Letters to a Lover, page 18
As they all filed into the small room with peeling wallpaper and a heavy stench of human waste, Azalea saw the patient, thin and pale, on his bed. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him at the Roystons, but then, he was hardly at his best.
“Come to prod me some more?” Ned said aggressively.
“Just to look,” Dragan soothed. “I understand you almost died.”
“Felt like it,” the patient said, hauling himself into a sitting position, which seemed to exhaust him. “This won’t cost me, will it?”
“Not this time,” Dragan assured him. “This was from a nasty fight, I understand. May I see the wound? My friends will turn their backs.”
But Ned was paying no attention. He had caught sight of Azalea and was staring at her, not with the awed admiration she was used to, but with abject terror. Her heart bumped.
“You brought her?” he exclaimed. “Get out! Get out right now and take that bitch with you!”
Shocked, Azalea could only stare at him, uncomprehending. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She had never given them cause to.
Eric eased past her and loomed over the injured man. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head,” he said softly. “Being injured and weak will not save you indefinitely.”
The man was a bully. Franny, the maid, supposed to be his sweetheart, was afraid of him. But perhaps the habits of service were hard to break. He knew a nobleman when one confronted him. His eyes slid away, avoiding both Eric and Azalea.
“Oh, I’m mum,” he muttered. “Always the way of it. No one cares that it was she put me here. She sticks me, and I have to run!”
Blood seemed to rush into her head, and she reached out blindly for support. A knife, sliding into flesh, blood spilling over the knife and the hand that held it.
The hand was hers.
She reeled. Eric’s arm was there, catching her, drawing her across the squalid room to the window. Griz was on her other side, anxious or appalled or both, opening the grimy window to let her breathe.
She heard a hoarse moan escape her throat and tried to swallow it back with the memories forcing themselves to the front of her mind.
Something, the windowsill, was at her hips, supporting her. Dear God, she did not want to know this, she did not want to remember, for it would ruin everything, her life, Eric’s, the children’s. And Eric would look at her not with love but…
He was looking at her now, steadily, urgently. “Let it come, Zalea. Let it come.”
She gasped and clutched his arm, and then it flooded her, harsh, dreadful, unchangeable.
Behind the wall of Eric and Griz, she could hear the faint murmur of Dragan’s voice and Ned’s response. The world seemed red, terrifying, and yet she had to tell.
“I told you about Darchett at the ball, enticing me outside. When I dismissed him, I walked farther into the ornamental garden to prove, I think, that he was nothing to me, that I would go on taking the air until I chose to return to the ballroom. I walked right through the garden, almost to the path that runs between it and the kitchen garden. And just at the edge, I came across…”
Her breath seemed to get away from her. Her fingers tightened convulsively on Eric’s hand, but he didn’t wince or draw it away. Not yet.
“I saw him.” She nodded toward the man in the bed, whom she could not see and did not want to. But God help her, she did know him. “He was with a girl. A maid. It was Franny. He was holding her in one arm, so that at first, I thought they were lovers, and I meant to slip back the way I had come without disturbing them. It was none of my business how Lady Royston’s servants conducted themselves. But then, I heard her whimper.”
The mists in her mind cleared as all the outrage she had felt then flooded back. “He was not caressing her. He was pinching her, cruelly hard, squeezing her skin, torturing her, defying her to cry out. And she didn’t, beyond that whimper. But for that, he punched her in the stomach, not once, but twice. She fell to her knees, her mouth open in pain, silently retching, weeping.
“I could not allow it,” she whispered. “I did not even think about it but went charging toward them. Neither of them saw me at first—I was in the darker part of the garden, while they stood in the light flooding from the open kitchen door, and a lantern hung on the wall. I saw his face, and it was terrifying. I have never seen an expression so…gloating, and yet so angry. He was furious with her, felt quite justified in what he was doing, and yet I could see he enjoyed her pain and his power over her.
“And then I saw something gleam in his hand. A kitchen knife. He had been grasping it all the time he held her. When she fell, it dangled by his side. He crouched down, seizing a handful of her cap and hair, I suppose, and he showed her the knife, holding it close to her face, threatening her with cuts, mutilation, and scars.”
She swallowed her fear and continued, “Neither of them saw me coming until I snatched the knife out of his hand and ordered him away from her. At least I think I did, for he sprang up and back. But I can’t actually remember my precise words. I had never been so angry, so appalled in my life. He stared at me, open-mouthed, for I was no servant. I was a guest of his mistress, and he must have known I would not let this go. I put my free arm around the girl, helping her to her feet. I told him we were going straight to Lady Royston, that everyone from his lordship to the police would be informed of his disgusting, violent conduct. That he would go to prison.”
She frowned, trying to piece together the movements that followed, that led to the final act. “I don’t think he even threatened me. I think he was pleading, for he was no longer the one with the power. I was. But he came right up to me, talking. It was he who looked appalled now. He was even genuinely sorry for what he had done to Franny, and he reached for her, to embrace her, I think, but I drew her away, jerking myself between them. And he lunged at me, whether to threaten or plead some more, I will never know, for the knife I was still holding slid straight into his stomach.”
