Читать книгу A Rose At Midnight - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 8

All actual heroes are essential men,and all men possible heroes.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Magnus Eddington, the sixth Earl of Rutherford, was not a nice man.

People knew this, but they were drawn to him just the same. Men admired him, for he had an easy mastery of all things masculine: financial success, an excellent seat on a horse, women vying for his attentions. What made it all the more dashedly enviable was that the young earl seemed not to expend one whit of effort in any of these accomplishments. For this reason, among others, he had his detractors. Though fair, Eddington was a hard man who had not shrunk from making an enemy or two in the pursuit of his ambitions.

As for women, they were attracted in droves, much as moths to the flame, and most times just as tragically, for he was not prone to romanticism. He was arrogant, but they forgave him; he was inattentive, but they excused. He was handsome, of course, with a fierce look about him. Dark brows hovered over intense eyes of emerald green, glossy rich hair so dark it appeared black curled loosely down to the nape of his neck, and his face was constructed of planes and angles to lend a most appealing aspect.

This accounted for his attractiveness to women, along with the air of tragedy that surrounded him like a subtle scent. Those of a more sensitive nature responded to it, intrigued. Yet no one knew the cause of this darkness, for he kept his demons well hidden.

His only spot of humanity, insofar as anyone could see, was his fondness for his younger brother. David was an exuberant, good-natured fellow and as simple a soul as his sibling was not.

When the news of Magnus Eddington’s fatal illness reached the ears of the London social set, it was met with a mixed reaction ranging from weeping and beating of breast to glasses raised high in triumphant salute. As for the mysterious earl himself, he ingested the results of his latest medical consultation with the expressionless equanimity for which he was so well-known. The physician, the fifth and last member of that noble profession to whom he had submitted himself for examination, delivered the unfortunate diagnosis and then sat in the ensuing silence, wriggling like a plump grub on the end of a fishing hook as he contended with the earl’s strange green stare.

“There is no mistake?” The earl’s voice was a rich baritone. He could raise it with tremendous effect, shaking the rafters and jarring his listener to the core. Yet, when he spoke in this soft, even tone, the quiet innuendo of threat made it all the more intimidating.

The poor doctor cleared his throat. “Ah, ah, no.that is to say, there cannot be any other conclusion, based on my examination. The evidence is persuasive, and with the history of heart ailment in your family, there is no question, I am sorry to say.”

Magnus stood. “Then allow me to thank you, Doctor. My man will show you to the door.”

The doctor all but leapt to his feet. His hands worried at the felt brim of his hat. “There is the matter of my fee.”

“Send me an accounting of the charges, and I will pay on the morrow. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to be alone.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Dastardly news, to be sure. It will take some time to adjust, I expect. Yes, well then, my lord. Call upon me any time you wish. Any time a ‘tall.”

“By your own prognosis, I am going to be dead before long, Doctor. Time is not something at my disposal.”

Whether from the scathing tone Magnus used, or the withering glare he threw in for good measure, the doctor’s tentative smile was quelled. “Yes, quite right.” He moved toward the door. “I shall leave you, now. I will send my man round tomorrow.” He hesitated, turning back to his patient. “May I ask, if you do not mind. what it is you plan to do now?”

Magnus bestowed his laziest scrutiny upon his guest. He wished he would leave. He wanted a drink, badly, and as reproachable as his manners were, he could not very well partake without offering the doctor a similar indulgence and Magnus had no desire for company.

The diagnosis was not a surprise. The other four physicians had rendered identical decisions. Heart ailment, the same as his father. All the information these most distinguished healers had to offer was that the trend of his decline showed no promise of relenting and would, if it continued on its current course, lead him to his grave in less than a year. It seemed there would be no answers to the why of it. Only the when.

Magnus raised his eyebrows as he forced himself to speak civilly. “What shall I do? But of course, my good man, I plan to select a wife and marry as soon as possible. Then I shall plow the wench whenever my waning energies allow and with any luck I shall beget a child on her so that when I die, a small part of me lives on.”

The doctor simply gaped at him.

Magnus felt a twinge of regret at his harshness. Devil take it, why had he spoken so? he wondered. He was feeling a subtle rage, though he was not at all certain to whom it was directed. Right now, the doctor was bearing the brunt, which was unfair. It was no more this man’s fault than it was his own.

“Are you serious, sir?”

Magnus grinned lazily. “Deadly. Now, Doctor, if you would leave me. I wish to be alone.”

After the doctor had scurried out the door, Magnus poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, threw it back in one swallow, and filled it again. Then he walked to the fireplace and stared at the cold embers in the grate. Sweet sounds of birdsong filtered through the open windows and cheery light flooded the room, contrasting sharply with his mood. He placed a hand on the mantel, letting his fingers trace the carved stone. It was beautiful. He had never really noticed it before.

Good God, he was becoming maudlin already! He drank deeply, reducing the brown liquid by half and savoring the way it burned in his chest. Pain was life. Not pleasant, but so much better than nothingness.

Maudlin indeed.

He was a liar. He didn’t wish to be alone.

Was he afraid? To his surprise, he found he was, a little. Not of death. He had to admit, this was not from any great courageousness on his part, but rather the fact of his demise still being too far off to seem real. What he was afraid of was leaving nothing of himself behind. And though it was said with a defiant bravado, every word he had uttered to the doctor had been the truth. From the time the first physician had pronounced his death sentence, he had grappled with the most fundamental urge to not quit this earth without leaving behind a trace of himself. Each doctor he consulted had stolen hope that there could be some other way to interpret the strange attacks that had begun to plague him six months ago. In its place a strong desire grew, desire for the one thing—the last and only thing—of meaning.

A child.

It was a very basic aspiration, he supposed, just one to which he had never been subject before. He had always assumed those ambitions were reserved for men more worthy than himself.

Now, the need was growing into an obsession, and with it a sense of urgency. He was dying. He had precious little time.

He abandoned the pretense of the glass and sank into a leather chair with the bottle of fine whiskey in his fist, drinking steadily until David came in.

His brother said nothing. He took the other chair, sharing the silence until Magnus spoke.

“Find her for me, David. Find me a wife.”