Chapter Fourteen
Thea had no illusions about Harry’s feelings toward her. He wanted what she held in her hand and nothing more.
His breathing was shallow as he watched her pour the drug into a glass.
“He’ll need more, my lady,” his manservant said.
“Here,” Thea replied, offering the bottle to him. “Give him what he usually takes, less a bit.”
A tear slid down the manservant’s leathery cheek as he poured the liquid into a glass.
Touched by his emotion, Thea said, “What is your name?”
“Rowan, my lady.”
She reached for the glass, taking Rowan’s hand and holding it a moment. “This is hard. It is hard for Lord Lyon, for his sister, for yourself and everyone who cares for the colonel. But I meant what I said. The only one who can free himself of this is Colonel Chattan.”
“He’s a good man,” Rowan said.
“The best,” she agreed. “We shall pray he has the strength to conquer this weakness. Do you know how much he’s had of both spirits and opium over the last day?”
“He escaped me. I don’t know,” Rowan confessed. “It’s my job to keep him sane. He was very angry about your marriage.” He did not look at Thea as he said the latter.
Harry started pulling at his bonds again, a reminder he was there and of what he wanted.
Thea turned to the footman. “Please prepare some steaming hot water and the largest stack of towels you can gather. Oh, yes, and bring a bottle of—” She stopped, uncertain about what Harry chose to drink.
Then she remembered the copious amounts of port he’d guzzled during the dinner they’d had together.
“Port. Bring a bottle of port.” Heavy spirits to be sure.
She was certain the laudanum had been mixed with gin. Port and gin would be a potent punch.
The footman nodded and left to do her bidding.
“Rowan, please lift the colonel’s head.”
She poured the dosage down Harry’s throat. Harry lapped at it as if he’d been a dog, his eyes closed. She eased up a bit. He literally growled, “More.”
“Let this settle first before I give you the rest.”
Harry tensed as if to argue but then sank down onto the mattress, reminding her of her sons when they were out of sorts. The colonel hadn’t always been like this. She needed to keep that in mind, especially in the face of his drunken demands.
Rowan squatted on the floor next to the bed in the Indian style. He crossed his arms and began chanting in a low voice.
Harry made a sharp gesture with his fingers, indicating he wished for the rest of the contents in the glass. Thea feared giving Harry too much. The dosage had been a strong one. The colonel opened his eyes, nodded with his chin to the glass she held. He was not about to ease his demands.
This time when she administered the draft, he lifted his head on his own. He lay back down and closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
Thea retreated to a chair by the table. She crossed her arms, hugging her body close. She remembered times like this with Boyd. He’d disappear for days and then drag himself home. She’d sit and watch and pray as his body battled the ravages of his indulgences.
And then one day he’d not come home . . . and she hadn’t known if she’d been sad or relieved. Months later, she’d learned of his death. They said he’d fallen off a bridge and drowned in the river Thames. It had taken time before someone had found her and delivered the news.
And sometimes she wondered if Boyd hadn’t jumped off that bridge, if he hadn’t taken his own life.
Harry’s breathing continued at a labored rate. A shudder went through his body and he began snoring.
It was a terrible sound. Certainly nothing the dashing military man would take pride in when he was sober.
“Is everything all right now, my lady?”
“You tell me, Rowan,” Thea said. “He’s been like this before, hasn’t he?”
Somber golden-brown eyes considered her, and then he nodded.
“Well, we shall see how he does when he wakes,” she said.
At that moment, the footman returned with warm water and linen towels. “All right, gentlemen,” Thea said, rising to her feet. “We have work to do. Rowan, untie and undress him.” She looked to the footman. “Your name?”
“Edward, my lady.”
“Well, Edward, the three of us are going to lay these cloths over his body to sweat out what we can of any poisons in him.”
It wasn’t the choicest of assignments. Edward did not appear pleased. He moved grudgingly toward the door. Rowan set upon the task of undressing his master.
Soon more servants were involved in bringing hot water. For three hours they worked at steaming out Harry’s body. Thea had learned of this treatment from another woman whose husband had suffered from his weaknesses. She’d thought of attempting it on Boyd, but she’d never had the opportunity.
At one point, when Harry turned restless, Thea gave him a bit of port and he seemed to settle down. His breathing slowly grew more rhythmic and relaxed.
“We’re done,” Thea announced at last. “Rowan, your master should sleep through the night.”