She stared up at Eric, at Griz. “It went in so easily,” she whispered. “His mouth fell open—ludicrously surprised—and he clutched his stomach and stared at me as he backed away, leaving me holding the knife. There was blood all over it, all over his hands and mine. I’ve killed him, I thought. I’ve killed him. The angry, outraged part of me insisted he deserved it, but I knew that wasn’t true. I had stopped one act of violence and committed a worse one. He turned and staggered away.”
She frowned. “Not into the house, for that is the way we went, Franny and me. Our positions had changed. Franny took the knife from me, led me through the door into a scullery, where she washed the knife, and a spot of blood on my gown, and I scrubbed and scrubbed at my hands.” She closed her eyes. “Out, damned spot, like Lady Macbeth. That was why my wrist was sore. There was a splash of blood on it, and I scrubbed it too hard, too long. No one hurt me. I hurt myself.”
“Oh, Zalea,” Eric whispered.
What must he think of me? What must anyone think of me? She pulled herself together. “I was worried about Ned coming back, hurting her again. I wanted to tell the housekeeper and Lady Royston. But Franny said he would be dead by now, that we couldn’t tell anyone in case I got in trouble about the knife, about what I did…”
“We’ll both be in trouble, she said. And I knew that was true. But don’t worry, she said. I won’t tell them you were even there. Why not? I asked her. For I knew she would suffer more than me, even though it was I who did it. It’s the way of the world.”
Eric squeezed her hand.
“She said, No one’s ever stuck up for me before. It was an accident, my lady, and I won’t forget that.”
Azalea swallowed convulsively, staring in anguish from her husband to her sister and back. “But the thing is, I…I was so angry with him, that I had wanted to hurt him, wanted him dead for what he did.”
A silent sob wracked her.
The man was not dead. She had not murdered him. But she knew her life was over just the same, for Eric could never look at her now, not with love.
To her astonishment, his arms came around her, careful still of her wounded arm. “Oh, my poor girl,” he murmured, “my poor, brave girl.”
And then the tears came like a flood.
*
As the carriage rumbled west through Cheapside, Griz clutched her hand fiercely. Eric and Dragan sat opposite, both deep in thought. Azalea felt curiously light. The unseen darkness that had haunted her was out in the light. And Eric had not deserted her.
Not yet. He had held her, soothing her until she had control of the anguished tears. Then he had asked Griz to take her back to the carriage. She didn’t know what had been said or discussed with Ned and didn’t much care at the moment.
“He won’t die, will he?” she asked Dragan suddenly.
“No, I don’t think so. The wound is healing well, amazingly enough considering the filth of that place.” He met her gaze. “For what it’s worth, he told the same story you did. It wasn’t the first time he had beaten the maid when she offended him. By talking to another footman, by smiling at someone, or talking back to him. And I think he’d been draining the glasses collected from the ballroom. You were interfering, and he knew he was in trouble. He isn’t very sure whether he was trying to intimidate you or plead with you for silence, both perhaps, but he told me he walked into the knife.”
She frowned. “Why would he say that? Doesn’t he want to get his own back?”
Dragan’s lip curled. “He isn’t the sort of man who can accept being defeated by a woman. If it was an accident, he can live with it.”
“Is that what he will tell the police?”
“He won’t tell the police anything,” Eric said. “Any sentence he got for what he did to Franny would be trivial. It isn’t worth dragging your name into such a mess. When he’s stronger, he’ll leave London, and he’ll never go near Franny.”
She licked her dry lips. “Do you believe him?”
“Yes. I don’t think the incident is one he cares to remember.”
“And Trench can really be quite…frightening,” Dragan added.
“So…so we just sweep it all under the carpet?” It felt wrong to Azalea, unfinished.
“I think so,” Griz said firmly.
“There are men like him in every walk of life,” Eric said, gazing out of the window. “Bullies. Who reserve their most violent tendencies for the women who love them, who can’t and won’t fight back. You fought back for the maid. Any damage that came to him from that is his own fault. And perhaps he will think twice now before he repeats such behavior. Perhaps.”
There was a certain truth, a certain sense in his words. But it would take time for him to look at her again in the same way. If he ever did.
Griz squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you remembered.”
“So am I.” It was true, despite all the chaos that came with it. She frowned suddenly. “But he didn’t blackmail me. He’s bedridden. And besides, the fragment of the letter I was sent had nothing to do with violence.”
Eric turned back to her, his gaze unreadable. “What did you do when you left Franny in the scullery? Where did you go?”
“I…I left with her. By the kitchen door.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed it distractedly. “I think we turned back toward the ballroom…but it’s hazy. I can’t…I can’t remember.”
“What is the next thing you remember?” Dragan asked her. “After leaving the kitchen with Franny?”
She tried. Tried hard. “Seeing Augusta in the ballroom,” she said in frustration. “Why can I not remember what went between? Surely there is nothing worse that my mind is refusing to remember?”
“Of course not,” Dragan said comfortably. “What happened with Ned is clearly the source of your memory loss. The rest will drift back to you as the other pieces did. Give it time.”
“We don’t have time,” Eric said flatly. “Not when the blackmailer is trying to kill her.”
