Gypsy Legacy: The Earl, page 24
Jon took up a very sharp knife. For a moment he merely stared at the implement, wondering what he was doing. How could he cut Amanda? Could he really mar that alabaster skin? Sweat broke out on his brow. He knew he had no choice, but fear spiraled through him nevertheless, twisting in his gut with almost painful intensity.
Doubts attacked him. What if he made a mistake? What if he accidentally cut where their child grew? What if he damaged her irreparably? What if he lost her?
He couldn't bear to lose her now, but what if he did? He had worked hard to save his mother, but still hadn't. Dr. Reynolds had been a wonderful mentor, but the good doctor hadn't lost a piece of himself with every death. His hand shook and pain sliced through him at the horrifying possibility. He took a deep breath, but still could not stop his hands from shaking.
If he lost her now, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. It would be all his fault. If he hadn't left her, he might have noticed something earlier.
Dr. Reynolds’ voice came to him out of the past. You did everything you could, son. No one will fault you for it.
But he had. He blamed himself for not knowing more, for not trying something different, for not moving his mother to a hospital, for not asking another doctor for his opinion, and a myriad other things. Back then, his doubts had been magnified by his stepfather's death a mere two years earlier. Discovering years later his stepfather had actually been murdered eased his misgivings over losing him, but his mother's death nearly had destroyed him. He had been confident of his ability to save her, but couldn't in the end. He knew so much more now, but was it enough?
He hadn't wanted to fall in love for just this reason—but it had all been for naught. He loved her. She was his life. His reason for living. And now he had no choice. He was her best hope at the moment. No one else was available and he didn't know if they had the time to wait for a surgeon he trusted to be free.
How would he live with himself if she died at his hands? If he never told her of his love?
"It's all right, son.” Dr. Reynolds’ voice shook him from his paralysis. “Try not to think of who she is. At the moment, she's a patient who needs your help, nothing more."
Jon nodded, took a shaky breath to calm himself, and applied the knife.
Two hours later he sat beside a still-unconscious Amanda, but his heart had finally returned to its normal tempo. She was no longer in the deep, chloroform-induced senseless state which had allowed her to lie quietly while he cut her open and removed her appendix, and for that he was supremely thankful.
Dr. Reynolds had left a full half hour ago, telling Jon he would check on them around tea time. Jon had merely nodded, too exhausted to do anything more than sit on a stool and watch his wife. Mrs. Barrett knocked lightly and entered.
"The doctor says I'm to sit with her ladyship while you get some rest. No, don't argue,” she said firmly when Jon looked up and started to speak. “He said you was to go straight to bed, and I was to remind you that you'll be no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion."
A ghost of a smile lightened his features for a moment before he turned dull eyes back to Amanda.
"Very well,” he conceded, “but perhaps we can make her ladyship more comfortable by returning her to her own bed."
"It's all ready."
Checking the dressing over the incision, he was satisfied all was as it should be. Tenderly lifting Amanda in his arms, he followed Mrs. Barrett out of the workroom with his precious burden and back up to the master suite. Before he laid her back on the clean sheets, he brushed his lips across her forehead. “Get well soon, love. I have much to explain yet,” he whispered. To Mrs. Barrett, he said, “Awaken me if there's any change.” Then he entered his bedchamber and succumbed to the ministrations of his valet.
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Chapter Seventeen
Pain in her side roused Amanda from a deep sleep. Too groggy to even open her eyes, she was vaguely aware of someone else in the room. Moving to try to ease the pain, a strong arm suddenly slipped beneath her head and raised her gently.
"Drink,” a disembodied voice directed as a cup was pressed against her lips. She drank. A few sips were all she could manage, then her head was returned to the pillow. Moments later, a sickly sweet smelling cloth covered her nose, and she was sliding back into unconsciousness.
"I guess that will have to do for a few days,” Dr. Reynolds said to Jon as he removed the chloroform-soaked cloth from her face. “You'll have to keep her under until the incision begins to heal enough that you can use laudanum to control the pain."
"Not laudanum,” Jon contradicted him. “She's had too much of it over the last few years. I don't want to use it unless I really feel it's necessary."
"I know you prefer to use the willowbark, but I don't think it's strong enough. Do you want some more of the hemp preparation?"
Jon thought for a moment. The stuff he had given her for her monthly cycle pain had worked quite well—and faster than the willowbark tea would. Perhaps it would work as a medium-strength painkiller.
"Yes, I think I would. Perhaps I'll use it for a week and see how she does."
"When she's stronger and can take in more of the broth, then you can start giving her small amounts of it as well."
"Hopefully by then I won't have to keep her under as much."
Dr. Reynolds nodded. “The sooner she can stay awake for longer periods of time, the better. You want to get her back on more than beef broth for the babe's sake."
Jon stood outside Amanda's room and listened to the laughter coming from within. Had it only been seven days ago he'd returned and found her burning up with fever? His heart still skipped a beat when he remembered all that happened that morning. He was grateful the appendix, which had turned putrid, hadn't leaked its poison into her system before he removed it. But it had been a close call.
