Chapter 22
“Another parcel for you, Your Grace.”
Caroline took the package. She beamed so brightly that Carlyle could not help but reflect the rays of her enthusiasm.
Last night had been—-she closed her eyes, searching for words but finding all of the ones she knew insufficient to illustrate her contentment. Frederic’s kiss, the feel of his hand on her face, brushed away the bruises on her heart.
He had left this morning on his usual visits but not before kissing her once more at the door.
“I will return for tea this afternoon, darling.”
His lips met hers. Her whole body trembled, but she smiled happily and squeezed his hand.
“I will be waiting.”
And now, with this new package, she would have something to present to him! She looked at the clock. There was just time to prepare it, and she would do it with her own hands.
She opened the parcel and turned the little white flower over in her hands. This one looked a little different than the first but so close as to be nearly indistinguishable. It would make a lovely tea, as delicious and aromatic as the last one.
It had all been for nought, the distance she had tried to create.
Truly she had tried to do well. She really had dreaded the dark tendrils of her curse.
But the pleasure and complacency which she had denied herself waved reproachfully over the caution of the last few months like twin flags of surrender.
And how sweet a surrender it had been! How tender and close a welcome for which she had not allowed herself to hope! The desperate, anxious tenderness in his face had comforted her, consoled her for all of the emptiness she had ever endured.
How she wished she could write to Philip, to explain to him the powerful reconciliation that had occurred so recently after her assurance of her indifference. But, as would likely not be the last time, words escaped her, and she determined Philip would have to review the happy adjustments himself.
“Good morning, dear.”
Caroline smiled and curtsied.
“Good morning, Esther. Isn’t it a lovely one?”
Esther glanced questioningly at her.
“It is indeed,” she said slowly, seeking to unravel the mystery of Caroline’s blooming disposition.
Caroline blushed then blushed further. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but the color—despite her protests—continued to creep across her cheeks.
“Frederic—the duke—will return for tea today,” Caroline said hurriedly. “Won’t you join us?”
A knowing expression flicked across Esther’s face. If Caroline blushed any redder, she might be able to go out as a sunset. Esther bowed her regrets.
“I’ve promised Lady Bell a letter this morning, and I simply must attend to it. Thank you, though, for the invitation.”
She departed. She could think what she liked after all.
Caroline comforted herself with thoughts of her husband—her husband.
Her heart sighed so long over the words that she would have been tempted to shoo them away.
But, they were so delicious, so wonderful to savor, that she permitted them to stay.
So caught up in daydreams was she that she didn’t hear Frederic enter the room behind her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she jumped then covered it with her own.
“And how were your social calls, sir? I didn’t expect you back so early.”
Frederic raised one eyebrow.
“Did you not?” He took one of her hands and kissed it. A pleasant thrill pulsed through her. “I confess that today I was quite antisocial and desired only to be at the one place where I had the most claim: by your side.”
“Here, then, we may gratify your inclination.” She stood and showed him the table she had been preparing. “A light tea with scones and jam—”
He smiled with an insinuation painted clearly on his lips and leaned in for another kiss. She put a finger on his lips.
“Not another sweetmeat, sir, until you’ve partaken of the ones I’ve so painstakingly prepared.”
Frederic smiled but remained turned towards her as his eyes dutifully scanned the table.
“A truly ample spread to be sure. My eyes are greeted with hand pies, a tureen of cold pork, and a plate of petit fours. Decadence! But where is the tea box?”
“Cook is preparing a special tea—a surprise I’ve made just for you.”
He put his hand on hers and smiled.
If she kept quivering so every time he looked at her, she might be in very strong danger of catching a cold.
“A surprise? Then I shall not divert my attention from it for a moment, however sorely I am tempted.”
Caroline laughed like a bell on the first day of spring. He pulled out her chair for her
Frederic felt, for the first time in many years, as if providence truly had smiled upon him. Caroline spread a bit of jam on a scone and passed it to him.
“I’ve finished the book I was reading. Clarissa if you remember. Mr. Richardson made the ending so tragic—far more than I had supposed. It would have been lovely if some good had come to her before the end.”
Her face took on a troubled note. Frederic hurried to intercept it.
