Chapter 9 #2
The doctor sat back in his chair, not bothering to hide his scepticism. “I cannot pretend I am not surprised. You have never hidden your feelings regarding the cost of keeping her here.”
Damian shrugged, he would not allow the doctor to judge him.
Let the man live his life and see how he felt then.
But despite that, she was his mother, for better or for worse.
So, she was his responsibility, like it or not.
Deon had borne the burden all this time only to discover they shared no blood.
Ironic, really. If only he could say the same.
“Is she violent?”
“Increasingly so, I’m afraid.”
“Increasingly so,” Damian repeated with a biting lilt to the words. “My, my. Will we be safe to visit her? My fiancée wishes to see her for herself, but I do not want any risk to her safety.”
“We will ensure everyone’s safety,” the doctor agreed, though he looked dubious. “Miss…?”
“Lady Cecilia,” Damian corrected.
“Forgive me, my lady, but are you quite certain?”
Damian did not look at her. This was her choice. If she had any sense, she would refuse and leave now. He had made his point.
But he ought to know by now Celia was made of sterner stuff.
“I am prepared.”
Her voice was soft, determined, and he wanted to shake her. He wanted to take hold of her and drag her from the room, and never, ever allow her within ten miles of the place. Yet she had forced his hand, and he had warned her repeatedly that he did not react well to such treatment.
So, here they were.
They followed the doctor to his mother’s room. Damian saw nothing of the house as they passed. Instead, his mind tortured him for the fun of it, replaying the scene that still woke him at night. Mama, knife in hand. Father, lying so still, and why was he wearing a red cravat? Papa never wore red.
His heart thudded hard, and he clenched his fists as a bead of sweat trickled down his back. A nurse and two orderlies accompanied them, and they arrived to find another nurse coming out of the room, a bottle in hand.
“Ah, Mrs Jennings. How is Lady Rivington today?”
“Well, she didn’t clout me this morning, so that’s—” She broke off as she turned and saw the doctor had company. “Oh. I beg your pardon. She won’t take her medicine, as ever.”
“This is her son, Lord Rivington, come for a visit,” the doctor explained.
“Oh. She talks about you,” the nurse said with a smile. “Fair dotes on you, she does.”
The urge to turn and run was so powerful Damian could only stare at the woman, and he did not know what she saw in his gaze, but she blanched. He had done this for Celia, he reminded himself, to show her the truth, to protect her. To ensure neither of them forgot the risks or pretended them away.
“Give me the medicine. Perhaps I can persuade her,” he said, holding out his hand to the nurse.
She glanced at Doctor Grantham, who nodded. “One spoonful, my lord.”
Damian took the bottle and spoon. “Understood. Shall we, Celia?”
Still, he did not meet her eyes as the doctor unlocked the door and walked in.
“Good morning, my lady, and a fine one it is, especially as I have a surprise for you. Your son is here, Lord Rivington.”
Damian steeled his nerves. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her.
It must be two years since the last time Gideon nagged him into visiting.
She had aged badly. Though not over fifty years of age, she looked far older, her pretty eyes shadowed and sunken.
Her long hair, which had once been the same rich gold as his own, hung limp now, streaked with white and tied back in a loose plait.
She looked up, no curiosity in her eyes until she saw him. Her breath caught. “D-Damian?”
He nodded. “Yes, Mama.”
She hugged her arms about herself and sighed. “My son. My son. My son. My son, my son, my son.”
Damian swallowed, his fingers grasping the medicine bottle tighter. “You haven’t taken your medicine, Mama.”
She gave him a sharp look and shook her head. “They’re trying to poison me,” she whispered.
Damian laughed. “Indeed, they are not. Why kill the golden goose? Do you know how much it costs to keep you here? No, no, Mama. They want you alive, I promise you.”
She frowned at him, tilting her head, her bright eyes making him think of a blackbird, head cocked, listening for worms. “Promise?”
“Upon my honour,” he said, the words catching in his throat as misery rose like a tide. Why? Why was she like this? Was this how he would end, too?
Damian pushed the thought away and forced himself to move closer, though his every instinct demanded he run from this room and never come back.
He realised she was humming a tune as he grew closer and the memory of it snatched at him, sending him back to his childhood.
He remembered her sitting by his bed, singing softly and his throat grew tight.
There was a stool beside the chair, and he sat down beside her, aware of the fascinated way she watched him.
“Will you take this?” he asked, showing her the bottle.
She pulled a face.
“Please, Mama.”
A smile crossed her face, so sweet and sorrowful Damian’s heart contracted.
“Please, Mama,” she echoed, her voice soft and unsteady, she reached out a bony hand to touch his face, and Damian recoiled, the idea of her touching him so appalling he could not breathe. She saw his reaction and dropped her hand, turning her head away.
For reasons he did not understand, he was instantly contrite. He told himself she was evil, that she had murdered their father, but he saw only the husk of a woman, sad and sick and growing old.
“Mama,” he said. Though his stomach twisted and his skin crawled, he forced himself to reach out and take her hand.
Her fingers curled around his, the skin so fine and papery he wondered how she did not disintegrate beneath his touch, but her grasp was firm.
He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then released them, trying not to appear too hasty. “Now, take the medicine, please.”
She turned back to him, watching with resignation as he poured the medicine into the spoon and opened her mouth obediently. Damian fed her the dose, capped the bottle, and handed it back to the nurse, who had watched the performance avidly.
“Are there roses?” his mother asked, her eyes suddenly bright with interest. “I like the pink ones best. Your father always bought me pink roses.”
Damian regarded her, unable to quell the pity he felt. “It’s September. Most of the roses have long since bloomed.”
Her face fell, and he hurried to soften the blow.
“But it was a good year for the roses,” he lied, questioning why he did so. “They were very beautiful. If you like, next summer I shall bring you some. Would you like that?”
She nodded, gazing at him in wonder.
“Will you introduce me, please, Damian?”
Celia’s voice reached him and he looked up, too startled by the demand not to show his surprise.
His heart thudded behind his ribs as he met her gaze and found nothing but compassion there. Damn her, why did she not run away screaming? Did she not yet understand what this meant? Could she not see?
“Mama. I would like you to meet someone. This is Lady Cecilia. We are engaged to be married.”
His mother’s eyes widened, and she turned to look at Celia.
“Oh,” she said.
To Damian’s dismay, she held out both hands to Celia, who immediately stepped forward.
“Celia, don’t—” he began, an unreasonable burst of terror exploding behind his ribs.
He told himself there was no bread knife, no weapon.
He was here, plus the doctor and the nurse and two orderlies just outside the door.
Celia was in no danger, and yet he could not breathe as she reached out her gloved hands and placed them in his mother’s.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Rivington,” Celia said, giving an elegant little curtsey, just as if they were meeting over tea, like an ordinary family might.
“Charming,” Mama said, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Beautiful girl. I-I was a beautiful girl too.”
“I can see that, my lady,” Celia said gently.
“B-But he betrayed me anyway with… with… with that whore!”
Celia flinched but betrayed no shock, only darted a look at Damian who stood and reached between them. Firmly but carefully, he loosened his mother’s grip on Celia’s hand and she grabbed his instead.