He had taken Elizabeth into his arms and held her very close to him. "I love you," he had said against her hair, "and I shall come for you just as soon as I may. Within the week. You must stay here, do you understand me, Elizabeth? Do not try to follow me."
She had nodded and hidden her face against his neck. She had not trusted her voice. She did not want to shame herself by crying.
He had placed a hand beneath her chin, raised her face, and kissed her deeply there in front of the butler and the groom who was holding his horse. Both pretended not to notice.
"Have a safe journey," she had whispered. "I love you."
He had vaulted into the saddle and ridden down the driveway away from the sea and the cliffs, and away from her, without a backward glance. She had watched him, an ache in her heart, until a line of trees finally hid him from view. And that was the last she had seen of Robert Denning, Marquess of Hetherington, until he had walked into Mrs. Rowe's drawing room a few weeks before.
The old marquess had certainly had his revenge. Had he not chosen that moment in which to die, and had he not taken his older son along with him, Robert might never have changed, might never have considered that she was not a worthy wife for him. Or would his underlying snobbery have surfaced at some time anyway, under different circumstances?
Elizabeth gave up trying to sleep and consequently drifted into unconsciousness almost immediately.
Chapter 11
The family dined together that evening. Both John and Louise had been persuaded to leave Jeremy for an hour with his nurse and to eat in the dining room. Hetherington and Elizabeth were also there. Three at least of the gathering found the mealtime a strain. Hetherington was at his charming best, Elizabeth noted with annoyance. He had obviously set himself to win over Louise, who had been horribly embarrassed to learn of his presence in the house. Good manners dictated that she treat him with courtesy, but loyalty to her sister-in-law made her want to snub him.
His charm had obviously had an effect, though. Louise went with Elizabeth to the drawing room after dinner, though she did not stay long.
"The marquess seems such a pleasant man, Elizabeth," she said hesitantly. "It is hard to believe that he could have treated you so cruelly."
"That was a long time ago," Elizabeth replied. "Since we seem to be stuck with him here for a few days at least, perhaps it would be as well if you forgot about the past and treated him as a new acquaintance."
"But how can I?" Louise protested. "John has told me how he abandoned you so callously after your marriage. It is difficult to like or trust a man when one knows that of him."
Both ladies had retired to the nursery before the men left the dining room. The strain returned to Louise's face as she watched her son toss feverishly in his crib. Elizabeth soon persuaded her to go to bed and try to have a night's sleep. She and John sat up all night watching for the crisis that did not come. Neither could persuade the other to give up the watch.
The doctor came the next day, but beyond shaking his head and advising Louise to force as much liquid inside the child as she could, he was unable to tell them whether to continue hoping or to despair.
Elizabeth slept for much of the day. She had tried to persuade John to do likewise, but feared that he was using his time away from the nursery to accomplish estate business. She looked idly through her window when she awoke in the afternoon and saw that Louise and Hetherington were strolling arm in arm in the flower garden. She had meant it the night before when she had told Louise to forget about the past. But it still annoyed her to see that Hetherington could so easily charm a stranger, even one who knew of his past.
She could not understand why he had decided to stay. He had made no attempt to see her since dinner the evening before, and it must be plain to him that neither she nor John wanted his presence. It merely added to the strain of an already difficult situation. She decided that she would ask for a tray in her room that evening. She wanted to reserve all her energy for the night ahead. John and Louise were almost at breaking point, she felt, and it seemed to her that it was impossible for the baby to continue as he was for much longer. Surely the crisis must be close. She dared not think of what might happen when it did come.
Later that night Elizabeth had accomplished her aim. Louise had gone off to bed at John's bidding. He was a little more difficult to persuade, but Elizabeth, looking at his bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks, had known that he could not sit up another night without collapsing.
"What good will you be to anyone if you become ill?" she had reasoned with him. "I came here in order to help, John. Please allow me to do so. I know what to do to care for Jeremy, and you must believe that I will send for you at the least sign of change."
Finally he had given in and retired to his own room. An hour or more had passed since. Elizabeth had just finished sponging the child's burning flesh with a cool, damp cloth and forcing some drops of water between his lips. She sat now quietly watching him and thinking of the man she had seen only briefly today through the window.
Perhaps it had all been partly her fault. At least she might have made it more difficult for him to abandon her if she had obeyed his final request and stayed in Devon.
The hours following his departure had been torture, the night a torment. Lady Both well had not returned that day. And during the following morning Elizabeth's father himself had arrived. He had been very angry, threatening to tear Denning apart limb by limb. When his daughter had told him that she was alone, he had turned the full force of his fury against her. His anger was caused not so much by the fact of the elopement, it seemed, as by the poverty of her husband. Had she no sense? Had she no love for the father who had spent years of his life raising her? What did she hope to gain for herself or her family by marrying a penniless pup?
Elizabeth had let his fury blow itself out around her head before telling him about the deaths of Robert's father and brother.
"So you are a marchioness?" he had sneered, and strangely enough, it was the first time Elizabeth had realized the fact. "A fat lot of good such a grand title will do you, my girl, when the father had not a feather to fly with, either."
"We do not care for money," Elizabeth had replied primly.
"You will, my girl, when you find yourself with a position to maintain, and creditors knocking on your door," he had said harshly. "I suppose there is no chance of an annulment?"
"An annulment?" she had asked blankly.
"Has he bedded you, girl?" he had asked impatiently.
Elizabeth had blushed painfully, but had not answered.
"Well," he had said, "we shall have to do the best we can. You will come home with me, Lizzie, until the young puppy has finished all his business in London. Perhaps there will be more money than I think."
"I must not leave here, Papa," she had protested. "I have promised Robert that I shall stay, and Lady Bothwell should be here today."
"Nonsense!" he had said. "The old lady may not come at all. Who better to take care of you than your father? And Norfolk is a great deal closer to London than Devon is. He will be thankful not to have to travel so far."
Elizabeth had argued. Even when she gave in, she did so reluctantly. But she had been very young. Obedience to her father had been the habit of a lifetime. She had not yet learned obedience to a husband. Lady Bothwell had not been there to advise her. What her father had said about the remoteness of Devon from London made sense. So she had gone, pausing only to pack her bag and to write a note to Lady Bothwell explaining that her father had come for her and that she was returning with him to Norfolk.