Her recovery was just short of amazing. A short week later and she was awake and alert, receiving company, and needing only small doses of the hemp preparation to keep away the pain. The incision, while still red and angry looking, was healing nicely. No infection. No fever. And the babe hadn't seemed affected either. He could not be more thankful—unless she stopped regarding him with extreme wariness.
He wanted to talk to her, to explain, but her recovery was more important for now. Two mornings ago, Dr. Reynolds had made his last visit.
"You don't need me looking over your shoulder any longer. She's doing remarkably well."
Four days ago, Felicia had come to call. After being put off by Higgins with the excuse that “Her Ladyship is unwell,” for two days before that, she finally threatened to cause a scene on the front step if he didn't let her in and call Jon down.
She had taken him to task. “All it would have taken was a note, and I would not have bothered you. You might want to let her father know, however,” was her parting shot.
Trent arrived the next morning. Unwilling to accept Jon's explanation, he insisted on seeing Amanda for himself.
Felicia had become a regular visitor, offering to sit with Amanda frequently. Yesterday she'd brought Tina with her, and they had returned today.
Hearing footsteps coming up the staircase, he looked up as Higgins approached with Trent following. He smiled. Trent had been by every day since Jon had written him. If he needed further proof of Amanda's family's devotion, it was given quickly when he had, with difficulty, talked Trent out of sending for Eliza.
"We have a crowd today,” he said to Trent, opening the door to allow his father-in-law to precede him into Amanda's room.
Amanda looked up as the door to her room opened. Her face brightened considerably when she noted it was her father, followed by Jon.
Her father approached the bed and bestowed a kiss on her forehead. “How are you feeling today, poppet?"
"Much better, Papa. My side doesn't hardly hurt at all."
"Good, good. Thought I heard laughter before I came in."
"Tina was just telling us about the time Shana jumped into the lake at Collingswood but hadn't learned to swim yet."
He laughed. “Did you tell them you swim like a fish?"
Felicia's shout of laughter had all heads turning in her direction, but it was Jon's statement which caused them all to look at him.
"I certainly hope so."
"And why is that?” her father asked.
Jon lounged against one of the bedposts, arms folded across his broad chest. He was dressed casually in only a shirt and trousers, his collar open to reveal the strong column of his neck. When Amanda looked up at him, surprise clearly written on her face, he smiled, then winked at her. The playful action doubled her heartbeat and left her slightly breathless, but his next words nearly caused her heart to stop altogether.
"Because I taught her."
Felicia and Tina both stared at him as if he had lost his mind. He knew what they were thinking. A statement like that could not go unexplained, and he had never publicly spoken of his gypsy roots, of Nona, Carlo, Mira or any of the others. He most certainly never opened the subject himself. He had too many hurtful memories of scathing remarks and condemning looks to deliberately open himself up for more. Yet Nona had told him Amanda would accept him for himself and knowing Trent and Eliza much better than he had before, he knew they would as well. There was just that one little problem of the reason Amanda had been at the camp in the first place.
He'd spent much of the last few days debating with himself how to open the subject with Amanda. Having not come up with a satisfactory way, he now took the opening presented by her father. He hoped she would understand the step he was taking by talking of it in front of him.
As expected, Trent's reaction was one of stunned amazement. “You? But how? And when?"
"The summer I was seven, Papa,” Amanda responded, drawing her father's gaze. “At Summersea."
Trent seemed to be at a loss for words, a myriad of questions in his gaze. Felicia saved him the trouble of deciding where to start.
"It took me a whole day to coax her into the lake, then she wouldn't get any more than her feet wet. Once I realized it was because she couldn't swim, I enlisted Jon to teach her. Three weeks later, you couldn't have kept her out.” She grinned.
"It wouldn't have done any good for me to stay out. I would have ended up wet anyway,” Amanda returned. “Besides, the first leg of nearly all of our excursions started out in the lake. Learning to swim was the only way to keep up with you."
"Remember the fish?” Felicia asked, barely containing her laughter.
"It did not bite me and I did not scream,” Amanda answered indignantly.
"Yes you did. Mira was only being nice. Even Nona protected you and disclaimed all knowledge."
Jon watched Amanda's father, understanding his confused silence as the earl looked from Amanda to Felicia to Jon and back. He wondered if Trent had connected them to the statuette yet.
"You should know that both Nona and Mira were thankful for you.” Tina joined the conversation.
"Me? Why?"
Jon answered her question. “Because without you there, it would have been a very lonely summer for Felicia. If you'll remember, there were no other children your age in the camp and Felicia running wild would have driven us all to Bedlam."
Jon and Trent left the ladies to gossip over tea and headed downstairs. When Jon invited his father-in-law into the library to chat, he accepted, waiting until they were settled with drinks before breaking the silence.
"I assume you wanted to explain what the conversation upstairs was about,” he began, “but I assure you my curiosity could have waited until Amanda was recovered."
Jon chuckled. “I'm sure it could have, but there are some things I'm not sure she knows."
"Such as?"
"Why she was at my great-grandmother's gypsy camp in the first place."
Trent did not follow up on the statement. Instead, he commented, “So, at least some of the rumors are true."
