Chapter 19
nineteen
If Effie hadn’t known that Jane had been in the middle of an anarchist attack the previous day, looking at her now, she would never have guessed.
Jane’s cheeks were rosy, her hair perfectly styled, and her slender figure radiated authority when she entered Effie’s drawing room.
The satin ribbons on her hat fluttered around her head, adding a touch of elegance.
“How are you?” Jane took her hand.
“A few minor injuries, but nothing serious. It’s Rowan I’m worried about.”
“What a tragedy.” Jane sat on the armchair. “I’m sorry for both Montcrest and young Rowan.”
“You’re the only one besides me who shows compassion towards Tristan.”
Jane gave a little shrug. “The incident made me think. No one deserves to be killed like that. Now I think I was too harsh on him and his family. Also, my husband told me something else about Montcrest. Something I haven’t told anyone.”
“Tell me.”
Jane waited for the footman to leave. “Years ago, when his family’s financial situation started to get better, he worked in a warehouse for hours on end. One night, he was attacked as he was returning home.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure why, but he ended up in hospital and remained there in a state of prolonged unconsciousness for a few months.”
“Oh no.” She’d heard of those uncommon cases when a patient remained in a deep sleep and woke up for no apparent reason.
“Some slanderers say the deep sleep damaged Montcrest’s head, and that’s why no lady wants to marry him, even though he’s a good match.”
She was about to cry. The more she learnt about Tristan, the more she understood him.
“Please don’t tell him I told you this story. He wouldn’t thank me.”
“But I do.” Besides, Tristan wouldn’t be so open to her and tell her about his past.
“You’re a doctor of sorts,” Jane said.
“Thank you for that. It really cheered me up.”
Jane waved dismissively. “Do you think Montcrest’s brain can be truly damaged?”
“No. He can do everything like any other person. He can speak, move, and reason normally.”
“Some might object to the last one.”
“What I mean is that, physically, he’s fine.” Spiritually, perhaps not.
“But does the incident explain his cold temper? Lady Mabel thinks his brain doesn’t work properly.”
The anger she felt was quick. “Since when did Lady Margaret become an expert in brain damage? What does she understand about medicine?”
Jane looked taken aback. “I’m the messenger. Don’t get upset with me.”
“But you shouldn’t repeat unfounded and potentially damaging news. That’s how rumours can destroy someone’s reputation.”
“I don’t understand why you’re becoming agitated.”
She fought another comment on how dangerous rumours could be. They were Londoners’ favourite pastime. But poor Tristan was targeted too many times.
“I simply wish you would stop listening to every piece of gossip you hear,” she said diplomatically.
Jane gave her a sceptical look. “It’s not my fault if people tell me what they know.”
Effie sighed. Changing her friend’s mind was a hopeless cause.
Tristan waited for the physician and the nurse to finish making Rowan comfortable in his bedroom at home.
The fatigue of the past two days and the worry had the surprising effect of silencing his nervous twitch although he wouldn’t mind a visit to The Octagon just to forget about the world.
George fussed around the bed, straightening cushions and pulling the curtains. His red-rimmed eyes were a testament to his love for Rowan.
“All done, my lord.” Dr. O’Neil collected his tools and bottles from around the bedroom. “I’ll visit Lord Rowan every day and make sure the wound is healing properly.”
“No sign of infection so far, right?”
“Not one.”
“Lord Rowan will be able to walk normally, won’t he?” George asked.
Dr. O’Neil hesitated. “The surgery was extensive, and the shrapnel damaged the bones, tendons, and muscles. But Lord Rowan is young and strong.”
Too young to deal with such a terrifying situation. Tristan cursed again his decision to take Rowan with him.
George’s clenched jaw proved the answer wasn’t to his liking.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you any guarantees.,” Dr. O’Neil said.
George swallowed hard. “If you’ll excuse me, Tristan. I need to…”
Tristan patted his shoulder when his friend didn’t talk further. “Have a sip of that horrible brandy. It’ll fortify you.”
