Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

The Bernard story started with Radford’s first day at Eton, when the ridicule commenced. Soon thereafter, his classmates dubbed him Raven, a name he liked, though he never let them know. She had no trouble, sick and muddled though she was, understanding how Radford’s not-­charming personality and know-­it-­all speeches would have made matters worse for him at school.

“Are you a glutton for punishment?” she said.

“Ought I to have made myself my cousin’s toady instead?” he said. “This way, when he or anybody else abused me, I knew beyond doubt I’d earned it. Moreover, the experience was invaluable in preparing me for the courtroom.”

Still, the tale wasn’t all about being mocked and knocked down. He had funny stories to tell about Bernard, who was not an intellectual giant, as well as the teachers and other boys.

While he talked, she finished the tea, hardly noticing what she did. She felt better than before, not so hot and achy. When she’d emptied the cup and he eased the extra pillow away, she said, “Don’t stop talking. Don’t ever stop talking.”

His voice was the last sound she heard before she fell asleep.

The days and nights passed, while Radford and Davis strove to keep Lady Clara as well-­fed and free of pain and fever as possible. Willow bark tea alternated with senna and ginger tea as her main medicines. Then broths, gruel, and possets—­any nourishment they could tempt her to swallow. Keeping up her strength was crucial, because every stage of the disease would sap it.

The household worked to help her fight. Maids came and went with prettily decorated trays laden with tempting meals. The cook addressed his art to making easily swallowed foods as appealing as possible. The housekeeper personally searched the markets for the freshest ingredients. Lady Exton discreetly finagled out-­of-­season fruits and vegetables from her friends’ greenhouses. Anything and everything to tempt the patient’s appetite.

Every day the maids came in and helped Davis change the bed linens and air out the room. Still, bathing and dressing the patient was Davis’s exclusive privilege.

As the disease continued its siege, barrister and lady’s maid settled into a routine. Davis kept watch by day, and he took over during the night.

To keep busy and alert while Clara slept, he worked. He moved her writing desk, positioning it to let him see and hear her while keeping the lone candle out of her line of vision. Her eyes were extremely sensitive to light.

On the Thursday, his seventh night at Exton House, he sat at the desk, making notes on the libel case. The room was quiet, but for the scratch of his pen on the paper, the ticking clock on the mantelpiece, and the faint sound outside of the wind rustling the autumn leaves.

“The season, the season,” came her voice, just audible. “Over. How could you, Clara? Even she. Yes, Mama, better her than me.”

Radford dropped his pen and went to her side. She moved her head from side to side while her hands pushed at an invisible something.

“Clara,” he said.

Her gaze came to him. “I must. Don’t let Harry kill him. Don’t you understand?”

“Clara, wake up.”

“I’m going to be an eccentric in Arabia, and live in a tent.”

Gently he took her hands and brought them down to the bedclothes. “Clara, you’re dreaming.”

“That boy. I’ll show him. A Chancery suit on the—­ I don’t know. No, no, no. Portsmouth is that way.” She mumbled something else, unintelligible.

She wasn’t dreaming. She was delirious.

It was a long night. Her fever seemed dangerously high. Sponging her face, neck, and hands was difficult because she wouldn’t keep still. Getting her to swallow anything, like a cooling drink, was even harder. Sometimes she would quiet and seem rational for a while. Then, in the middle of a normal conversation, she’d start talking gibberish. At one point, she thought the bed was her carriage and tried to drive it. Toward daybreak, she calmed and fell asleep.

When Davis came in, he gave a short, optimistic version of the night’s events. Though he suspected Clara would sleep through the day, as some patients did, reversing day and night, he wanted Davis prepared in case the delirium recommenced.

He went to his room and told himself delirium wouldn’t kill her. It wasn’t the best sign, especially when her fever seemed so high, but it wasn’t necessarily fatal. All the same, weary as he was, it took him much longer than usual to fall sleep.

