Chapter Twenty
Elise felt herself lifted into a sitting position.
Next came the familiar cold rim of the metal cup against her lips.
Do not drink, she warned herself silently.
The thirst doesn't matter. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from lack of water, but the laudanum-laced water held a greater fear than death.
She allowed her head to loll to one side.
A meaty hand cupped her cheek and forced her into a more upright position.
Liquid dribbled past her lips and into her mouth.
She kept mouth and throat muscles lax and, despite the cold of the liquid as it trickled down her neck, none made its way down her throat.
“She can barely sit up,” a coarse female voice said. “Why does she need more?”
“'Tis the doctor's orders,” came the all-too-familiar Irish brogue of Ramsey.
“Bah!” the woman said. “If you want to waste your time forcing it down her throat, do so. I have better things to do.”
The cup left Elise's mouth and the hand released her face. Again, she allowed her head to loll to one side.
“You're right,” Ramsey said.
Her head was laid back on the pallet.
“They will dose her this evening. She's not likely to come out of this stupor before then.”
The woman laughed. “She's not likely to come out of that stupor ever.”
“How is the bleeding?” Ramsey asked.
Elise tensed inwardly, calling forth every ounce of strength not to react openly to what she knew was forthcoming. She felt her skirts lifted, then cool air washed her legs as the woman drew back the fabric. Elise bit back tears when her legs were spread, though only slightly this time.
Soon, she told herself, soon. If I can convince them for just one more day that I don't need the laudanum, I will find a way out of this madhouse.
There came a prod to the rags between her legs, and the woman said, “Not so bad.”
“Let the night shift deal with it,” Ramsey muttered. “The things they ask us to do.”
The skirts were yanked back over her legs and she lay motionless, counting the ten steps her jailers took to the door, then the creak of the door as it opened and the echo of the clank being pulled shut. She waited a long moment.
Was he still there?
How many times had the Irishman stared in at her through the small, barred window on the door?
Twenty—thirty times? She had lost count.
There came the soft but distinct scrape she had come to know.
She willed her body not to tremble. Ramsey had, again, waited for the woman to go, then opened the shutter on the window to stare at her from the other side.
Minutes passed—more, she thought, than he had taken before.
It wouldn't matter if she screamed. In this place, everyone screamed.
The opening swished closed. Elise began to tremble so badly she feared her teeth would chatter.
Most rooms were built to keep the sound in, but her room seemed to amplify sound.
She imagined her persecutors listening for the slightest sound so they might pounce upon her, pronounce her stupor a lie, and administer more laudanum.
Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes.
She had lost her child—Marcus's child—less than two months in the womb.
Even in her laudanum-induced state, she had known the moment the blood began to flow.
How many days ago that had been, she couldn't say.
There had been no pain, the laudanum had ensured that, but she had known.
The degradation that followed paled in comparison to the despair.
Laudanum had been the instrument that had taken the child's life, but Price was the babe's murderer as certainly as if he had squeezed the life from the infant with his own hands.
Robert had taken her child and her brother.
Now Price had taken her second child. Between them, they had stripped her of all she held dear.
Not all, her mind reminded her. There was still Marcus. More tears flowed.
Dear God, let him accept my death. Do not bring him to America.
* * *
Marcus locked gazes with Price Ardsley. “My wife and I are leaving.” He started toward the door.
The men, transfixed by the strange happenings, parted as he brushed past them. All but one—standing closest to the door—who stepped in front of him.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said in a low, firm voice, “if you would explain.”
“Brentley,” Steven said, and stepped up beside Marcus. “Please clear the doorway.”
“Steven,” Price said. “Explain yourself.”
Steven opened his mouth, but Marcus spoke. “I am Marcus MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, and this”—he nodded to the woman in his arms—”is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashlund.”
An instant of stunned silence passed, then the man standing closest said, “I assume you have proof of this claim?”
“My brother-in-law has the wedding certificate.” Marcus motioned with a nod of his head in Steven's direction.
Steven retrieved the certificate from the front pocket of his great coat and handed it to Brentley. The older man took the paper while reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles. He wrapped the wires of the spectacles around his ears, then read the certificate.
“The ceremony was officiated by a Father Whyte of Badachro, Scotland,” he said.
“I know nothing of that person or place,” one of the other men said.
