” She pushed the cloak off the young woman’s shoulders and the hood fell away. “Here now, what’s this?”

The doctor stepped closer. There was a large purple bruise swelling the left side of Justin Randolph’s bride’s face. He grabbed a spill from the box on the mantel, lit the candle on the nightstand, then slid it closer to the bed, studying the discoloration. He frowned and stepped back out of the way. “Remove her gown, Daisy. But proceed carefully—I expect she has other injuries.”

Justin sat alone at a table in the common room of the inn. His face felt as if it were carved of stone. Every few seconds he lifted the fingers of his right hand slightly, then dropped them back. The measured thumps were the only sound in the room, save for the crackle of the fire and an occasional snore from one of the patrons that had disdained the use of a bed upstairs and fallen asleep sprawled in his chair, or across a table.

The fire belched a puff of smoke into the quiet room that spread itself across the low, beamed ceiling adding its acrid smell to that of hot candle wax, potent libations, stale food and unwashed bodies.

Justin frowned and waved the smoke away. How had such an obvious thing escaped his attention? His offer was the perfect answer for a woman who had gotten herself into a compromising situation and had no way out. And he—fool that he was—not only had he offered such a woman the perfect solution to her dilemma, he had paid her to accept it! What an idiot he was, thinking he could buy honesty. He had put his trust in the larcenous streak he had fallen prey to with the other women in his life, and now this!

Women are not even honorable in their dishonor. The incongruous thought brought a bitter smile to Justin’s lips. One thing was certain. There would be no friendship with this lying, scheming woman. He wasn’t that big a fool.

He lifted his hand, raked his fingers through his hair, then resumed his intermittent thudding. He had acquaintances who used their money to purchase love—or what passed for love in their eyes—from both wife and mistress. And with his wealth he had any number of women eager to marry or serve him in that manner, but something inside him shriveled at the thought. He wanted no part of it. He’d had his fill of phony affection turned on to coax a gift, or money, from him. A marriage of convenience had seemed the perfect answer.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Justin’s mouth. At least in that he was right. This woman didn’t have to pretend to love him. All he required of her was that she sign a paper, take her settlement, and follow the rules of the agreement. But to do so while carrying another man’s child! A scowl knit his brows together. This was worse than Margaret. At least Margaret had told him about the baby she carried before their marriage. Of course he had already been well and fairly caught, playing knight in shining armor to her helpless maiden.

Helpless maiden? “Hah!” The bark of scornful laughter burst from Justin’s throat. He grasped the glass beside his hand and drank the contents swiftly, hoping to rid himself of the flat, metallic taste of bitterness in his mouth. He stared down at the glass, wanting to smash it. It was empty—like his life. His hand tightened.

“Mr. Randolph? I have finished my examination of your wife.”

Justin set the glass on the table and looked up at the doctor. “And?”

“Let me begin by saying that I spoke in haste earlier, not knowing of your very recent marriage. I had no wish to malign your wife’s character. It is a simple fact of my profession that most often when I am confronted by a married woman in a swoon, the diagnosis is that she is with child.”

“I see. And am I to understand by this explanation, Doctor, that you have eliminated that possibility as far as my wife is concerned?”

“Not entirely. But, in light of the situation, I believe my assumption was wrong.”

“Ah!” Justin’s left brow raised. “I am astonished at your naiveté, Doctor. I would not expect a man of your profession to rule out the possibility of a woman carrying a child on the basis of her marital status.”

“Your wife’s marital state has nothing to do with my diagnosis, Mr. Randolph. I am hardly naive, sir.” The doctor’s voice hardened. “Neither am I easily fooled.”

“Fooled?” Justin’s eyes narrowed. “You mean she was shamming?”

“No. Her unconscious state is real enough. I meant your…confusion…as to its cause may not be.”

Justin rose to his feet. “Would you care to explain that statement, Doctor?”

Thaddeous Allen glanced quickly around the room—everyone was sleeping. “Your wife’s unconscious state is the result of extreme physical and emotional fatigue brought on by very rough handling.”

Justin’s brows shot skyward. “Rough handling?”

The man slumped over the table next to them snorted, lifted his head, gave them a bleary-eyed look and dropped his head back down onto his arms. His heavy snoring resumed. Justin lowered his voice. “What ‘rough handling,’ Doctor? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your wife’s condition. Someone has handled her very roughly indeed. She is considerably bruised. I’m certain her collapse is a mental, physical and emotional result of the mistreatment she—”

Justin didn’t wait for him to finish. He strode across the room and started upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Justin shoved open the bedroom door, crossed the room and grasped the bedcovers, flinging them back from his bride’s prostrate form. His brows lowered in a dark scowl as he swept his gaze over her. The evidence of the claimed mistreatment was there—dark, ugly bruises marred the flesh of her upper arms, and a raw, jagged scratch ran from the slender column of her throat to the top of her shift. The vivid red color of the wound stood out in startling contrast to the creamy perfection of her skin.

Justin’s jaw tightened. He flicked his gaze upward to his wife’s face and, though it was turned away into the shadows, a discolored swelling along the clean, firm line of her jaw was visible to him.

“Those bruises were made by a man’s hands, Mr. Randolph. A large man’s hands.”

Justin glanced at the doctor who had followed him into the room, then leaned forward and pulled the covers back over Elizabeth’s slender form. “I am a large man, Doctor.” He turned and faced the physician. “Be done with innuendo—do you accuse me?”

For a moment the two men studied each other and then the doctor shook his head. “No, Mr. Randolph, I do not.” His voice was noticeably warmer. “I confess that was my first thought, but, having witnessed your reactions, I am now convinced it was not you that harmed your wife.” He stepped forward and nodded toward the still figure on the bed. “There is further evidence of mistreatment. Her right wrist is swollen and discolored, and there is a nasty lump on the back of her head.”

He picked up his black bag and started for the door. “Her right knee is badly bruised also, but I do not believe the injury is serious.” He reached for the doorknob.

“Doctor, wait!”

Thaddeous Allen stopped and turned to look at Justin.

“You haven’t told me what is to be done for her.”

“Only that.” The physician gestured toward the bed. “She needs rest. In these situations of cruel treatment I have often found there is great stress placed on the nerves and emotions. Unfortunately, we know little about such things.” He glanced over at his patient and then returned his gaze to Justin’s hard, set face.

“It has been my experience, Mr. Randolph, that when a person is subjected to treatment such as your wife has obviously suffered, it leaves a bruise on the soul that takes much longer to heal than the physical ones. You may need to give her a good deal of love and understanding to bring that healing about.”

The doctor shifted his black bag to his other hand and pulled the door open. “Good evening, Mr. Randolph. May God grant your wife a speedy recovery.” The door closed with a soft click behind him.

Justin stared at the closed door. Love and understanding, indeed! He turned and looked down at the slight rise in the coverlet that was caused by Elizabeth’s body. One bruised, creamy-white shoulder was exposed to the cool night air. He walked to the bed, pulled the coverlet over her shoulder and gently tucked it under her swollen jaw. What had happened to her? Why had—? Abruptly, he chopped off the thought, spun on his heel and strode to the door. He had been ensnared by compassion once—he would not allow it to happen again. Never again!

The fire flared brightly in the draft as Justin yanked the door open and stepped into the hallway. It flickered wildly as he slammed the door closed again, then settled to a steady burn that warmed the room with soft golden light and lent radiance to the pale face of the young woman lying comatose on the bed as his angry footsteps faded away.