Delilah Marvelle – Once Upon a Scandal (страница 10)
DESPITE THIS and fifty-two other letters Victoria sent over the next two years, Remington was true to his word and never replied. Not once. And with each unanswered letter, the love she had once dared to feel for him faded with her disappointment—till soon, she was sure there was no love left at all.
Always seek to honor thy mother and thy father. For by honoring them, a lady, in turn, honors herself.
A MUFFLED groan startled Victoria out of a dreamless sleep. Flint jumped down from her lap onto the floor, scampering toward her father’s bed, and whimpered. Victoria stumbled up out of the upholstered chair. Gathering her full skirts, she bustled toward the bed, thankful for the few candles still flickering in their sconces.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the feather mattress and slid a trembling hand up the length of her father’s arm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his nightshirt. His arm was bound with linen that had been soaked in narcissus water to assist in healing his lesions.
Victoria swallowed and eyed the linen strips covering his face. “Maladie de Bayle,” the physicians had grimly announced, upon her father’s insistence that she finally know the truth about his illness. Syphilis. It was a secret her father had kept in unspoken shame for years after he had contracted it from a less than reputable establishment.
No amount of arsenic, mercury, guaiac, or jars or tins with salves and powders concocted by quacks could save him now. All she could do was make life bearable for him over these next few months until his body could no longer fight the inevitable.
The earl’s roughened hand grabbed hers, causing her heart to skitter. His bandaged face jerked toward her. “Where is he?”
“Who?” she whispered.
Dark green eyes squinted up at her from beneath the layers of bandages covering everything but his eyes and lips. “Victor. Where is he? I must speak to him. Bring him to me, so I may tell him I am dying.”
Tears burned her eyes as she shakily clasped his hand with both of hers. The physicians had warned her of this. Delusions were but the beginning of what she could expect over these next few months.
She swallowed, trying not to envision her brother’s playful, bright jade eyes. “Victor isn’t here. He … died. But I am here and will continue to be. I vow.”
“No. No, no, no. My son is not dead.” The earl shoved her hands away and fumbled with the linens around him. “Where is he? Why is he not at my side? And who are you? What do you want?”
Victoria bit back a sob and shook her head. “I am your daughter. Papa, ‘tis me. Victoria. Surely you recognize me?”
He squinted up at her, his chest heaving. His brows creased. He shook his head and rasped, “No. Leave.”
Tears stung her eyes and tumbled forth, trickling down her cheeks. She tried to keep her body from trembling as she lowered her lips to her father’s hands and kissed them. “Do not send me away,” she begged. “Please.” She clung to his hand, wishing they could both somehow return to the way things used to be. When she, Mama, Victor and he had all been a family.
Hesitant fingers touched her pinned hair and fingered it. “Victor has your hair,” he murmured in awe. “Flaxen. How very odd. Why do you have his hair?”
“Victor and I were twins,” she whispered. “Surely you remember me, Papa. I am your Victoria.”
He shook his head against the pillows. “No. No, your hair is too long. You are not my Victor. Tell him I will not see anyone but him. Tell him. Now go. Be of use and find him.” He pushed her hands away and shifted against the pillows.
Victoria released another quiet sob and blindly smoothed out the linens around him. Once he died, there would be nothing left of her or her heart. Fortunately, the physicians had assured her he still had at least another six to eight months within him.
The ruby-and-gold ring on her finger glinted within the candlelight. She lifted it to her lips and whispered against the polished ruby the same words she had whispered to it these past many weeks: “Cure him. Please. He does not deserve this. He doesn’t.”
Though she had long since lost faith in the ring’s ability to grant wishes, what else did she have left to believe in? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
All grew quiet and her father’s sleepy, heavy breaths filled the room. Flint, who had been loitering beside the bed, veered back toward the chair by the hearth and hopped onto it. After turning a few times, he settled himself against the cushion and laid his furry head against his paws. He huffed out an exhausted breath through his nostrils and blinked several times, his brown eyes observing her with a sadness that seemed to reflect her own.
Even Flint knew her father was dying.
“Such is life,” she whispered to Flint. “We live, we love, we suffer because we love, we suffer some more because we want to believe there is more to life than suffering, and then we die.”
Flint shifted, closed his eyes and gave way to sleep.
Though Victoria fought to stay awake and watch over her father, her eyes grew heavy and her body weak. She scooted onto the edge of the bed and draped herself beside him, trying not to touch him lest he wake. Closing her eyes, she drifted.
What seemed like a heartbeat later, she squinted against morning sunlight peering in through the open curtains of the window. The chambermaid had forgotten to pull them shut for the night.
Victoria blinked and carefully slid down and out of her father’s bed. She turned back to her father and tilted her head to one side to better observe him. Dust particles floated in the bright rays of light streaming in, illuminating his bandaged face. His exposed lips were parted and his eyes were still closed as his chest peacefully rose up, then down, up then down.
If only she could give him equal peace when his eyes were open. Dearest God. He no longer knew who she was.
Victoria shakily swiped away a long, blond lock that had fallen out from her pinned hair to the side of her face. It would appear the time had indeed come to submit to her father’s last dying wish. That she, Lady Victoria Jane Emerson, be wed before he was unable to attend her wedding.
Her uncle and Grayson had been scrambling to procure her father’s choices in suitors for weeks and would be officially introducing her to all three soon. Though it was not by any means appropriate, considering her father still had months left to live, she knew the sooner she married, the sooner she could become the sort of daughter he deserved. The sort of daughter she’d never been during her debutante years. It was time to admit that the husband she had always wanted and needed no longer existed. And sometimes, though only sometimes, she actually wondered if he had ever existed at all.
An old Swiss proverb distinctly cites, “God has a plan for every man.” I confess the Swiss have a tendency to mislead. Because God’s plan is meant for every woman, too.
WHEN A lady celebrated being two and twenty, and came to the realization that all of her debutante friends had been wed and were now beginning to welcome children, her own birthday became a reminder of all the things she had done wrong. Fortunately, her years of being a spinster were at an end and she could now hold her head up high and join the rest of respectable society.
Victoria shifted in her chair, eyeing her father, who kept fussing with his cravat at the dining table. How she wished upon all that was ever sacred that her father had respected himself more these past nine years. His refusal to remarry after the death of her mother, which in turn had resulted in loneliness laced with unmet needs, had all come at a very high price.