“Franny,” Azalea said. “I need to speak to Franny. Without drawing attention to her.”
“And how will you do that?” Eric asked. “Remembering you are—er…at death’s door?”
“I’ll write to her,” Azalea decided. “Morris will take it to her at the servants’ hall at Lady Royston’s. She will have enough respect there to see Franny and tell her verbally if the girl cannot read.”
“Tell her what?” Griz prompted.
“To come to Trench House and ask for Morris. Morris will bring her to me.”
“To us,” Eric said mildly.
Chapter Nineteen
“What will Dragan tell Lord Royston?” Azalea asked Griz. “About his missing footman?”
They sat in her sitting room, waiting for Morris to return from the Roystons’ servants’ hall. Eric and Dragan had gone off in search of Lord Darchett, hoping to find out about his mother’s servants and who exactly had a key to her front door.
Griz shrugged. “I expect the truth. That he found the man in Cheapside, recovering from a wound he says was sustained in a fight. That he was afraid to return to his employers in such a state and tenders his resignation. It will set their minds at rest and open the way for them to engage a replacement footman.”
“If they bother. Do you think they postponed Geraldine’s debut for financial reasons? Or because she is not ready?”
“A mixture probably. I suspect things are a little tight for them, but all the servants are paid on time. I don’t think they’re on the verge of financial disaster.”
Azalea nodded and shifted restlessly in her chair. “Shall we have tea?”
The door opened, and Morris came quietly into the room.
Azalea jumped up. “Did you find her? What did she say?”
“She read your letter, my lady, changed color a few times and said she had no evening off for several days. I said to come then. But she asked me to wait a few minutes and dashed off. The upshot is, she’s managed to swap evenings off with another maid and will come this evening at seven.”
“Oh good! Well done, Morris.”
“And she knows to ask for you rather than Lady Trench?” Griz said anxiously.
“Of course, my lady,” Morris replied with dignity. “I believe we all understand the need for discretion. Is there anything else, my lady?”
“Ring for tea, would you? You had better wait to receive it, so the other servants don’t see how healthy I am.”
Morris gave a small smile that was almost conspiratorial.
While they drank tea and ate cake, Eric and Dragan returned.
“Franny is coming round at seven,” Azalea told them. “How did you get on with Darchett?”
“Couldn’t lay hands on him,” Eric said in frustration. “He wasn’t at home or at either of his clubs. Apparently, he has gone out of town, but he is expected for a dinner engagement at White’s this evening, according to the porter. We can beard him then.”
“Will you have dinner here?” Azalea offered. For some reason, she was nervous about being left alone with Eric. She didn’t want to see the disappointment in his face when he looked at her. “That way, you could see Franny, too.”
“I doubt she would be comfortable with such a crowd of us,” Griz said. “No, Dragan and I will leave you now, and you can let us know what she says.”
“You should rest,” Dragan told her. “Do you need another drop of laudanum?”
“No, I think I need to be able to think.”
He finished his tea and rose with Griz. “Then I’ll be back this evening to change your dressing. We can exchange news then.”
“I’ll walk down with you,” Eric said casually.
And although she had been nervous of being alone with him, she was foolishly hurt that he was so eager to leave her. It was, she thought miserably, the beginning of the revulsion she fully expected. Whatever his kindness in Cheapside, or his comforting words in the carriage, what she had done inevitably added a huge strain to that of the letters. It all had to make a difference.
Yet her heartbeat quickened when he walked in once more.
“I’ve spoken to Mrs. G., Morris will bring your dinner on a tray to keep up the appearance. I’ll dine with Tizsa at the club in order to catch Darchett more quickly.”
“That makes sense,” she said calmly, while disappointment twisted through her. Had she not wanted a little time alone, to come to terms with the memory she had just recovered? “Except, it contradicts the appearance of a distraught husband whose wife is at death’s door.”
His lips curved. It wasn’t quite a smile. “Not at all. I shall look anxious and morose. Everyone will assume Tizsa has dragged me away from your sickbed because I am useless there.”
“Of course they will.”
“Is Griz coming back to be with you when Franny is here?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then if you receive her here, Morris must stay in the bedchamber, alert for your call.”
Azalea’s eyebrows flew up. “You suspect Franny?”
“Not really. If I did, I would not go out. But on one level, I suspect everyone, and I refuse to take any more chances with you.”
“She is too small to be our blackmailer,” Azalea argued.
“She could be an accomplice.”
Then stay. But she had never wanted him to stay because she asked it.
“I doubt it,” she said aloud. “She would have to be the best actress in the world.”
“All the same, Morris must be close by.”
“Whatever you say.”
He regarded with the hint of a real smile in his eyes. “You are humoring me.”
“I am an obedient wife.”
For an instant, fire flared in his eyes. He even took a step nearer her, then paused. “I should go and deal with a few matters before I meet Dragan. I’ll say goodbye when I go. Why don’t you take a nap?”
“I might,” she said lightly.
He came and kissed the top of her head and then strode away.
*
In the end, Franny arrived early, and Morris brought her straight up, so Azalea did not see Eric before he left.
