Chapter Five
The Lord once said 'For the love of money is the root of all evil.'
If there was ever a time when I considered walking away from all that I've done, all that I've built… it was the moment I beheld the sight of Elizabeth's bruised and broken body lying motionless in her bed, with her mother and Lydia gathered round her, weeping. Alas, my greed and the power it buys have a firm hold upon my soul, and I cannot escape its grasp. I had fallen deep into this black abyss of corruption long ago, and I fear that not even my daughter's misfortune is enough to extract me. I have no way out.
That is not to say I did not grieve for her. Knowing that I am partly responsible for her situation is as though a knife has been plunged into my heart. A father's primary duty to his children is to protect them, not to cause harm. Indeed, I have never felt so low.
I sent for my personal physician, Dr. Thomas Peavy, straight away, with an urgent message that he was to make with all haste for Wolbrighton upon receiving it. Waiting upon his arrival did nothing for my nerves. Neither Lydia nor my wife seemed inclined to speak; save on the rare occasion when Elizabeth twitched a finger or her eyes moved beneath her eyelids.
"Is she coming out of it, Papa?" Lydia would ask alight with the hope I longed to feel. Unfortunately, the answer was always 'no,' for with each attempt to rouse her, Elizabeth gave no response.
Dr. Peavy offered even less hope after his examination.
"I have reset the collarbone, and splinted her arm and ankle. Miraculously, her neck is not broken, but I cannot say the same for her skull. I have detected at least one fracture, and she has shown indications of brain damage. I shall be perfectly honest with you, Andrew: your daughter's injuries are quite serious. And given the nature of her fall, I cannot rule out the possibility of internal bleeding. She is quite lucky to be alive! Not many survive such a fall," he marvels as he checks her pulse on the arm that isn't broken.
"Will she regain consciousness?" I ask.
I should very much like to believe my inquiry is out of genuine interest for my daughter's health. Perhaps deep down, it is. Indeed, I should like to believe it is not for my own selfish interest, but I cannot own to it.
"There is always hope, but whether she will even be able to speak if she does is uncertain. I am not satisfied with her response to stimuli. It is not very promising," Peavy admits solemnly.
"How will we know?" I press.
He issues a weak smile. "Only time will tell."
I nod, forcing myself to accept his prognosis. "Thank you, Doctor. I shall see you out." I escort him to the front door, sending a servant ahead to fetch his horse from the stables. "I thank you again, Thomas. I apologize that you should have to come all this way at such a late hour in this ghastly weather." An icy burst of wind bombards us through the front doors, as if for emphasis.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" he waves off as he battles to keep his wig upon his bald head. "I am always happy to oblige his lordship! I only wish I could do more."
"As do I." His horse arrives and stands at the ready. I place ten pounds sterling in his hand, holding his gaze to ensure he perceives my meaning. "For your silence."
Greed is the root of all evil, as the Lord declares, and Thomas Peavy is no exception.
He eyes the money as a hound eyes a fox and bobs his head. "Much obliged, m'lord."
I return his gesture with a half smile and see him off into the drizzling night. For a moment, my soul is at ease, satisfied that my daughter's misfortune shall remain unknown to the public for as long as I see fit. However, it does not last, for as the door closes behind me, my anxiety returns. I bid Mr. Jervis 'goodnight' and amble up the staircase. I pause when my gaze lands upon little dots of red along the marble steps, some larger than others. Something tightens in my gut.
"Jervis," I call. "See to it that this is cleaned, thoroughly." Another mess. I imagine my staff has wished my soul to the devil a hundred times tonight.
I continue on my way, ruminating over the night's events. The sight of my daughter's blood unnerves me in such a way that I am taken aback by it. I find it shockingly ironic that I should be so discomposed when I have borne witness to the death of so many others. Some have even spilt their blood on me, and not once did I bat an eye. But the blood of my own child, spilled by my own hand, my own doing… I fear I've not the constitution for it.
Foolish girl! What was she doing out of bed anyway!? I lash out internally as I try not to puke.
I yearn to know the answer—indeed, it claws at my heart! But to do so would inevitably force me to reveal the truth about what happened, and to admit that everything I said to her was a lie. Yet this, I admit, is not my greatest sin. I have lied to my children in the past—what father hasn't? But tonight, I have done more than tell an innocent little white lie.
Tonight, I have broken the trust of a truly remarkable young woman… and undoubtedly, her heart.
