The Elusive Miss Ellison Read online

  In the library he found his uncle perusing maps. The fourth Earl of Hawkesbury glanced up. “What is my nephew up to now?”

  “I … I’m not sure, sir.” Tattling on his brother only led to strained relationships.

  The earl sighed and motioned to the table. “Come. I rather think you’ll enjoy this.”

  Nicholas peered at the atlas as his uncle shared about a Royal Society lecture he’d recently attended in London. Minutes later the butler entered. “Sir, there’s been an accident.”

  A sense of ominous foreboding filled the room. The earl’s beetling gray brows pushed up. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Stamford and his friend were racing their carriages and crashed outside the village.”

  “The fools!” Maps scattered to the floor. “Is anyone injured?”

  Emotion clouded the butler’s usually expressionless face. “We believe there may be, sir.”

  He didn’t need his uncle’s “Nicholas!” to propel him to the stables. Fear churned his insides as he saddled his favorite chestnut and galloped along the landscaped drive, out the iron gates, and down the lane toward the village. At the corner, where the road narrowed and veered sharply on the edge of his uncle’s estates, stood a crowd of villagers. He tied the horse to the fence and pushed his way through the chaos and confusion to find his brother lying on the road, grasping his leg in pain, next to an overturned curricle.

  “James!”

  His brother looked up, wincing. “Dash it, Nick! He’s really done it now.”

  “Where’s Gerald?”

  But his brother merely moaned and shut his eyes, clutching his knee.

  Nicholas straightened, looking over the scene. How stupid to have thought they could take such a bend unscathed! Gerald always was a reckless one, but for James to put Uncle’s horses in danger was the outside of enough! Nearby, the horses shied nervously. He spoke softly, stroking them as he released the harness.

  He nodded to a local man, a farmer, judging from his smock and wide hat. “Hold them.” The man moved forward to hold the reins.

  Nicholas hurried to the other carriage. The nauseous feeling intensified. “Someone get a doctor!” He crouched over Gerald’s unconscious body, passing a hand over his mouth. But no warm air reassured. He glanced up. “We need a doctor!”

  Grim villagers huddled together, a wall of animosity staring accusingly at him.

  Beyond the low mutters came the sound of hooves and wheels striking rock as a small cart clattered to a stop. The crowd parted for the reverend he recognized from Sunday’s foray to church. “Grace!” A sharp, agonized cry filled the air.

  Nicholas frowned, and pushed to his feet, past the broken transports to encounter a scene far more desperate. A woman lay beside the road, blood staining her pink dress, an overturned basket at her heels. Nearby, a young girl’s tears fell unchecked as the reverend sank to his knees and clasped the body to his chest, his broken sobs joining the sniffles of the surrounding crowd.

  Nicholas stumbled forward as the full horror of his brother’s reckless thrill seeking sank in. “Get a doctor!” He shouted at the nearest bystander. “Quickly, man!”

  The man shook his head. “She don’t be needing no doctor.”

  Dear God … “But the others!”

  “Stupid young eejits.” Spittle flew onto the dusty road.

  “Nick! Where are you? This hurts!”

  Muttered oaths drew Nicholas’s attention to the nearby stone-faced villagers. Mortification—viscous, scorching—squeezed his heart. Never, in all his fifteen years, had he ever felt so ashamed. He ducked his head as recriminations swirled. If only his parents had checked his brother’s willfulness more often. If only Nicholas hadn’t boasted so proudly. If only others hadn’t happened by at that precise moment. If only, if only, if only …

  He hastened to James, whose cries of pain only magnified the crowd’s disgust. As he tried to shush him, Nicholas glanced back at the golden-haired girl, wet-faced, now clasped in a large woman’s arms.

  Memories wavered, dissolved, as the deep, hot guilt from fourteen years ago speared his soul anew. He would not let Lavinia suffer any more.

  A rasping cry drew his attention to the invalid. He tried spooning in water as Mrs. Florrick had done, but succeeded only in spilling yet more on the covers. Not that it mattered. If—no, when—she recovered, the bedding would all be burned anyway, lest any remnant of smallpox remain.

