Читать книгу The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection - Rebecca Winters - Страница 82

Chapter Eleven

Jamie was sick, the temperature he ran more worrying by the hour, and Cassandra was increasingly beginning to panic, something she seldom did in any medical emergency.

Her mind would not be still as she imagined all the possibilities and problems that could befall her son if the fever didn’t begin to abate. Maureen had helped her with the nursing for most of the day, but had gone now with Kenyon Riley to a dinner with the old duke in Belgravia. His nanny, Mrs Harris, had also been here for the past hours, but Cassie could see that she was tired and so sent her off to bed.

Hence she was alone, the weak and pain-filled moans cutting through all sense and making her as fearful as she had ever been. By eleven o’clock she had had enough. Scrawling out a note, she asked for one of the Northrup servants to deliver it immediately to the Lindsay town house and wait for an answer.

She wanted Nathaniel here. She wanted a man who might love her son as much as she did and who could bring some sense and calm into a situation that was spiralling out of control for her. A tiny whisper that predicted Jamie might not recover was also part of the reason. If her son died, then Nathaniel would never have seen him. She shook the thought away and ordered back sanity.

It was a simple fever with a high and sudden temperature probably brought on by the dousing he had had in a rain shower in the garden. Visions of young children who went on to develop rashes and stiff necks came too, however, and she had seen enough of life in the past years to know that things did not always turn out happily.

Yesterday in the park Nathaniel had offered her the chance of reconciliation. Tonight all she wanted was his strength and his composure. She tried to regulate her breathing so that Jamie would not pick up on her panic, but found that the beat of her heart was going faster and faster, a clammy dread beginning to take over completely.

She should have called the doctor, she knew she should have, but the Northrup physician was a man who still believed in doing things in his way and even after she had stressed a number of times to him the importance of clean hands and tools he had not taken up the learning. Her father had wanted to replace him, but the traditions of the Batemans attending the Cowper family in the capacity of medical practitioners had been a difficult one to break and so he had given up. Usually Cassandra dealt with any sickness and she did it with such acumen and success they seldom asked for the physician’s attendance.

Jamie was so deathly still, that was the problem, and the lukewarm water that she sponged his little body with was making no inroads to a gathering heat. She had used infusions of camphor, basil and lemon balm, angelica and hyssop, yet nothing seemed to be making any difference.

The sound of footsteps had her standing, heart in mouth, and she turned to the door as Nathaniel walked through, his shirt opened at the collar as if he had not even had the time to find a necktie, pale eyes taking in the scene before him without any sign of panic.

Cassie burst into tears, an action so unexpected and unfamiliar that she even surprised herself for having done so. He did not break a step as he gathered her into his arms and brought her with him over to the bed, his eyes hungrily taking in the features of his son.

‘How long has Jamie had the fever?’

‘All...day.’ She swallowed, trying to make her voice sound more like it usually did.

‘You have bathed him?’

‘Many times, and I have used up all my remedies.’

Jamie’s fit began with a twitch and a quiver, the right side of his body tensing and moving in a rigidity that spread to his legs and feet. While paralysing fear held Cassandra immobile, Nathaniel whipped off the thin sheet and spread it on the floor, lifting Jamie down to lie on his side and crouching by him.

He did not restrain him or hold him in any way, but let the shaking take its course for ten seconds and then twenty, just watching to make sure that he did not injure himself with the movement. Finally, when Cassandra thought it might never pass, Jamie relaxed, vomiting across the boots of his father.

‘So this is what it is to be a parent?’ Nathaniel turned towards her, his hand passing across the forehead of his son and relief evident.

Nodding, she thought that she had never loved Nathaniel more than she did at that moment, his certainty and strength edged with gentle compassion and humour.

‘I had the same sort of fits when I was a child, Cassandra, and the St Auburn physician assured my mother and father that they would disappear as I grew older. Which they did. He will be fine. Better than my boots, at least.’

He leaned over to wipe the traces of moisture from his fine dark-brown Hessians, the gleam of leather a little tarnished. ‘If you straighten the bed, I will lift him back up for I think the worst is over now.’

* * *

Nathaniel felt as though he were lifting treasure, his son, the small and damp body smelling of sickness and fatigue. Yet he was beautiful in the way only small boys could be, a scrape upon his left kneecap as if he had been running somewhere too fast and his colouring exactly that of a St Auburn heritage.

