Something Wonderful
Page 42
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"Has she cried?" Alexandra said, knowing that it was dangerous to keep grief bottled up inside.
"Certainly not! Women of her station and constitution do not indulge in weeping. As Craddock and I have repeatedly told her, she must be strong and look on the bright side. After all, she has another grandson, so it's not as if the title will pass out of the family."
Alexandra's opinion of leeches, which had never been high, plummeted to an irretrievable low as she stared at the insensitive, pompous man before her. "I would like to see her, if you please."
"Try to cheer her up," he said, oblivious to Alexandra's look of unwavering scorn. "Don't talk about Hawthorne."
Alexandra walked into the darkened room, and her heart leapt in pity and alarm to behold the formerly brisk, robust woman who was propped up against the pillows, looking like a ghost of her former self. Beneath her crown of white hair, the dowager's face was chalky and her pale eyes were glazed with pain and sunken into deep, dark hollows. No sign of recognition registered in her eyes as Alexandra crossed in front of her bed, then sat down on the edge of it beside her.
Frightened, Alexandra reached out and grasped the duchess' blue-veined hand, which was lying limply upon the golden coverlet. "Oh, ma'am, you must not go on this way," she said in a shaky, compassionate whisper, her eyes pleading with the elderly duchess to listen to her. "You must not. Jordan would hate to see you like this." When she got no reaction at all, Alexandra's desperation grew and she squeezed the fragile hand tightly. "Have you any idea how proud he was of your strength and spirit? Have you? I know he was, because he boasted of those very things to me."
The faded blue eyes never wavered. Not certain whether the duchess hadn't heard her, hadn't believed her, or simply didn't care, Alexandra redoubled her efforts to convince her. "It's true. I remember the occasion very well. After our wedding we were about to leave Rosemeade, and he asked where you'd gone. I told him you were upstairs and that I greatly feared you'd never recover from our marriage. He smiled when I said that—you know, one of his special smiles that made you feel like smiling in return? Then do you know what he said?"
The duchess didn't move.
"He said," Alexandra plowed on urgently," 'It would take more than our marriage to send my grandmother into a decline. Why, my grandmother could take on Napoleon himself and when she was through with him, he'd be begging her pardon for his bad manners in making war on us.' That is exactly what he—"
The duchess' eyes closed and Alexandra's heart missed a beat, but a moment later two tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. Tears were a good sign, Alexandra knew, and she plunged fiercely ahead: "He knew you were courageous and strong and—and loyal, too. From something he said to me, I don't think he believed women were capable of loyalty, except for you."
The duchess' eyes opened and she looked at Alexandra with anguished pleading and doubt.
Laying her hand upon the heartbroken woman's cheek, Alexandra tried harder to convince her she spoke the truth, but her own control was slipping so fast she could hardly speak. "It's true. He was so certain of your loyalty to him, he told me that even though you detested our marriage, you would still flay anyone alive who dared to criticize me— simply because I bear his name."
The faded blue eyes filled with tears that began to race down the duchess' cheeks and over Alexandra's fingers. Several silent minutes later, the duchess swallowed convulsively, and lifted her eyes to Alexandra's face. In a broken voice she pleaded, "Did Hawthorne truly say that—about Napoleon?"
Alexandra nodded and tried to smile, but the duchess' next words sent tears spilling from her eyes and dripping from her lashes: "I loved him better even than my sons, you know," she wept. Reaching up, the duchess put her arms around the weeping girl who was trying valiantly to comfort her, and drew Alexandra close. "Alexandra," she sobbed, "I—I never told him I loved him. And now it's too late."
For the rest of that day and all of the next, Alexandra remained with the duchess, who seemed to need to talk about Jordan almost constantly, now that the dam of grief had been broken.
At eight o'clock the following evening, Alex left her elderly charge resting peacefully and went down to the blue salon rather than return to the depressing isolation of her own room. Trying to keep her aching sense of loss at bay, she picked up a book.
In the doorway, Ramsey cleared his throat to announce the arrival of a caller: "His grace, the Duke of Hawthorne—"
A cry of joy escaped Alexandra's lips as she rose to her feet and rushed forward. Ramsey stepped aside, the Duke of Hawthorne appeared in the doorway, and Alexandra stopped dead. Anthony Townsende was coming toward her. Anthony Townsende was now the Duke of Hawthorne.
Fury, irrational and uncontrollable, flamed in her breast that this man should dare to call himself by Jordan's title after such an indecently short time. Anthony Townsende had benefited from this tragedy, she realized, and he was probably glad...
Anthony abruptly stopped walking and stared at the blazing anger on Alexandra's pale face. "You're wrong, Alexandra," he said quietly. "I would give anything to see him walk into this room right now. If I'd known Ramsey would announce me as he did, I'd have asked him not to do so."
Alexandra's anger abruptly dissolved at the unmistakable sincerity she heard in his quiet voice and the sadness she saw in his eyes. Too honest to deny what she had thought, she said contritely, "Please forgive me, your grace."
"Tony," he corrected, holding out his hand for hers in a gesture of greeting and friendship. "How is my grandmother?"
"Sleeping now, but she's been up a little more each day."
"Ramsey told me you've been a tremendous source of comfort and support to her. I thank you for that."
"She's been very brave, and she's taking care of herself."
"And you?" he asked, walking over to a side table and pouring some sherry into a glass. "Are you taking care of yourself? You look terrible."
A flash of her old humor briefly lit her eyes. "Your memory is short, your grace. I was never more than passable-looking."
"Tony," he insisted, sitting down across from her and gazing into the flickering fire.
"Your grandmother does not wish to remain in London and be forced to endure the strain of hundreds of condolence calls," Alexandra said after a few minutes. "She prefers to have a small memorial service and then to leave for Rosemeade immediately after."
