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‘You are making an excellent recovery,’ replied the doctor when he had finished his examination. ‘I see no reason why you should not go out of doors tomorrow, if you feel up to it, although I expect going down the stairs to the door will be enough for you.’
‘Damn, I must get further than that!’
‘All in good time, my lord. If you try to do too much too soon, then all my efforts might be in vain.’ The doctor shrugged himself into his coat. ‘I must leave. I go to the Rue Haute. There is a patient at the schoolhouse who concerns me.’
‘So she left you in charge, did she?’
‘Mais non. Mademoiselle Endacott is still in command.’
‘I thought she had left Brussels.’
‘She is in Antwerp for a few days, but she returns at the end of the week. I still have several patients at the schoolhouse, men too ill to be moved, and Mademoiselle Endacott will remain to supervise their nursing. I consider her presence is necessary to their recovery.’
Randall frowned, a demon of jealousy rising inside him. ‘You asked her to stay?’
‘I suggested she should do so and she has agreed.’ Lebbeke picked up his bag, saying carefully, ‘I think she was glad to have an excuse to remain in Brussels.’
There was something in the doctor’s tone and in the look he cast at Randall that made the demon subside again.
‘And...er...how much longer do you expect your patients to be at the schoolhouse?’
‘Oh, I have no intention of moving them for some weeks yet. If that is all, my lord, I shall be on my way.’
Lebbeke gave a little bow and went to the door.
‘Doctor?’
Lebbeke turned, brows raised. Randall met his eyes.
‘Thank you.’
* * *
Mary sat at her desk, but her eyes did not see the columns of figures in the open ledger. It was more than three weeks since she had left Randall at the Rue Ducale, but he still occupied all her waking moments. She wanted to forget him, to have nothing further to do with any of the Latymor family. She had returned to the Rue Haute and had immediately written a brief note to Lady Sarah, telling her that Randall was recovering. That should have been the end of it, but Lady Sarah had turned up on her doorstep the very next day, begging to be allowed to help with nursing the wounded soldiers.
Mary knew she should have turned her away, even though there was plenty of work to be done. Having a Latymor in the house was a constant reminder of the past, a perpetual knife in her heart, but looking into Sarah’s eyes, so like her brother’s, she could not refuse. The lady was obviously suffering, in her own way.
Randall, too, had written to her, once, but Mary had returned the letter unopened and sent Jacques to deliver it, together with the message that she had quit Brussels. It was not a complete lie; she had gone to Antwerp to finalise the closure of what was left of her school. The last of the pupils had gone home and the teaching staff had been paid off, then she had returned to the Rue Haute.
She had intended to pack up her belongings and move out, prior to the sale of the schoolhouse, but Bertrand had persuaded her to stay, convincing her that her presence was very necessary to those wounded soldiers still remaining in the house. Dear Bertrand, he had been a rock during the past weeks, treating her as a comrade, a friend, and never censuring her for her recklessness in throwing herself at the earl. Bertrand had involved her in the nursing of the sick, tried to distract her thoughts, but always, at the back of her mind was Randall. She missed him so much it was a physical ache, not just at night, when she would recall his kisses, the way they had made love together, but his companionship.
She had teased him for being so serious, but more and more she had begun to see that glint of humour in his eyes. That last week, when she had shared his bed, she had felt so comfortable with him. She had never had to explain herself, he had understood her, or at least she had thought so, until that last disastrous confrontation. Perhaps Randall was right; they were merely a man and a woman in love, for despite all her good intentions she could not shrug him off. He was like her shadow, constantly with her. Sometimes she felt that if she could turn her head just a little quicker she would find him there, at her shoulder.
Mary put down her pen and rubbed her eyes. It had been a mistake to stay in Brussels. She should not have allowed Bertrand to persuade her. There we
re too many painful memories. However, Bertrand had promised her that the last of the patients would be gone by Monday and she was determined that she, too, would leave then. Jacques and Therese would oversee the sale of the schoolhouse while she made a new life for herself away from here. Away from Randall.
No matter how often she told herself it was for the best, and that their worlds were too far apart, it made no difference to the ache within her and today the pain was so great she felt the hot tears welling up just thinking about it.
‘Oh, do not be so foolish,’ she told herself. ‘It is something you are going to have to live with. Think about the dreadful suffering you have seen over the past few weeks. If men can survive such terrible injuries, you can live with a little heartbreak!’
She took up her pen again. When she left on Monday she must give her business ledgers to her lawyer and the accounts would need to be in order. She tried once more to add up the column of figures, but tears filled her eyes. She heard her maid in the hall and the door opening, but she dared not look up. She said, with as much brightness as she could infuse into her voice,
‘Is that my morning coffee, Therese? Thank you. Put it on the desk, if you please.’
She kept her head bent, her pen hovering over the ledger as if she was concentrating on the figures while all the time she was blinking rapidly to clear her vision. Dear heaven, it seemed to take the maid an age to approach. Why did she not put down the cup and leave her in peace? A shadow fell over the desk and a hand—a large, long-fingered male hand—placed something on the open ledger.
Blinking rapidly, she saw it was a single red rose.