  A shiver rippled down his back. He rose and threw another small log onto the fire, stirring the embers until sufficient heat warmed the room again. He gnawed his bottom lip as the flames crackled and glowed.

  “Mama!”

  Nicholas hastened back to the bed. Lavinia moved restlessly, eyes still closed, her breathing increasingly shallow.

  He glanced through the dressing room’s opened door at the cots. Both women continued their slumbers.

  “Mama!”

  “Hush, Lavinia.”

  She made a noise, low in her throat, halfway between a groan and a whimper, and he was instantly transported back to the war, the men, weakened by disease or starvation, lying on pallets, groaning in dark hallways in abandoned French chateaux. Men, good men, marked with the red scourge across their palms and faces, before the pox burst into pus and left craters on their faces. Men who’d gasp the names of loved ones before breathing their last. Men he’d been helpless to defend.

  “Why? Why did you leave?”

  He glanced at her. Her eyes were wide open, staring at him. She was talking to him?

  “Why couldn’t you stay?” She grimaced, and coughed violently, her breath ending in a wheeze. “Mama? Why won’t you answer me?”

  He swallowed. This kind of delirium was familiar, too, and had often heralded the end.

  The end? Desperation flooded him. “Lily! Mrs. Florrick!”

  They ignored him, the past nights of nursing making slumber too deep. He pressed another cold compress to Lavinia’s forehead. Regrets swooped in like foul birds upon a carcass. Why had he not shown more kindness? Why hadn’t he exhibited more self-control instead of enjoying the constant sparring? Why had he tried to maintain this ridiculous charade of aloofness, when deep within he burned to have her near?

  His heart thumped.

  Her eyes fluttered and her lips parted in a long rasping breath.

  The heaviness in his chest mounted. If only the doctor were still here! Miss West! Anyone! He gritted his teeth, pushed down the fear, and forced his thoughts to the job at hand.

  “Mama …”

  Her breath was whispery thin, coming in hurried bursts, like she was trying to draw in a lifetime supply of air. His skin prickled. She would not die. She could not die.

  Could she?

  He called to the sleeping servants. To no avail. Panic whirled through his brain. What could he do? What could he do?

  Fragments from a sermon Mr. Ellison had preached months ago flashed through his mind—something to do with prayer? The doctor’s advice to have faith jumbled with Mrs. Florrick’s words, mixed with the fear. He lowered his head. Lord, I know I have done nothing to make You proud, but Lavinia is such a good person. Don’t let her die.

  But good people died. His men had died. The reverend’s wife had died! The swelling in his throat enlarged. Lord, please …

  The gasping sound worsened.

  Lord, I’ll do anything, whatever You say, please bring Lavinia back to health.

  He stared, horrified, as her fingers jerked, as if life itself tried to escape her body.

  Lord, please!

  Lavinia’s recriminations flashed across his mind: he would keep his word. He would! Lord, I promise. Take my life, my life for hers. Please heal her!

  The thrashing continued until she gave a final cry and slumped back against the pillows. Motionless.

  “Lord, no!”

  Mrs. Florrick staggered to the bedside. “Is she … ?”

  He reached a shaky hand to touch the side of her neck. Nothing. He shifted hi
s fingers. Still nothing.

  Lord!

  He tried once more. A faint rhythmic beat met his fingertips. “There’s a pulse!”

  Mrs. Florrick placed a hand upon Lavinia’s forehead. “The fever has broken.” She smiled blearily. “Thank the Lord!”

  “Thank You, Lord.” He slumped in his chair, placed his head in his hands. “Thank You, Lord, indeed.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SHE SAT ON a small stool, holding the small rag doll Mama had sewn. Her mother spoke soft, soothing words to Mrs. Hardy, who hunched in a chair in the corner. The room felt sad. The walls had grown new cobwebs since their visit last Monday, and a bitter smell came from the cooking pot. Thin, dark-eyed children huddled around their mother, dressed in rags. She met Eliza’s haunted gaze then looked away, her throat growing tight. She clasped her doll more firmly.

  “Lavinia?” Her mother rose, offered an encouraging smile. “Would you pass my apron?”