“Then let us not speak of it—not on a day so bright and ready as this one promises to be.”
The clouds cleared. He sunk his teeth into the scone.
“Is blackcurrant still your favorite?” Caroline asked. “The seasons have changed somewhat, and I seem to remember your preferences as being ruled by them.”
Frederic looked out the window, chewing thoughtfully.
“Ruled by them, no—but capriciously linked, perhaps. Blackcurrant speaks of midwinter but fresh strawberry preaches of lush midsummer.”
Caroline leaned forward to push the jar of strawberry jam towards him. He put his hand on hers, and their eyes met.
He could ask her to join him in his room tonight.
Cook coughed from the doorway. “Tea, Your Grace.”
Frederic leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, of course—bring it in.”
He kept his face passive as Cook set a steaming teapot on a trivet near Caroline’s chair.
Caroline smiled graciously and dropped a small, white flower into the hot water.
Frederic traced the lines of her face like a painter would the profile of a model.
No sculptor could have made a face more suited to his inclination. She turned to him.
“This is the herb I told you of. It’s particularly good. Philip and I had some for a picnic, and I enjoyed it so much. I shall pour some for us both.”
“I’m sure it will be delightful.”
A steaming light yellow liquid pooled in the bottom of his cup. Carlyle entered and bowed.
“A note for you, madam.”
Caroline set down her cup and took the crisp parchment from Carlyle’s hand.
“Now who could this be from? It couldn’t be Lady Bessinger. She told me last week that she had sent a message, but—”
Frederic took a sip from his cup and pursed his lips. It was acrid, like the rot of old fruit. He stiffened his lips, trying to keep the disgust out of his expression. This was the delicious herb? And Philip had drunk it? Willingly? He’d have to send that boy to a physician.
Caroline didn’t notice. Her eyes flicked over the paper.
“Oh! It’s from Lord and Lady Drewer. They’re hosting a luncheon next week and request—”
The edges of Frederic’s vision blurred and ran like silt. He blinked. He must be more fatigued than he had previously supposed. Perhaps he could rest this afternoon. His thoughts slowed to a murky trickle.
“—but of course we’ll have to send our regards and—”
Frederic dropped the cup back into the saucer. Some of the tea tipped out, splattering the tablecloth with lurid yellow specks.
“Darling?” Caroline’s concerned face loomed over him. “Darling, are you all right?”
Her voice echoed down to him, but he was already so, so far down the well. He tried to speak, to scream, anything—but the darkness that had claimed his vision swallowed them, forcing him into silence.
“Help! Oh, help!”
Caroline’s scream shredded the afternoon air. What had happened? Oh, was he ill? Or worse? Caroline bent over Frederic, rubbing his lifeless hand.
Carlyle skidded into the room, his waistcoat, for the first time in his life, flapping like a ship in full sail. His eyes widened with horror over Frederic’s collapsed form.
“Fetch a physician!” Caroline cried. “Quickly!”
He turned on his heel, nearly knocking into Cook. She took one look at Frederic and fell to the wall, clutching her heart.
“Oh, a curse!” she gasped. “A curse is upon us!”
Cold dread struck Caroline’s heart. She shuddered.
“Oh, I might have known,” the cook moaned. “When Jenkins told that story about the lantern and will-o-the-wisps, I felt just as if a collapse was coming upon me.”
Caroline put one hand to her head. The room felt tilted, off kilter from how it should be. She leaned forward and swayed dangerously. She might collapse herself. She leaned both hands on the table to steady her rolling vision.
Quick steps announced Esther. Her pallor blanched as pale as the moon.
“What in the in the world—”
She stopped, face wrenching.
“No—not he. No—”
She trembled on her knees for a moment then drew a long, shuddering breath and approached the table with halting steps. Caroline watched her in a trance. They had been so happy—so happy together. For the first time—perhaps in her life—she had felt. He had felt—
Esther put one hand on Frederic’s stiff shoulder.
“Is he—?”
Caroline put her hand to his face, trembling. Her fingers sought any sign of life. A pulse beat like an injured bird. She breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“He’s alive.” The measured tone in her voice surprised her. She felt like tearing apart into a thousand pieces. “He is still alive.”
