“Be quiet, whoever you are,” James said to the young lady, who’d just emitted another shriek and was pressing her palm against the cheek where Mrs. Catsdoor had slapped her. His voice was low and mean, and it instantly got her attention. She shut her mouth and stared at him, looking white and scared.
“She tried to kill Uncle Lyndon.”
“She didn’t succeed, did she? That’s right, just keep your mouth shut. Whoever you are, sit down and don’t move.” James walked to the baron. “Mrs. Catsdoor, thank you for dealing very nicely with these people. Have Harlow ride immediately to York to fetch Dr. Raven. Mrs. Wyndham has struck her head. Her heartbeat is steady, thank God, and it doesn’t appear that she’s broken any bones. But there’s a lump burgeoning on her head.”
“James, I didn’t intend for her to be hurt,” Baron Hughes said, taking a short step back at the utter fury he saw in his former son-in-law’s eyes. Never had he seen James angry before. It shocked him, this anger on the part of his son-in-law, and all over this trollop of a girl who wasn’t anybody, less than anybody, a bloody American, for God’s sake.
“Of course you meant to hurt her,” James said, pleased he sounded so calm, so in control of himself. “Listen to me, Lyndon, I know you grieve still for Alicia. I do as well. I know you miss Alicia. I miss her as well. Her death was tragic, but there was nothing we could do to prevent it. She’s dead, Lyndon, and there’s still nothing either of us can do about it. It’s been well over three years, sir, and I have remarried the woman of my choice, not yours.”
“I heard the rumors, James. You had to marry her because she seduced you. She counts for nothing. She’s a trollop. I brought Laura for you. Just look at her, James. She’s a beauty. She’s my brother’s daughter. Her name is Laura Frothingill. She has a dowry to boot. She’s lovely—just look at her a little bit. She’s the poor girl that old harridan slapped, the one you told to be quiet. I’ve been saving her for you. Just look at her, James. She’s a lady. Look at her—please just give a small peek at her. Her hair’s a fine light brown, a neat figure she’s got. She would grace your home, bring you heirs, provide you with wit and companionship—at least I’ve been told by her mama that her wit sparkles on occasion. Her shrieking may be perhaps a bit shrill, but a lady does that sometimes.
“But this other one lying there, she doesn’t deserve you. Look at her again if you can, James, after looking at beautiful Laura. Just look at all that red hair. It’s cheap and vulgar, that red hair, too curly, not soft and long like dear Laura’s. And she was swimming naked in the pond. No, no, not Laura, this one here. Only a trollop would have done that, only a trollop would have known to slap her palms against my ears to get me off her.”
James felt deeply saddened. “I suppose there’s nothing for it.” He sighed deeply, stepped forward, and sent his fist into the baron’s jaw. Baron Hughes collapsed without another sound. Laura began screaming again, then stopped instantly when she saw Mrs. Catsdoor come running into the drawing room, her right hand raised.
Laura whimpered quietly, saying, “Did you kill him, James, for hurting your wife?”
“Don’t be a fool, Laura. You don’t mind my calling you Laura, do you? ‘Miss Frothingill’ seems a bit too ceremonious under these insane circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”
“Call me Laura, please. You would have anyway had you married me—at least, most men call their wives by their first names. I’m sorry for being a ninny. It was just such a shock, all this violence. I didn’t know any of this was going to happen, I swear it. My uncle asked me to come visit Candlethorpe with him, and I agreed. Alicia hadn’t liked it here, but I was curious to see where you had lived and to meet you, that’s all. I didn’t know he planned to kill your wife.”
“It’s all right. I suspect I won’t see you again, Laura.” He nodded to her, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Catsdoor for all your assistance. Now, I’m going to carry Jessie upstairs and put her to bed.”
“I’ll sweep these two out once the noble baron here recovers himself. You, missie, see to your precious uncle. It will give you something to do rather than shrieking the ceiling down.”
What had Laura Frothingill meant, James wondered as he carried Jessie up the wide staircase, when she’d said that Alicia hadn’t liked it here? She’d always seemed happy at Candlethorpe, until she’d told him that she was carrying his child, so short a time after they’d married, too short a time . . . He didn’t want to think about it.
Jessie was a dead weight in his arms, her head hanging limply over his arm, her hair trailing down another foot. It had been at least ten minutes since she’d struck her head. Why didn’t she wake up?
James continued to wipe a cool, damp square of linen over her face. It had been nearly twenty-five minutes now, and still she remained unconscious. Something was very wrong. He remembered a jockey in a race at York some two years ago who’d been kicked in the head. His heartbeat had been slow and steady, just like Jessie’s, and everyone had been relieved. Only he’d never awakened. James’s belly cramped, he was so scared.
Finally, he rose from her bed and stretched, walking over to the windows. There was no sign of Dr. Raven. It would take at least another hour. Darkening clouds were building up to the east. It would rain before long. He turned back to see Jessie move her left hand. She made it into a fist.
“Jessie?” He thought he’d burst from relief. “Jessie?” he said again, leaning over her.
Her eyes remained closed. Her head moved back and forth on the pillow. Then she said clearly, “My head hurts. None of this is amusing. That man is dreadful.”
“Well, yes, he is.” He leaned over her and yelled in her face, “Jessie!”
He shook her until she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, but he looked vague to her, hovering strangely above her, all his edges blurred, his blond hair circling his head like an angel’s, all soft, beams
of light gleaming through the strands. Had she died? Was she in heaven? Surely his eyes were as green as the small pond with all the moss growing around it just near the stable at her father’s stud. Everyone knew that angels had blue eyes, but this angel had green eyes that mesmerized the one looking into them, making that person incredibly happy, at peace. Yes, this angel’s eyes were green, as soft-looking as his hair, the deep green of a limitless stretch of trees in deep summer, as well as that pond. She blinked, trying to see him more clearly. “James? Is that you? No, it isn’t you, is it? I died and you’re an angel. That’s why you’re floating above me. You’re such a beautiful angel, but I don’t want to die and leave James even for you. My head hurts dreadfully.”
“If your head hurts, then you aren’t dead,” said a prosaic voice that surely couldn’t have belonged to an angel. “Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Yes.” She tried to raise her hand to her head, but couldn’t manage it. Two tears seeped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “You don’t talk like an angel, but still you’re here, all beautiful and vague with your blond hair and green eyes, and I don’t know what to think.”
“Then I have an advantage. No, don’t move, Jessie. I know it hurts, sweetheart. Just try to lie still. Can you see more clearly now?”
“It’s getting better. You’re not an angel, but you called me ‘sweetheart.’ I never heard that an angel was allowed to become so intimate. ‘Sweetheart.’ I like that. No one’s ever called me ‘sweetheart’ before.”
He laid the damp cloth over her forehead, even as his belly cramped. No one had ever called her ‘sweetheart’? Surely that didn’t make sense. She was a sweetheart, kind and innocent and loving . . . “No, I’m not an angel. If you doubt me, just ask my mother. Right now, you definitely are a sweetheart. I daresay if you remain as you are, you will be a sweetheart as long as you live. Does that help?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and closed her eyes again.
James knew enough not to let her doze off. “Jessie, come, sweetheart, wake up. I don’t want you to muck up your brains. Wake up.”
He spooned tea between her lips to keep her awake. After half a cup, she became violently ill. He held her head while she vomited.