“Another man in England holds the viscountcy, and I myself should have acceded to the title of Comte de Giverney instead of an Englishman. It was a mere accident of birth—if he were a man of honor he would have refused the title. ”
Such a stuffy young man, Elinor thought, bearing his full share of grievances. “I don’t believe Lord Rohan is known for his more honorable qualities. ”
His earlier sniff became a full-blown snort. “I tell you, mademoiselle, it is very difficult for me. Very difficult indeed. That I, a true de Giverney, should toil like a tradesman while he enjoys the family château, the town house, the money…”
She made all the right soothing sounds, mentally thanking God for the Harriman Nose. Even if she thought marriage was a possibility for her, she’d prefer to do without rather than end up with this pompous young man.
She led him into the bedroom where Lady Caroline lay, still and small beneath the covers. “The Spanish disease,” he said knowingly. “She is too far gone—there is nothing that can be done for her but ease her pain. ” He leaned over and lifted her eyelids—her eyes were dull and glassy, though she managed a muffled and obscene curse.
Elinor could feel the color stain her cheeks. “I beg your pardon…” she said.
“It is of no consequence. In the late stages the madness is fully upon them, and very little remains of the person they once were. I’m sure your mother was a kind and generous soul before becoming so afflicted. I assume she contracted this from your father. Is he still living?” He was looking at her with slightly more approval, since she’d provided him a seemingly captivated audience.
“Alas, no. He died recently, leaving us nothing. If it weren’t for your cousin we would be quite destitute. ”
His momentary warmth vanished. “I have laudanum for your mother. You’ll need to watch the dosage carefully. As her pain and agitation increase you’ll need to give her more of the tincture. If she’s still alive at the end of a fortnight I’ll return to check on her…” His voice trailed off as the door opened and Lydia poked her head in the room.
“You don’t look like the King of Hell,” she said cheerfully, and Elinor groaned.
“This is Etienne de Giverney, Lydia. He was just leaving—”
Her words were cut off as the doctor pushed in front of her, taking one of Lydia’s hands in his. “My dear lady,” he murmured. “What a trying time for you. ”
Elinor blinked. Why was she surprised—most men had only to look at Lydia and fall desperately in love. The stiff-necked doctor was no different.
“Dr. de Giverney says she hasn’t much time left, and we must keep her comfortable, my love,” she said. “He was about to leave. ”
“On the contrary, Mademoiselle Harriman,” he protested, not looking anywhere but into Lydia’s blue eyes. “I have yet to complete my examination, and then I will inform you and your sister exactly what you may expect. She is very ill, but that doesn’t mean she is past the point of all help. Please. ” He gestured them out the door.
It could be worse, Elinor thought, ordering tea for the three of them. He was a handsome young man, if stuffy, and he even had a trade. He would make Lydia an excellent husband. Before the disease had claimed Lady Caroline’s mind their mother had had grand plans for Lydia—a title, a wealthy husband were to be expected, and there was no saying how high they might look.
All that was gone now, and Lydia had no interest in coronets or fortunes. As Madame de Giverney she would have a strong, stable husband who would give her children, keep her safe, and if Franci
s Rohan managed to die without reproducing, Lydia might even end up with the French title after all.
Elinor wasn’t going to think about that. Francis Rohan’s plans for procreation had nothing to do with her, and Lydia wouldn’t care if she was a French countess or a simple doctor’s wife. She smiled her sweet smile at Etienne when he came every day, listened to his lectures on modern medical practices and asked all the right questions. She could prove a helpful assistant in his surgery if he would let her, and in the meantime the stuffy young man, like so many others, was thoroughly enchanted. He would offer marriage, despite Lydia’s lack of a fortune. He was too besotted not to.
And Elinor clung to that small hope as the days passed and her newfound cousin, her only hope for rescue, still didn’t return to town.
She had no idea whether Etienne reported to the viscount, but with disconcerting suddenness his lordship stopped responding to her oh-so-polite thank-you notes. The first day that Jacobs had returned empty-handed she had paced the thick rug, expecting a messenger at any moment with the delayed missive. No one came.
The next morning there was pheasant and apples and a set of crystal wineglasses, and she sat by the fire and wrote her note, never mentioning his lack of response. For sure, she’d barely noticed, and it wouldn’t do to have Francis Rohan think he mattered in the slightest. Not to her.
There was no return note. And yes, his lordship was most definitely in residence, and had received her note, Jacobs assured her, disapproving. Apparently his lordship was caught up in plans for some grand party, and the Harrimans had little enough claim on his attention. But the food and fuel and the small gifts kept arriving each morning, and Elinor wrote her dutiful notes, telling herself she was relieved he’d forgotten about them. Delighted, in fact.
If Lydia proved amenable, then rescue was at hand. In the meantime she would forget about Viscount Rohan, even as she lost herself in the books he sent her, and pray that the slim hope fate had dangled in front of her wasn’t to be snatched away.
Author: Anne Stuart
Lydia slipped on her sabots, pulled the thick woolen cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the marketing basket. It was a warmer day in this long, cold winter, and Lydia had been cooped up for too long. Elinor tended to be too protective, but a trip to the market was among her allowed single excursions, as long as Jacobs kept an eye on her. The sun was shining for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and she almost thought that spring might be a possibility.
Most importantly, she needed an escape from the tiny house, from the specter of Lady Caroline’s imminent death, from Elinor’s constant worry, from Etienne de Giverney’s oppressive presence.
She knew what he wanted. She could feel the full weight of Elinor’s approval, of Nanny’s concern. He would make an excellent husband—there was no denying it. He was handsome, not unkind, with a good living that could support them all if need be. With the devilish Viscount Rohan behind him, he was better than she could have hoped for.
And she would say yes, once he brought himself to ask for her. She would marry him and sleep in his bed and bear his children. And no one would ever guess that she dreamed of someone else.
But that was in the future, and Lydia was a firm believer in not borrowing trouble. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” were words she believed in, and this day was filled with sunshine and blue sky and she had money enough to buy fresh bread and cheese.