Cook moaned from the corner. Esther turned to her.
“Up, woman—on your feet. Fetch a cool cloth and smelling salts, immediately!”
Cook blinked, straightened her cap, and hurtled out of the room. Caroline ran her hands over Frederic’s fingers.
“What happened?” she whispered. “Why—”
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, but they would not be contained and especially not by will—not now. They splattered onto Frederic’s back.
Carlyle rushed into the room. A slightly balding man with round, gold glasses hurried in behind him, carrying a dark bag. Caroline moved aside mechanically, making room for them to examine her husband.
Her husband. The words her heart had sung not an hour before cried through her soul like the wail of an orphan near a corpse.
The physician gently pulled Frederic off the table and examined his face.
“He is still breathing. To the couch, quickly!”
Cook entered the room like a ball from a cannon, waving a hefty bottle of smelling salts in one hand.
“Here they are, Your Grace! I’ve brought the entire carafe! This will do the wisps away!”
Esther said nothing but took the bottle from Cook and handed it to the man with round glasses. He passed it under Frederic’s nose.
Frederic took a long, deep breath. Esther put a hand to her heart.
“Oh, thank heavens!”
Carlyle wiped his brow with a heavy handkerchief. The cook wiped her eyes with her apron.
Caroline stepped slowly away. She had wanted so much to help—to love him as he ought to be loved. And now—thanks to her—thanks to her curse, he might— The shutters of Caroline’s eyes snapped shut but not before the screams—the horrible, piercing screams—of her family members squealed in her mind.
The physician loosened Frederic’s cravat and unbuttoned his shirt.
“He’s in a terrible condition. His pulse isn’t regular. We must—”
The words struck her like a hammer from a smith. It was her fault—her curse that had brought about this great calamity, this strike from fate. Caroline stumbled toward the door. She had to go. Near him, she would bring only grief, only—
Carlyle stepped in front of her. She stared at him, vaguely and numbly surprised. He had never done so before—she had never thought he would.
“Excuse me, Your Grace—-” His licked his lips nervously. “Please, excuse my boldness, but Frederic—the duke—he would not want you to leave. He would want you by his side.”
Her sad, swollen heart heaved a heavy sigh. Frederic would want her near him. She knew he would. He would wish to pull her close, to kiss and caress her with the new love they both had so recently experienced. And she—her stomach clenched with the brutal truth of it. She would love to be with him.
But now, she knew again what she had so conveniently forgotten, what she had buried in the strength of passion and the blindness of affection: she was cursed. Irrevocably, unavoidably scarred, broken, and blighted.
She turned her steps to Aunt Olivia’s estate. She would go home, go where they would both be apart but safe.
“It’s all right, Carlyle. It’s the only way to keep him safe.”
“He’s coming round.”
Frederic blinked blearily. His entire body felt like he had been slapped with willow switches then drained of liquid. He tried to sit up. A headache pierced his temples like a nail. The blazes!
A pair of golden lights glinted above him. The lights took more solid form in a pair of round glasses. The man behind him eyed him critically.
“Well, Your Grace? Do you know me?”
Smithton, the physician, he tried to answer, but all that escaped his throat was a moan.
Caroline? Where was Caroline? What had—
His thoughts swirled like a river after a heavy rain. His mother’s voice floated over the mental slurry.
“What happened? Do we have any idea of the cause?”
“A package arrived from Lady Olivia—early this afternoon. Lady Caroline said it was a gift from her aunt—a special herb. She made some for herself and the duke, and they were to drink it in their tea.”
The tea! But if he had drank it then—Caroline! Where was Caroline? Black spots speckled his hazy vision.
“Lady Olivia?” Esther’s voice was filled with amazement. “Why would she have sent such a package?”
Carlyle shook his head.
“I can hardly imagine that the package came from her—not if it endangered her own kin.”
Frederic fought against the torpor, pushing back towards consciousness. A heavy hand pushed him back to the pillows.
“He needs rest. The poison will work its way out of his system.”
He must find Caroline. He must—he must tell—
Frederic closed his eyes and for the second time in so short a period, resigned himself to thick darkness.