The same dark hair and skin tone, the same line of nose and cheek he had seen in the drawings of himself as a child. His heart turned in his chest and squeezed with a feeling that was foreign, half fear and all love, the utter storm of fatherhood beaching upon him, winding him with its intensity, fervour and suddenness.

‘Thank you for calling me.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘He is beautiful.’

‘I think so.’ For a second a smile tweaked at the corner of her lips, the worry and fright beaten back a little, the tears drying on her cheeks.

‘Is it the first time this has happened?’

‘It is. Jamie is usually so well and full of energy. It was the fright of the difference, I think.’

‘I had three of these fits across the space of a year when I was about his age and, according to my mother’s diary, she was always as worried as you appear to be.’

Jamie suddenly opened his eyes, the pale grey confused. ‘Mama?’

‘I am here, darling.’ Cassandra took his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing the fingers one by one. ‘You have been sick, but you are getting better now.’ The small face came around, questions contained within it.

‘This is Nathaniel Colbert Lindsay, Jamie.’

‘Nearly my name?’

‘He is your—’

‘Papa.’ Jamie finished the sentence, and that one word sealed a lifetime of loyalty. Glancing over, Nathaniel saw Cassandra nod, and he came down on his knees beside the bed to take the offered hand of his son. Warm fingers curled into his.

For ever.

‘I used to get sick like this when I was little, so I know exactly what to do and you will soon feel a lot better.’

‘Did you come from France?’

‘Pardon?’ Was confusion a part of this sickness?

‘No, Jamie. Your papa lives in London now so you may see him when you want to.’

‘Can you stay here now?’

‘Can I?’ Nat looked over at Cassandra and smiled when she nodded. ‘It seems that I can.’

‘Good.’ With that Jamie simply closed his eyes and went to sleep, his breathing even and the fever that had ravaged his body less than a few moments past, broken.

The silence stretched around them all, the gratitude of seeing a small child’s recovery being a big part of that. His wife clasped Jamie’s hand on one side of the bed and he held the other, a link of family and vigilance and concern. Outside distant bells chimed the hour of twelve, as the night softened into quiet.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? I could go down to the kitchens and make it and then bring it back here.’

Tea? Nat would have far rather had a stiff brandy, but he wondered how she might feel about drinking in a child’s room so he nodded at the offered drink. He felt as if he had been plunged into a different world where everything was altered and extraordinary. But right somehow. He smiled at that fact.

Left alone with his son, Nathaniel observed every feature, every part of a child who had been conceived out of love. He was sleeping now, his lashes dark against his cheeks and one arm curled beneath his head. He had slept like that, too, as a child, he remembered, and smiled as he noticed a ragged teddy bear on the floor, a well-loved companion by the looks of it. Picking it up, he tucked it beside his son. Just another one of all the small moments of a childhood he had missed, he thought, and resolved not to lose more.

When Cassandra bustled back a few moments later with a tray in hand she gestured to him to follow her into a sitting room close by and then proceeded to set out the cups, sugar and milk on a table.

‘I thought if we had our tea here it would not disturb Jamie and yet we are still near enough to hear if he calls out.’ She tipped her head to listen, but no noise was forthcoming. ‘His nanny and the servants are all in their beds and I did not wish to wake them again so if you need something to eat...?’

‘Just tea would be lovely.’

A flash of humour answered him as she understood his meaning. ‘Papa does not drink at all and so our house isn’t well stocked with liquor. But I will make certain that some is brought in for you next time.’

‘Next time?’

‘Jamie wants you in his life. Even being so sick he told you he did.’

‘And what of you? Do you want me here?’

She lifted her cup carefully and looked at him directly. ‘I do.’

‘Then let us begin with that.’

The tea tasted like an elixir the way she made it with a dollop of milk and sugar. It was steadying after a night of emotion. He wondered why he had never taken to the brew before and resolved to instruct his staff to get this particular leaf into his house for drinking. Everything seemed heightened somehow: the scent of Cassandra’s perfume, the colour of her hair. The small touch of her skin against his thumb as she had handed him the cup and the earthy aroma of tea.

