Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

26. The Metamorphoses

With the planned departure date for their trip to Baden Baden fast approaching, Mabel often woke up in the middle of the night. This time, however, it wasn't her anxiety over the arrangements that roused her out of her sleep, but the sense of wrongness. The rush of footfall sounded from the ground floor. The old walls creaked in a positively agitated manner.

She lit the candle and stuck her head into the hallway and there was light spilling from under the door of Lady Cathrine's bedroom. Clutching the housecoat at her chest, she patted across and knocked. "Lady Catherine, are you well?"

Lady Catherine came to open the door fully dressed, but with her clothes in a disarray. "Yes, my dear. Radcliffe has taken ill."

Mabel's fingers went limp, releasing the fabric of her housecoat. It fell apart, because she didn't have time to belt it up, but she didn't care that her nightshirt showed. Her knees locked, or she would have dashed downstairs to... to do something. Or at least see him, make sure he was not too sick, fluff a pillow for him... or something equally pointless.

Lady Catherine patted her hand comfortingly, apparently guessing her intentions.

"The doctor had been already. The crisis has passed, and he is resting. There is not much to be done. We wait." A certainty of many prior experiences steadied her voice. Mabel envied it and trusted it at the same time, but there must be something she could do.

"Do you..." She worked some saliva into her parched throat. "Do you wish me to write and postpone our travelling arrangements?"

The list of the hired rooms paraded in her mind, bringing some relief. It was so much better to think of practical matters and have control over the events. "It's nearly morning, and I shall not sleep a wink anyway. I can start immediately."

Lady Catherine's face pinched. "I wanted to. Alas, he had expressly forbidden this. Radcliffe is incorrigible! Never a thought for his own happiness. Never."

All Mabel could do was nod, as if she had the right to agree to this judgment, but Lady Catherine didn't mind. A brave smile curled her lips. "I wouldn't go back to bed either. Let us make tea, and you could read me again the letter from Miss Carter. Her mischievous pen is just what we need."

It was a kind invitation, and Harriet was a witty correspondent, but it didn't divert Mabel's thoughts from Radcliffe's illness at all. The day dragged on, thanks to the unusually early start and gnawing worry, so by the afternoon, when the doctor visited again and declared Radcliffe fit for visitors, Mabel was as worn as if she hadn't slept in days. The fatigue numbed her a little, yet the raw feeling of dread stirred anew, when she trailed Lady Catherine to the sickroom.

At the entrance to Radcliffe's private suite, the library turned into an antechamber that, in turn, opened into his bedroom. The apartment was messy and comfortable, compared to Everett's spartan abode. Here, the splashes of colour reigned, belying the owner's personality.

The carpet on the floor, the painting on the walls, the curtains—all of it had rich shades fighting the dreariness of English weather. Three giant vases of Chinese antiquity guarded the corners; crossed sabres, daggers and a pistol of Turkish derivation decorated another wall. A couple of maps covered by notes spread over the armour's side.

Mabel immediately spotted her own drawing, next to the formal portrait of Lady Catherine in a ball gown that must have been in fashion twenty years ago. Her lips pressed together to suppress a sob born out of tenderness. How could she have possibly suspected Radcliffe of scheming? She was never meant to enter here and yet it was on the wall. Everett was quite mad to say the things he had said to her at Covent Garden.

Lady Catherine took the chair next to Radcliffe's bed, and Mabel modestly retreated to its twin, lodged between a low round table and the mantelpiece. A heavy smell of laudanum and sickness didn't belong in this cheerful, almost boyish room, yet it clung to it. The sense of wrongness that woke her in the middle of the night was the strongest here, at the source.