  “Yes, Mama.” She slipped the doll into her pinafore pocket, retrieved the apron from the basket, and glanced at the black-clothed woman again.

  Poor Mrs. Hardy. It wasn’t her fault little Thomas had drowned in the river, no matter what people like Lady Milton might say. But despite it being weeks since the tragedy, her sorrow never changed. If Mr. Hardy were here, things might be different. But Papa said he was away, working in Bristol, leaving Mrs. Hardy to care for five—no, four—children younger than Lavinia.

  Mama reentered the room with a large pail of water. As Lavinia swept the dirt floor, Mama scrubbed the big iron pot, while the children—apart from Eliza, who kindled the feeble fire—watched from near the bed.

  “Lavinia, could you please find the buns?”

  She placed the broom away and removed the cloth from the basket. Her stomach skipped as the scent of yeast and currants filled the room. She looked up. Eliza’s dark eyes met hers.

  “Would you like a currant bun, Eliza? Mama made some this morning.”

  The dark head bobbed, and Lavinia distributed the buns among the children. After Mama filled the pot with fresh broth and prayed for the family one more time, they exited the dim cottage, but the bright sunlight could not chase away the sadness. Lavinia bit her bottom lip. How terrible it would be to lose a family member. When she had first heard of the tragedy, she could scarcely believe it. Every night since she had prayed for the Hardy family, most often as tears dripped onto her pillow. She had no siblings, but she could imagine losing a beloved playmate would be awful.

  Poor Eliza. If only Lavinia could offer her something more than currant buns, but what? She peered over her shoulder at the cottage.

  Eliza stood, watching.

  Her heart throbbed with compassion. “Mama, may I speak to Eliza a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  She hurried back to the cottage, pulled the doll from her pocket, and thrust it at the younger girl. “Her name is Cecilia.”

  Eliza’s thin face softened as she clutched the doll, wonderingly.

  “Look after her.” Swallowing regret she turned and ran to her mother’s side, away from the temptation to snatch her doll back. Upon recognizing her mother’s faintly exasperated expression, she slowed her steps to a more ladylike walk.

  “Sorry, Mama. I forgot.”

  Mama stroked Lavinia’s cheek. “That was very kind. I’m proud of you.”

  Warm sunshine filled her heart at Mama’s approval, chasing away the pang of giving away her favorite doll. “Eliza looked so sad. I love Cecy, but I think Eliza needs her more.”

  “I think you are right, Lavinia.”

  She slipped her hand into Mama’s as they walked across the stone bridge, over the stream where little Thomas had drowned. Poor Mrs. Hardy. Mama’s comforting words had brought some solace, but words could never replace the loss of a child. Lady Milton wasn’t the only one Lavinia had overheard reproaching Mrs. Hardy for not noticing her small son had disappeared. But as Papa often said, blame and recrimination did not change hearts, only God could.

  They walked up the hill, the sky a bright bowl of blue. As they approached the bend in the road, hooves thundered in the distance. Her hand tightened its grip, her heartbeat racing as the shouts grew nearer. Her breath caught as she was pushed gently, closer to the road’s grassy verge. Dust trembled. A horse shrieked, its eye wild and terrible. It reared, high, high in the sky, like a black behemoth trying to crush her. Hooves swung violently through the air. Swoosh! Swoosh! Then the sickening thud …

  “Mama! Mama!” Heavy limbs refused movement.

  Vague images and impressions swirled around her—of the past or the present, she knew not. Someone holding her close. Whispered assurance. Breath catching. Tears. Cool hands on her face. A solid heartbeat. An indefinable scent.

  Light subsided as the darkness claimed her once more.

  HER EYES REFUSED to open, weighted as though with rocks. Something heavy sat upon her chest, making breathing difficult. She tried pushing it away but her arms wouldn’t lift. “Mickey, get off.”

  Lavinia coughed, the sound shotgun-loud in the quiet, jarring her brain. Where was she? Her ears strained for clues. Was this even real or just a blurry dream? Confusion pounded her head. She had seen Mama, had felt the warmth of her smile as she’d turned on the road one last time. She’d tried to catch up to her, but to no avail.

  She coughed again. Heat rippled across her chest. At least Mickey was here. She groaned at him to move. He ignored her.

