Now Clifford was glad he had not asked for Thomas's help. The thought of the two of them meeting, taking a fancy to one another, was more than he could bear. Thomas was a Radical; her fortune would be of no interest to him, but her intelligence certainly would be.
And her madness? Clifford asked himself, feeling his heart go into his mouth at the thought. No, surely not. Though what anyone else would have said had they seen her cast herself onto the road in her tattered undergarments did not bear thinking about.
He knew Malcolm and Henry could be relied upon to exercise the utmost discretion, but he really needed to have a word with his coach driver about not recounting the night's events to a living soul. If Vanessa was going to have to try to settle down here, the last thing she needed was more fuel for the fire of scandal. The card game was bad enough, her own past foibles worse.
Not that he could blame her, he thought with an indulgent smile, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her ivory brow. She had lost her mother, and been cosseted almost to distraction by her father. She had had the high spirits of any eight-year-old, despite her tragic loss. Who could blame her for having wished to escape the gloomy house, which had lost all its light and joy?
There had been escape, running away from home. Then there had been rumors of tantrums, recalcitrance, and downright rebellion, though he had always found her extremely shy the few times she had ever taken refuge on his property. He had found her in the stables, the woods, the disused tree house he and Henry had built together as young lads.
But he had heard the gossip from the servants often enough. The more they had punished her, the more she had fought back, until they had labeled her a demon child. He had only ever seen her when he was home for the school holidays from Eton and then Oxford, but she had always struck him as intelligent, if strong-willed in the face of what she deemed injustice. But mad? Not that he had ever seen.
"She is lovely, isn't she?" Malcolm whispered near his elbow.
He stiffened at the words, and felt a strange heat radiating outwards from the pit of his belly. He motioned him to step outside so as not to wake her. He wondered at the choking sensation in this throat, and sudden resentment of Malcolm's presence in the sick room. If he didn't know better, he would say it was jealousy.
"Is she as you remember her?
"More lovely than ever," came his unguarded reply.
Malcolm looked surprised.
Clifford had not been able to keep his sincere admiration out of his tone. The truth was she was awe-inspiring. Perhaps it was the thought of having won her at cards, was said to be affianced to her, that made his thoughts tend towards romance. Or maybe it was his chivalrous streak, which had always caused him to defend any woman, regardless of her station in life or her circumstances.
But never had he felt his heart hammer in his chest, experienced such a welter of tender and passionate emotions before. He was almost desperate for one word from her, a glimpse of her violet eyes opening and looking at him with recognition. Even with favor.
In this his tumultuous desired were thwarted, for as the hours ticked passed and there was no sign of the doctor, there was also no sign of Vanessa improving. Her breathing was steady but more shallow, and several attempts to wake her failed.
"It's been much too long," he grumbled at one point as Malcolm took his turn bathing her temples, while Clifford paced in front of the hearth in his shirtsleeves. He riffled the fingers of both hands through his hair in frustration. "I don't like this at all."
"Do you want me to go fetch John Gold back again?"
Clifford looked truly torn for a moment. In the end he shook his head. "No, I can't do it. I can't be sure what will help Vanessa at this stage, but I know for a fact that Esther needs John there. I just can't do it to the poor woman in the middle of her labor."
The sound of a carriage pulling up sent Malcolm hurrying to the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Who is it?" Clifford asked, running over to the window.
"Sorry, it's only Henry," Malcolm replied.
"Damnation."
Henry came bounding into the sick room in his usual coltish manner, then paused and looked sheepish. "Sorry. Too loud. And if you don't want me here--"
"No, it's not that. We thought you might be John back again."
"No such luck. But I do have two rather useful young ladies with me." He went out to help Malcolm with their outerwear and returned with the Jerome sisters a few moments afterwards.
Josephine and her sister Emma, two strikingly lovely blondes, were both dressed sensibly in dark day gowns of brown and green respectively.