"Certainly not! Women of her station and constitution do not indulge in weeping. As Craddock and I have repeatedly told her, she must be strong and look on the bright side. After all, she has another grandson, so it's not as if the title will pass out of the family."
Alexandra's opinion of leeches, which had never been high, plummeted to an irretrievable low as she stared at the insensitive, pompous man before her. "I would like to see her, if you please."
"Try to cheer her up," he said, oblivious to Alexandra's look of unwavering scorn. "Don't talk about Hawthorne."
Alexandra walked into the darkened room, and her heart leapt in pity and alarm to behold the formerly brisk, robust woman who was propped up against the pillows, looking like a ghost of her former self. Beneath her crown of white hair, the dowager's face was chalky and her pale eyes were glazed with pain and sunken into deep, dark hollows. No sign of recognition registered in her eyes as Alexandra crossed in front of her bed, then sat down on the edge of it beside her.
Frightened, Alexandra reached out and grasped the duchess' blue-veined hand, which was lying limply upon the golden coverlet. "Oh, ma'am, you must not go on this way," she said in a shaky, compassionate whisper, her eyes pleading with the elderly duchess to listen to her. "You must not. Jordan would hate to see you like this." When she got no reaction at all, Alexandra's desperation grew and she squeezed the fragile hand tightly. "Have you any idea how proud he was of your strength and spirit? Have you? I know he was, because he boasted of those very things to me."
The faded blue eyes never wavered. Not certain whether the duchess hadn't heard her, hadn't believed her, or simply didn't care, Alexandra redoubled her efforts to convince her. "It's true. I remember the occasion very well. After our wedding we were about to leave Rosemeade, and he asked where you'd gone. I told him you were upstairs and that I greatly feared you'd never recover from our marriage. He smiled when I said that—you know, one of his special smiles that made you feel like smiling in return? Then do you know what he said?"
The duchess didn't move.
"He said," Alexandra plowed on urgently," 'It would take more than our marriage to send my grandmother into a decline. Why, my grandmother could take on Napoleon himself and when she was through with him, he'd be begging her pardon for his bad manners in making war on us.' That is exactly what he—"
The duchess' eyes closed and Alexandra's heart missed a beat, but a moment later two tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. Tears were a good sign, Alexandra knew, and she plunged fiercely ahead: "He knew you were courageous and strong and—and loyal, too. From something he said to me, I don't think he believed women were capable of loyalty, except for you."
The duchess' eyes opened and she looked at Alexandra with anguished pleading and doubt.
Laying her hand upon the heartbroken woman's cheek, Alexandra tried harder to convince her she spoke the truth, but her own control was slipping so fast she could hardly speak. "It's true. He was so certain of your loyalty to him, he told me that even though you detested our marriage, you would still flay anyone alive who dared to criticize me— simply because I bear his name."
The faded blue eyes filled with tears that began to race down the duchess' cheeks and over Alexandra's fingers. Several silent minutes later, the duchess swallowed convulsively, and lifted her eyes to Alexandra's face. In a broken voice she pleaded, "Did Hawthorne truly say that—about Napoleon?"
Alexandra nodded and tried to smile, but the duchess' next words sent tears spilling from her eyes and dripping from her lashes: "I loved him better even than my sons, you know," she wept. Reaching up, the duchess put her arms around the weeping girl who was trying valiantly to comfort her, and drew Alexandra close. "Alexandra," she sobbed, "I—I never told him I loved him. And now it's too late."
For the rest of that day and all of the next, Alexandra remained with the duchess, who seemed to need to talk about Jordan almost constantly, now that the dam of grief had been broken.
At eight o'clock the following evening, Alex left her elderly charge resting peacefully and went down to the blue salon rather than return to the depressing isolation of her own room. Trying to keep her aching sense of loss at bay, she picked up a book.
In the doorway, Ramsey cleared his throat to announce the arrival of a caller: "His grace, the Duke of Hawthorne—"
A cry of joy escaped Alexandra's lips as she rose to her feet and rushed forward. Ramsey stepped aside, the Duke of Hawthorne appeared in the doorway, and Alexandra stopped dead. Anthony Townsende was coming toward her. Anthony Townsende was now the Duke of Hawthorne.
Fury, irrational and uncontrollable, flamed in her breast that this man should dare to call himself by Jordan's title after such an indecently short time. Anthony Townsende had benefited from this tragedy, she realized, and he was probably glad...
Anthony abruptly stopped walking and stared at the blazing anger on Alexandra's pale face. "You're wrong, Alexandra," he said quietly. "I would give anything to see him walk into this room right now. If I'd known Ramsey would announce me as he did, I'd have asked him not to do so."
Alexandra's anger abruptly dissolved at the unmistakable sincerity she heard in his quiet voice and the sadness she saw in his eyes. Too honest to deny what she had thought, she said contritely, "Please forgive me, your grace."
"Tony," he corrected, holding out his hand for hers in a gesture of greeting and friendship. "How is my grandmother?"
"Sleeping now, but she's been up a little more each day."
"Ramsey told me you've been a tremendous source of comfort and support to her. I thank you for that."
"She's been very brave, and she's taking care of herself."
"And you?" he asked, walking over to a side table and pouring some sherry into a glass. "Are you taking care of yourself? You look terrible."
A flash of her old humor briefly lit her eyes. "Your memory is short, your grace. I was never more than passable-looking."
"Tony," he insisted, sitting down across from her and gazing into the flickering fire.
"Your grandmother does not wish to remain in London and be forced to endure the strain of hundreds of condolence calls," Alexandra said after a few minutes. "She prefers to have a small memorial service and then to leave for Rosemeade immediately after."