When his turn came again, Davis reported that her mistress had done as he’d supposed she would. She’d slept most of the day, coming awake a few times and taking some broth before falling asleep again.

But after a relatively calm early evening, Clara woke up agitated. She sat up to rage at somebody in a low, furious voice.

“You villain,” she said. “You lying . . . Why do I always? Don’t you—­ Why? It isn’t fair. No, no, nothing’s fair.”

“Clara, it’s me.”

She glared at him. “Oh, you say. What everybody does. How could you? How could you, Clara?”

“You’re Clara,” he said patiently. “I’m Raven.”

She stared at him, and he had no idea who or what she saw.

“Lie down,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“I want to go to Astley’s Circus and stand on the horse’s back with the flags and go round and round faster and faster until my head flies off.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “If the weather is fine. But you’ll want to rest first.” He tried to guide her back down to the pillows, but she jerked away from him.

“Very well,” he said. “As long as you’re up, why don’t you have a nice, cool drink?”

He left the bedside to pour her a glass of lemonade from the pitcher keeping cool at the window.

“Raven?”

He turned back to her. She was down on the pillows, staring up at the canopy.

He brought the lemonade to the bed.

Her gaze came to him. “It’s you,” she said.

“I hope so,” he said.

“Raven,” she said, and smiled.

He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It went on in this way. She’d sleep by day, and at night she’d come awake. For a time she’d seem rational, then her mind would begin to wander. Most of the mind-­wandering time, she talked in non sequiturs, yet remained calm. Night after night she continued like this. But on Sunday, after a time of calmly babbling nonsense, she grew restless.

Sometimes when he talked to her, she relaxed, but this night she only grew more agitated, rolling from side to side. Then she sat up abruptly and lectured somebody who wasn’t there, gesticulating. Little of that

made any sense, then:

“That isn’t what I wanted! You’ve changed. What is wrong with them? How could I be jealous? Can’t you see? Such a joke. But you must not—­he’s dear to me. Yes, brandy. Only let me get free of this and I’ll know—­ If you don’t stop it, Mama, I’ll—­I’ll—­ Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

“Clara.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. She began raging at somebody, threatening to run, and claiming nobody would ever find her. Then she laughed and laughed. “But not without my maid! No, indeed! I don’t know how to lace my boots or put on my stockings. No! Stay away!”

She was flinging herself about too violently. She’d exhaust her strength and undo all the good done in the last weeks.

“Clara, stop it.” He tried to take her hand. Sometimes that calmed her.

“No!” She tried to shake off his hold. He held on as gently as he could while she struggled against him. She was out of her head and liable to hurt herself if not restrained. He ought to tie her down, but he couldn’t bear to.

“Clara, please. Try to be calm. It’s only me, your Raven. Come, my girl.”

“I have to go away. I’m going on the boat. Hurry, before Harry gets here. Make haste, Davis. What is wrong with you?”

Back and forth she rocked. When he’d try to still her, touching a shoulder or arm, she’d pull away.

He climbed onto the bed. “Down,” he said gently. “Lie down and rest. You’re safe. I won’t let anybody trouble you.”

“The boy!” she cried. “They left him to die!”

“He’s all right, my lady,” Radford said. “Toby’s safe, and so are you.”

“It’s not his fault. He’s only a bit thick. Like Harry. But Harry isn’t as stupid as he pretends. They don’t know how cunning . . . Don’t you see? They’re not like you! Why did I do it wrong? Oh, no, let me find him!”

She was pushing at him, trying to climb out of the bed. She didn’t realize how weak she was, and Radford was afraid of hurting her while he tried to control her. But she wouldn’t quiet, wouldn’t lie down.

He spoke softly and reassuringly about Toby being cared for, even better than she was, because Toby wasn’t saddled with Raven Radford, but proper nurses and doctors. He tried to make jokes. She’d pause and seem to listen, then she’d try to get out of the bed. When he got in her way this time, though, she jerked away and tried to escape on the other side.