George kissed the top of Rowan’s head and hurried out of the room, blinking. Rowan remained silent.
The doctor bowed his head and left with the nurse, and Tristan was alone with his brother.
He waited a few moments before going closer. Rowan’s expression didn’t invite a conversation. His deep frown was likely similar to Tristan’s. Without the influence of the laudanum, Rowan’s discomfort with him had nowhere to hide.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“A bit.” Rowan leant back and stared at the ceiling. The harsh line of his jaw made him look older.
“I’m happy you’re at home.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Rowan turned his head towards the window. “She didn’t come, did she?”
“Who? Lady Effie? I’ll send her a message if you wish to see her.”
Rowan worked his jaw, looking surprisingly mature. “No, not her.”
“I see.” He sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled. “No, she didn’t come, nor did she send a message.”
“My name is in every newspaper. She must know.”
An insult towards Charlene, Rowan’s mother, remained trapped in Tristan’s mouth. With effort, he didn’t voice his thoughts.
He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “Yes. She must know.”
Rowan turned on his side, as much as the injured leg allowed him, and pulled up the cover.
“Rowan—”
“I’m fine. You can go.”
Everything he wanted to say—that Charlene would never come back, and Rowan had to accept it; that hoping someone as shallow as Charlene would change was a waste of time; that Rowan should stop thinking of her—seemed wrong. But he couldn’t give Rowan false hope, either.
“You’ll tell me if you need anything,” he said instead.
“It sounds like an order. As usual.”
“I didn’t mean to give you an order.”
“I want to be alone, please.” Rowan’s tone didn’t leave room for a reply.
He and Rowan had more things in common than he would have imagined, so he rose and headed for the door.
Harris entered the room before Tristan could exit. “Lady Effie is here. She wishes to see you, my lord.”
“Would you like to see her?” he asked Rowan.
“No.” Rowan didn’t turn around.
“There will be other occasions,” Harris said diplomatically before Tristan could speak.
“I’ll tell her you send her your regards,” he said.
Rowan didn’t acknowledge him.
When he went downstairs to see Effie, warmth stirred in his chest, a combination of relief, desire, and happiness. Until he saw her bruised face.
He wanted to hold her again and trail his lips over the blue bruise until it vanished. Before the incident, he liked her spirits and light, but now the urge to protect her overwhelmed any other sentiment.
“Tristan.” She flashed a feeble smile. “How’s Rowan? May I see him?”
“Physically, he’s recovering, but he isn’t in the mood to see anyone. Not today at least.”
She lowered her shoulders. “I understand. Well, I won’t disturb you further.”
“You never do. I’m always happy to see you.”
Her smile was full and genuine.
They both stood there for a heartbeat or two.
Effie broke the spell first. “I’d better go home anyway. I didn’t leave a message for Papa to tell him where I was, and he had a fit yesterday.”
“He must have been worried.”
“Yes, because I changed my plans at the last moment. He thought I’d gone to visit my brother in Greenford, but then I received Rowan’s message and decided to go to see the famous locomotive.”
That caught his attention. “Your father had no idea you were at Aldersgate Station?”
“None. It was quite a shock for him. I’ve never seen him so upset.”
“I can imagine.” He needed to talk to George. “Let me escort you to your carriage.” His heart gave a kick when she slid her arm through his.
Her cheek brushed his shoulder as they walked down the steps to where her carriage was parked. For a split second, he imagined walking out with her at his arm as his wife. There wasn’t anything he wanted more than to be next to her and make her happy. A dream, for now.
He helped her climb into the carriage. “I hope we can talk soon.”
“We will.” She parted her lips as if wanting to add something else, but then she closed them.
“What?” he prompted.
“I care about you, Tristan. Please do not believe I don’t.”
His next breath cleansed his body from sadness as if he were breathing mountain air, instead of London’s fumes.
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he whispered.
“No, I think I do.”
She waved when the carriage rolled forwards, and happiness stunned him so hard he stood there on the pavement until the carriage turned the corner.