  She could hear people’s voices now: one close by sounded quite tired and gruff, another was higher, feminine, and the third was cool, low-pitched. Recognition tugged, fluttered away.

  “Her breathing seems clearer. Apart from those few lesions on her forehead and arms, she seems to have escaped the worst of the pox.”

  “Thank the good Lord.”

  She pried open her eyes. Everything was blurry and dim. She turned her face. Pain streaked through her head. She forced heavy eyelids to remain open, to focus. Pale blue drapes drifted from the corners of a huge four-poster bed. The bed coverings were unfamiliar and heavy. The mattress and pillows were too soft. Her back ached excruciatingly. Where—?

  “It appears our invalid is awake.”

  “The reverend and Miss West will be so relieved.”

  “Perhaps now I’ll finally get some order in my house.”

  Faces swam before her: Dr. Hanbury, Mrs. Florrick—the earl?

  “Welcome back, Lavinia.” The doctor placed a cool hand on her forehead.

  She could only groan. Her throat felt more parched than her rainless garden last summer.

  Mrs. Florrick moved close, offering a small glass of water. “There you go, dearie. Take your time.” She clucked. “You gave us all a big fright.”

  Her head swam. “Why … here?”

  The earl spoke from his position at the door. “It was nearest.”

  She frowned, but even that small action caused pain. Nearest? To what? Where were Papa and her aunt? She attempted to sit up but the sheets were too heavy, pinning her down. “Papa?”

  “Shhh.” The doctor placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Your father and aunt are both well.”

  She sagged against the pillows. “Then why?”

  “You’ve been extremely ill with influenza, Lavinia, exacerbated by a mild dose of smallpox.”

  “The pox?”

  “The Thatchers.”

  Her breath hitched. “Are they … ?”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. Bessie and the babe are in heaven now.”

  “No. No.” Tears clogged her throat, spilled from her eyes. She turned her head to escape intense scrutiny. The poor Thatchers. That poor, poor family …

  “We almost lost you, too.” Dr. Hanbury sighed. “It was a bad case, due to influenza.”

  She kept her gaze averted, willing the tears away. She would not cry.

  A floorboard creaked. She turned to see the earl move closer. His neckcloth was carelessly tied, and his face seemed paler, heightened
perhaps, by his shadowed eyes and jaw. Had her presence here disturbed his household that much?

  “We’re all glad you are well, Miss Ellison, but I trust you’ll now learn to leave the nursing to others.” The hazel eyes flashed while his voice remained silky smooth. “Your illness has affected many. I hope you will take greater regard for your actions in future.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “Has anyone else passed away?”

  “Not for want of trying.” He turned and strode out the door.

  Her throat cinched. The doctor and housekeeper blurred.

  “Now, now, Miss Livvie, that’s a dear. Lord Nicholas has been very worried, that’s all.”

  An errant tear trailed down her nose. “Why am I here if he resents me so much?”

  “He saved your life, dearie.”

  “He found you in the storm after you got lost coming home from the Thatchers.” The doctor packed away silver instruments in his bag. “If he hadn’t brought you here right away, you could have easily died.”

  “He helped nurse you through the worst of it, Miss Livvie.”

  What? The pressure on her chest now moved to her head. She rubbed uselessly at the ache. “He was exposed to smallpox, too?”

  “Aye.”

  She glanced at the housekeeper. “And you?”

  Mrs. Florrick offered a smile. “The doctor jabbed us all with one of those nasty needles, so none of us got sick like you.”

  Lavinia closed her eyes. “I’m sorry for putting you all to so much trouble.”

  “It was no trouble.”

  The housekeeper’s words floated away on a tide of smothering weariness, chased by the earl’s condemnation. The doctor murmured something further, but she could not heed his words. Poor Bess and her tiny Meg. Fresh tears seeped onto her pillow. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry …”

  Nicholas unclenched his fists, thrusting away from his desk where he’d sat trying to understand some missive from London in a vain effort to distract himself from his earlier stupidity. He shoved a hand through his hair. Who was he to condemn Lavinia for her reckless behavior, when he couldn’t even curb his own tongue?