“Should I tie him up like Lady Margaret wishes?” Rowan asked.
Thea shook her head. “We can’t keep him tied up forever. We shall have to wish for the best.” She thought of her sons. Neal would have seen to them, she knew he would have, but still, she was their mother. “I must leave.”
“I will keep watch, my lady,” Rowan said.
“Good. Come for me if there is a problem.”
Rowan answered with a deep bow.
Thea opened the bedroom door, realizing she didn’t know where anything was in the house—and then stopped in her tracks at the sight of Margaret sitting in a chair across the hall from the bedroom door.
Margaret’s thick, dark hair was down around her shoulders. Her face was tight and very pale. She rose from the chair. “How is he?”
“As good as can be expected,” Thea said.
“He frightened me this time. He looked dead when they brought him, and then he came to life and just went wild.” The woman’s nerves were stretched thin. Thea knew how she felt.
“The colonel is made of stern stuff,” Thea said. “He will survive this.”
“But will he survive the next time he does it?”
Thea shut the door, not wanting the servants to overhear their conversation. “He needs to give it up,” she said gently.
“I’ve told him that. He won’t. He says he has nothing else in life—” Her voice broke off and she looked away, crossing her arms as if holding in all of her emotion—and Thea saw the curse’s legacy.
The Chattans were not living; they were existing. They had put love, desires, dreams, wants, everything that made life worthwhile on hold because of superstition.
“He misses war, doesn’t he?” Thea said.
“Perhaps. Maybe.” There was a beat of silence and then Margaret said bitterly, “I believe sometimes he is disappointed he didn’t die a glorious hero’s death.
He rode into cannon fire. He pointed his horse at where the French were the strongest, and they say he charged them like a madman.
And his men followed.” Her voice broke. She tightened her hold around herself.
“I know Harry would have willingly died. But apparently he didn’t anticipate that his men would go where he went, bravely.
I believe Harry had thought to go it alone.
They took out the cannons but at a great loss of life.
And now Harry has their deaths on his conscience.
He didn’t want to leave Spain, but Wellington’s staff forced him.
Some think Harry is a war hero, but there are those many amongst his comrades who fault him for the deaths that day. ”
“What does Harry believe?” Thea asked, already knowing the answer.
“He doesn’t speak of it,” Margaret said. “But I believe he is unprincipled and drunk because he wishes he were dead. He doesn’t care about his life, therefore he doesn’t value it as much as his family does.”
Thea had never considered that a man would turn to vices to escape his disappointments. Had Boyd indulged because he’d been unhappy with his life? Unhappy with her?
She had to take a step away.
Margaret raised a hand to dab at the tears that had started falling down her cheeks. “I don’t like to cry. It’s weak.”
“It’s human,” Thea answered, thinking back to the way she had broken down with Neal the other night.
“Tears serve no purpose.”
“They cleanse the soul,” Thea said. “We all need a good soul cleansing from time to time.”
Margaret shrugged her response. “Not in this family.”
“Yes, in this family,” Thea declared. “Margaret, you and I can’t save Harry from the demons he faces.
But you putting your life on hold is not going to help.
You can’t protect him. I know this. Harry must help himself.
He is the only one who can. That’s advice that was given to me years ago, and it is true. ”
“It may be too late to do anything. You saw him in there. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies as long as he has laudanum and a bottle of something, anything, really. He is not choosy as long as it is spirits.”
“Oh, he cares,” Thea said with complete certainty. “He’s a Chattan. He is made of the same stuff as you and Neal. If he wants to become better, he must learn to forgive himself and to understand that war is made up of men’s sacrifices, honest lives given for a cause.”
“You make it sound simple,” Margaret said, anger lighting her eyes. “You talk as if you know us, and you don’t. You won’t, either. Because of your interference, Neal will die shortly, and I will have nothing to do with you.”
On those cruel words, she walked off.
Thea sat down in the chair, shaken. She had not anticipated a joyful reception into the Chattan family, but this was too much. She needed Neal. She had to find him and her sons. Then the world would make sense again.
Of course, she had no idea where they were located in this house, and she assumed it would not be safe to ask Margaret. She glanced around at the portraits on the walls, the shining glass and bronze sconces, the thick carpet beneath her feet.
A footstep sounded on the stair. Relieved to not be alone, she turned to see a tall gentleman of advanced years coming up the stairs. He had the dignified air of a butler.