Only they didn’t look much like newlyweds. Twice Thomas reached out to Rose; both times she moved away from him, her focus remaining on Emalyn. Thomas’s face was almost gray, reminding Robert of the days following his shooting, when his older brother almost died. The shadows around his eyes were heavy and dark, the lines in his forehead and around his mouth etched deep.Why had Rose been downstairs on her wedding night?
As the doctor spoke to Philip, he glanced several times at Rose, whose crossed arms seemed to shut the world out. Finally, the doctor took a step in her direction.
“Lady Newbury.” When Rose didn’t respond, the doctor touched her arm. “Lady Newbury.”
Rose jerked and blinked, as if coming out of a daze. “I’m sorry.”
“Why did you think Her Grace had a hemorrhagic apoplexy?”
Rose touched her left temple. “The... the headache. Her words... she was slurring her words... the side of her face when she smiled.” She paused. “My father.”
The doctor straightened suddenly in recognition. “Of course. Your father is Lord Huntingdale.”
She nodded.
“You were there when he collapsed. Then took charge of his care as he recovered.”
A single nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s good you acted quickly with the duchess, but you know it may have made little difference.” Oakley turned to address all of them. “I’m afraid all we can do for now is wait. If Lady Newbury is correct—and I believe she is from what I’ve been told—and this is mild, then Her Grace should awaken soon. At that point, we can assess what, if any damage has occurred and take the appropriate steps. The longer she remains unconscious, the greater the likelihood of severe damage. Talk to her, touch her, stay with her. We have been told by victims that they can sometimes hear what’s going on around them. When she awakens, send for me before doing anything else.” He nodded at Philip. “I’ll wait for your messenger.” He shook Thomas’s hand and left.
No one moved for a moment, and Robert stared at his mother, his chest tight. Death had been rare for the Ashton children. Their grandparents had died when the two younger boys were still in the nursery, with only Thomas having strong memories of their grandfather. To lose Mother at this stage—she is so young!—made Robert feel as if the very floor under his feet were shifting.
Beth sobbed into his sleeve, which seemed to stir the rest into action. Michael went to the corner of Emalyn’s bedchamber, picked up an upholstered straight chair, and brought it to the side of her bed. He set it behind Philip and urged his father to sit. After a moment, the duke did.
Michael returned to their side, and Beth released Robert, putting her arms around Michael. As the two youngest of the four, Michael and Beth had always had a close bond. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, wiping a tear.
“Nothing to do.” Robert crossed his arms. “Except stand here and watch her die.”
“She is not going to die!” Philip glared at them. “You heard the doctor. She will wake up and we will figure out what to do then.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then looked at them again. “But you’re right. Nothing we can do until then. There’s no need for all of you to stand around, staring at her. I’ll—I’ll send someone if she awakens.” He returned his attention to Emalyn, slowly stroking her arm.
Robert, Michael, and Beth eased into the hall. Robert could not form the words to explain to the servants what was happening, but Michael, with an unexpected touch of authority, took over that duty. The servants lingered a bit longer, until their housekeeper, Mrs. Hodges, summoned Rose from the room, conferred with her a moment, then the two women turned and headed down the back stairway.
Thomas, who had followed Rose from the bedchamber, looked at Robert, his brows furrowed. “What was that all about?”
Robert shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“They went downstairs?”
Robert nodded and watched as Thomas followed the women. The remaining cluster of servants began to break apart—they still had the home of a duke to run—and Robert returned to his bedchamber. He paced, his banyan snapping around his legs, a sense of frustration and helplessness singeing every muscle. His mother was the heart of their family—he wasn’t sure what they would do if they lost her. And her bond with Philip would lay him low if she did not recover. It would almost be as if they had lost them both.
Abruptly, Robert ached to talk to them. To hug his mother and ask her advice—although he already well knew what she thought of his courtship of Lydia Rowbotham. He wanted to once more be the victim of her honest opinions and his father’s scolding—and guidance. He stopped, gripping the edge of his washstand.No.His father was right. She would live. He had to get these thoughts out of his head. Think about anything else.
Bill. He could talk to Campion when he went back to the gambling den. Robert had not been scheduled to work due to the wedding, but he’d planned to go back tonight after the Marsden Ball.
Robert squeezed his eyes shut. The bloody ball. The thought of spending even a moment with Lydia on his arm anytime soon sent a chill through him. Whatever it cost him, he would not be attending the Marsden Ball tonight. While he might not linger at her bedside, he would not leave this house for a party while his mother lay on what was potentially her deathbed.
He had to let Lydia know. Taking a deep breath, Robert sat down at the small escritoire that occupied one corner. He pulled out a sheet of foolscap and began a note, keeping the language formal and succinct. He folded and sealed the note, stamped the wax, set it aside, and composed a similar one to Bill Campion—although Robert knew that Bill would take the news in a completely different way from Lady Lydia. A formerly enslaved man who had turned a talent for boxing and betting into a lucrative enterprise, Bill Campion had seen more than his share of hard times. He was a hardened impresario but a compassionate man.
Then, on a whim, Robert pulled out a third sheet and began a note for Lady Eloise Surrey. He began with a slight apology for not being at the Marsden Ball and leaving her to the mood of Lady Lydia, and he explained the reason for his absence. He then thanked her for giving him a great deal to think about—he appreciated her insight into his current situation. He then ended by offering his aid in return, should she ever need it.
Robert paused as he finished, hesitating over the signature. He should close it with the same signature he had Lady Lydia’s—Lord Robert Ashton—propriety demanded it. But he had spent time with the lady a few hours ago discussing budgets, the whims of a duke’s daughter, and the friendship between a modiste and a lady of the aristocracy. All the while, her hair had come partially undone and her hands and forearms had been bare. She had not scrambled to right herself as he had entered the shop. In fact, she had treated him as an equal, addressing him with the quiet aplomb one would associate with a seasoned governess or solicitor.
And, as he thought about that lock of hair, which he had truly wanted to curl around his own fingers, something stirred in his chest. Robert didn’t want to pay too much attention to it—he was still dealing with losing Rose and the prospects of marrying a woman who saw everyone around her as a servant. But he didn’t want to erect a barrier of propriety between them either. So after a moment, Robert added the same signature he used on the note to his dearest friend. “At your service, Robbie.”
If she were offended, he would surely hear about it. But if she saw it as an open door... perhaps he would find a new friend.
He sealed the note and took all three downstairs to be sent out at first light. Robert then paused at his father’s study, stepping just inside the door. Now cold and dark, the room smelled even more of leather, ink, and tobacco than when his father was present. Just as his mother was the heart of their home, this room was the business heart of the estate. For the last few months, he and Thomas had spent a great deal of time here, learning the whys and wherefores of the Ashton holdings. Over the past twenty years, with an eye toward the changing nature of industry and the slow decline of many family estates, Philip had focused on building a secured family wealth with a broad financial base, including manufacturing and shipping. With the country currently wrapped in an economic crisis, his efforts had paid off, but the estate was an enterprise that needed daily tending.