Tonight lust did not rule as it usually did when they met, although in truth it simmered beneath the conversation. No, this evening a shared responsibility had engendered new emotions. Contentment. Peace. Gratitude. The quieter humours that Nat had seldom experienced before. The joy of sitting in a room with family around him and being a part of a tradition that stretched back through the ages.

‘I could buy him a horse, a small one with a good temperament. One that did not kick. A safe steed.’

She smiled. ‘You cannot protect him from everything, Nathaniel. What was your first horse like?’

‘Wild. A real hellion. I learnt almost immediately where to stand and where not to.’

‘The lessons of life. These are what Jamie needs to know from you.’

‘Is it always this hard? Being a parent, I mean.’

‘From the very first moment when the midwife handed him to me my heart ceased to be my own.’

‘You had others there with you?’

‘No.’

He swore softly so that the sound of it would not inadvertently reach the ears of his son. ‘I wish I had been present.’

‘I did, too, but I thought you were dead. I looked for you in Paris and asked after you. No one had ever heard your name, of course, and you were probably already back in England. But I did not know any of that then.’

‘When you came to London you did not arrive as Mrs Colbert?’

‘I thought it too dangerous. I had no idea as to what had happened to Guy Lebansart and his men and I wanted to keep Jamie as safely away from them as I could. I thought placing your name within his would be enough for you to know what had happened if anything should go wrong with me and you were still alive to find him.’

‘And you were condemned for not using the name of your husband because of it?’

‘Oh, that was an easy sufferance for I seldom strayed into society and finally the gossip lessened.’

‘If you had used Colbert I might have found you earlier.’

‘Then that would be my only regret.’

‘Come with me to St Auburn when Jamie is better. I can show you both the beauty of it, the solidness.’

‘You said your grandfather was there.’

‘Come as my family and he can meet you.’

* * *

Nathaniel wanted Jamie and her to go to St Auburn. He wanted things that she could not promise just yet with the scars at her breast and the guilt in her heart.

Tonight it had been easy to pretend with Jamie between them. Tonight he had come like a knight in shining armour through the darkness to rescue her. But tomorrow...?

Reality would creep back with the anger and then she would be at the mercy of pity again. She needed to make sure that the feelings in France could be translated here away from any pressures before she followed him into a place that neither of them could come back from. She needed him to love her wholly with his body just as he had done once in the southern mountains and she wanted to love him back in the same way. But could she risk asking that of him? Now, after Jamie’s sickness and the care he had shown, would the scars ruin everything?

The thrall of memory took her breath away. ‘Do you live alone at your town house?’

‘Yes.’ His voice was quiet, underlaced with question.

‘Then perhaps I could come there first. Just me...’

She left the rest unsaid, but he had picked up on the implications instantly.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night. At eight.’ That gave her a day to make certain that Jamie was fully recovered.

‘I would like that.’

‘And it will only be us?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will need a carriage later...to bring me home before the morning.’

‘It shall be at your disposal.’

‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said The Lady of Shalott.

Cassie just hoped that by leaving her sanctuary and following her heart into the arms of her Lancelot the result would be much happier than the one in the poem.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

The Lady of Shalott.

The three scars from Lebansart’s blade burnt like hot ribbons of shame upon her breast.

* * *

After such a night Nathaniel was unable to sleep and so he sat at the desk in his office and worked on the case of the girls found near the river. Rearranging scraps of paper before him, he took away this one and replaced with that.

The list contained the names of every member of the Venus Club. The clues had to be here somewhere, he knew, the intuition that had served him so well in his years of working with the Service honed and on high alert.

Scrivener Weeks would be here somewhere hiding amongst the detail, he just had to find out where he was concealed. Removing each member who was neither tall nor dark, he was left with the names of fifteen men. Reginald Northrup’s name caught his attention, but so did the name of Christopher Hanley.

Another thought occurred. It was Hanley who had told the world that he had seen Cassandra in the environs of Whitechapel Road and Hanley who had been disparaging about the role of the Daughters of the Poor trying to save every wayward girl in London. Could the existence of Cassandra’s charity be threatening him in some way; threatening his preference for sexual experiences with very young women?

Placing the name in the very centre of all the others, Nat determined to find out more about his family circumstances and his night-time habits. He would visit Hanley, too. Sometimes it just took a more direct approach to flush out a guilty quarry and make them run.

Meanwhile, he would make absolutely certain that Cassandra came nowhere near the vicinity of her uncle’s friend.