"The one which says my sisters and I are related to gypsies—yes, that one is true. Some of the others...” Jon shrugged, indicating how little importance he attached to the rest.
"Yes, well, we know what people are like. Most of the gossip is constructed from whole cloth, with not even a single rumor to build from.” Trent's voice was hard, but not bitter. “You needn't dance around the issue. I can guess for myself why Katherine might have taken Amanda off to a gypsy camp, then left her to her own devices. Perhaps it is I who ought to be thankful for Felicia."
Jon laughed outright. “You may think so all you want, but do not even hint at it to Felicia. The three weeks I spent chasing those two around the Lake District still provides me with ammunition to needle Felicia with occasionally."
A sandy eyebrow rose. “Were they that bad?"
Jon shook his head. “In truth? No. But you might remember I was but sixteen."
"Ahh. Now I do indeed understand.” He paused for a few moments, then said, “I came into my title at fifteen. By sixteen, I was confident that I knew everything. I suspect Felicia would have taught me differently."
"I had no excuse,” Jon added. “I came into my title at six, but I had a good role model and mentor in Felicia's father. I should have known I didn't know everything."
Trent chuckled. “And the statuette?"
Jon reached over to the corner of his desk where the statuette sat. Picking it up, he put it down on the small table between them and ran his hand across the smooth contours of its back. He'd resolved to tell Trent as much as he wanted to know, but where to begin failed him for a moment.
"JoJo,” he said unnecessarily. “The first time Tina and I spent a summer with our great-grandmother, she was very cautious. Protecting our identities was important to her,” he began and launched into the story of Nona and her firm belief in everyone's destiny.
The telling was cathartic for Jon. He never realized how much he wanted to tell someone more than just the superficialities of living with his great-grandmother. It was satisfying, he discovered, to tell his father-in-law about his great-grandmother. About her life, and how theirs intertwined with it. With Nona, everything had a purpose, a destiny. She lived by her cards, and they gave her answers which made little sense to others at the time, but always worked out in the end.
By the time Amanda's father left, Jon was feeling better about his past. No longer was it a millstone around his neck he tried to ignore. It had finally taken seeing Amanda and talking to her father to realize there was little he could do about the rumor mill. Entirely too much of his previous time and energy had gone into cultivating the required image. No more.
His stepfather had been right all along. There would always be those who would not accept him, but that was true for nearly everyone. That it was because of Nona for him had been more acute because his paternal grandmother once refused to accept him for that very reason as well. Her ultimate acceptance after Tina's marriage had turned many around. Those who still refused to see him for the person he was, he would simply ignore from now on.
Amanda rolled over, trying to get comfortable. The small twinge in her side reminded her that a little over a week ago, she had been very ill with a fever and radiating pain in her side and back. She remembered little except pieces of a strange dream, then Jon shaking her awake.
She discovered she had been ill enough to require surgery. That explained the ugly, puckered scar now forming low on her right side, but little else. What, exactly, had happened?
Gingerly sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room was warm, a fire burning brightly in the grate. She knew she was alone, having sent Mary off to find her bed it seemed like hours ago. Now she was just restless.
Heartened by only the barest feeling of tenderness in her side, she stood, and was rewarded when she felt no dizziness or weakness. Moving slowly, she approached the door connecting her room with Jon's. Opening it on well-oiled hinges, she peered into the darkness beyond.
Was he there? The fire was banked, but the room was comfortable, although not quite as warm as hers. Should she disturb him? She'd wanted to talk to him for a few days now, but he was never alone with her. If Mrs. Barrett wasn't there, it was Mary, or his sisters or her father. Somehow, he managed never to be in the same room with her unless there was someone else present. Fleetingly, she wondered if he did it on purpose.
She sighed. They needed to talk. She wanted to know what he was thinking.
A part of her wanted to have it out with him. To force him to acknowledge his great-grandmother hadn't been a candidate for Bedlam. But another part of her dreaded the possible confrontation.
His admission to her father this afternoon gave her hope, and she prayed it wasn't misplaced. Had he come to an understanding with his past? Would he talk about it now? About Nona? About the statuette and the reason she had it?
Suppose he insisted she had married him under false pretenses?
She was comforted by the thought that she was his wife. He was not likely to put her aside—especially since it was possible she carried his heir. She didn't want to dwell on what might have happened had he learned about JoJo before they married.
Straightening as best she could with allowance for the tightness in her side, and squaring her shoulders, she approached the massive bed.
Empty!
Her shoulders slumped as she stared at the space where Jon should be sleeping peacefully. Blast it! Didn't the man ever sleep in his own bed? She giggled at her thoughts, and clapped her hand over her mouth as she glanced around the dark room. Now what?
"I'll wait,” she muttered to herself. Lighting the small bedside lamp, she climbed into the big bed, and settled beneath the covers. Snuggling into the pillows, she took a deep breath and was calmed by Jon's scent clinging to the linens.
When Jon entered the room mere minutes later, she was fast asleep.
His tie already hanging loosely, Jon shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it and the neckwear over one of the chairs near the fire before noticing that the door to Amanda's room was open. He was removing his shirt when he noticed the bedside lamp and wondered why his valet left it burning.