Brentley looked at Marcus. “Forgive me, sir, but you will understand this”—he indicated the wedding certificate with a small shake—”isn't enough.”
“Steven,” Marcus said, “take the ring from my breast pocket.”
Steven pulled back Marcus's coat and reached inside the pocket. He retrieved the ring Robert had given Elise and handed it to Brentley. “The inscription,” Steven said. “Read it.
Brentley took a step closer to the door, holding the ring out so that the light from the hallway glinted off it. He squinted, reading aloud, “For all eternity.” He looked questioningly at Steven.
“That is the ring Robert gave Elise on their wedding day.”
From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Price's mouth thin.
Another of the board members cleared his throat. “What sort of proof is that?”
Brentley looked from his companion back to Steven. “You are sure?”
“Absolutely,” Steven replied.
Brentley whipped his glasses off and faced Price. “What do you make of this, Price?”
Price stepped up to them and extended his hand. “May I see the ring?”
Brentley placed it on Price's open palm. Ardsley stepped into the doorway and examined the ring. An instant later, he turned his gaze onto Marcus. “It looks very much like the ring Robert gave Elise.” He handed the ring to Steven.
“It could be a forgery,” Brentley said.
“Possibly,” Price agreed, then said to Marcus, “Have you other proof of your claims?”
“The night Elise was washed overboard, her husband tried to strangle her. She was forced—”
“That is common knowledge,” Price interrupted.
Satisfaction surged through Marcus. So this was to be the line Price would not have him cross. “True,” he agreed, “but there are details which wouldn't have been common knowledge.”
Price inclined his head. “Gentlemen,” he looked around the room, “in the interest of privacy, perhaps it would be best if we reconvened in my study.”
The men gave a general nod of agreement. Price grasped the servant's bell hanging near the door and tugged. A moment later, Simons appeared in the doorway.
“Simons, show my guests to the study.”
“Indeed, sir,” Simons replied. “If you would, gentlemen.” He bowed.
“I cannot leave Elise,” Marcus said.
The men hesitated, and Price said, “Gentlemen, if you will allow me, I will reassure Lord Ashlund that Elise will be well tended in his absence. Go with Simons. We'll be along directly.”
The men filed out of the room until only Steven, Marcus, and Price remained.
Price closed the door, then faced Marcus. “What do you want?”
“My wife,” Marcus said, and turned to carry the woman impersonating Elise back to the bed. He gently lay her on the mattress, straightened the covers about her neck, then faced Price.
“And the stocks?” Price asked.
“Yours, once you deliver her to me.”
“They are mine now.”
“All assets will be frozen for a minimum of three months,” Steven interjected.
“That is the time it will take to confirm the Marquess's claim. And”—he added with a slight smile—”that could easily turn into six months.
The board will wish to be extremely thorough in this matter. In the end, they will be mine.”
“It's a shame Robert's aim wasn't better,” Price commented.
“Be that as it may,” Steven replied evenly.
“You have until tomorrow evening to deliver Elise to the Josephine,” Marcus said. “The ship is docked in Boston Harbor and awaits our arrival before departing for England.”
“I have a signed affidavit giving me Elise's stocks,” Price said.
“I care nothing for your money,” Marcus said. “Return her to me, and I will not contest the documents.”
Price looked at Steven.
“My sister's life is worth the shares I gave her.”
Price returned his attention to Marcus. “You will dine with me tomorrow evening.”
“An early supper. I have a friend aboard the Josephine. He knows Elise and will send me word once she arrives.”
“And what about this puppy?” Price motioned to Steven.
Marcus looked at Steven.
“I, too, will be waiting at the Josephine.” His expression hardened. “I wish to see my sister before she returns to Scotland.”
Price looked at Marcus. “You will sail on the Josephine?”
“Aye.”
“And you”—he turned again to Steven—”will remain here to deal with me.” Steven didn't reply, and Price said, “Let us adjourn to the library and explain how poor Elise was so out of her head she forgot her husband in Scotland. You can assure them you have no interest in her fortune.”
“This woman leaves with us tonight,” Marcus said.
For the second time that evening, Price showed a flicker of emotion. “A woman in her condition shouldn't to be moved.”
Marcus shook his head. “I will not arrive tomorrow evening to find my sick wife dead.”