I have affronted Elizabeth's character; brought her sanity into question and, therefore, disregarded the progress she has made in overcoming the difficulties of her childhood. Once upon a time, I was her hero in this endeavor. I would faithfully answer her call when the monsters in her dreams jarred her out of her slumber. Rare was the occasion when she allowed her mother to console her, and she absolutely refused to allow Mrs. Lennox to attend to her. It was I, and I alone, whom she called for in the dead of night. Now, it seems, the case is altered… all to protect my name and image… my empire.
All over a bloody servant girl! An illiterate, pea-brained, meddlesome whore!
Her soul to the devil! I am well rid of her!
I step through Elizabeth's door. My wife and Lydia are still seated at her bedside. I have hardly entered the room when Prudence rises to her feet and approaches me. Her mouth is stretched into a scowl, and if looks were fatal, I would be a dead man, for her eyes are as sharp as daggers.
I halt my approach, preparing myself for the inevitable onslaught of some rather choice words.
To my knowledge, she is unaware of what has transpired tonight—or rather, she is unaware that our daughter inadvertently witnessed Penelope's termination. But it would do very little to offer an explanation, for the splintered remains of the door and the initial presence of not only myself but Barclay and Joseph serves as evidence enough, I fear.
What I do not expect is her hand striking my face. I am taken aback, to say the least.
For a moment, it is as if my brain has ceased all function beyond recovery, and I linger within the realm of musing over this interesting development. That my own wife would dare raise a hand to me leaves me at a loss of what to do or say. I know not whether to laugh or to retaliate in the face of her audacity! It is not lost on me, of course, that this is the second time I have been struck by my own family—by women. I have never quite understood why the female creature endeavors to allow their emotions to dictate their actions instead of adhering to reason in a moment of crisis. Perhaps that is why God gave Adam charge over all creation instead of Eve. The world would fall into utter chaos otherwise.
Alas, I resolve to collect myself instead of allowing my anger to take charge.
My gaze shifts to Lydia. She looks upon us in shock; or perhaps, curious intrigue. I am undecided as to which. There is really no way of knowing what wicked little scheme she has devised in her head from this. At any rate, I determine that her presence is no longer necessary, given the circumstances. She is only here because her room is but a few feet from Elizabeth's, as is mine and Prudy's. What she has heard, I do not know, nor have I the desire to find out.
"To your room, Lydia," I instruct calmly. When she protests, I am sorely tempted to seize her by the arm and toss her out myself. I've not the patience for anymore insolence. "Leave us! Now!" My voice is louder than I intended, and I fear I may have awakened Elizabeth. Fortunately, a quick glimpse at her lifeless form dispels my dread yet leaves me with a feeling of disappointment. There is no change.
Sourly, Lydia rises from her seat and trudges past me with an ugly scowl. I ignore her antics for the moment. My head is throbbing and I'm in no mood to argue with a fickle-headed woman barely into her twenties.
Facing my wife, I behold the viciousness in her eyes, but the gleam of tears cuts deeper than her glare and stings worse than her blow. Her shoulders heave with every breath. Agony distorts her features, her brow furrowed. Not a word is spoken between us. I've nothing of value to contribute to the situation, so I feel it is best to maintain my silence.
"What have you done, Andrew?" she finally utters in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
What have I done… That is the question, isn't it?
I seat myself next to our daughter, musing over her question. "You know… I was thinking about when she was a little girl. She had the most dreadful night terrors. You remember?"
My wife does not respond. I continue.
"She would awaken in the dead of night screaming, writhing, and tangled in her bed sheets—as if she were fighting for her life!" I chuckle at the irony. She fought bravely tonight. "And she would cry, 'Papa, Papa!' over and over again. Mrs. Lennox would come running from the nursery; but of course, you know, she wouldn't have her. It was just as well because Lydia required most of her attention, anyway; she, still being in walking strings at the time." And jealous, I am tempted to add, but for reasons beyond me I do not. "Sometimes, she would allow you to console her, but rarely. When I was not here, it was Addison or the girls." I pause, my chest tightening as I recall Peavy's diagnosis. "But it was always me she wanted. It was I, and I alone, whom she called for: her white knight in shining armor, come to banish the monsters from her dreams." I drop my eyes to my lap, unable to bear the weight of my shame; and shame, it was, for had I been more cautious, my Elizabeth would not be in this state. To never hear my sweet Lizzy's voice again… I do not know how I shall bear it! "Now, it seems, I have become the monster. 'For the love of money is the root of all evil,' and all that."
I squeeze Elizabeth's hand, searching her face for even the slightest reaction. She does not squeeze back, nor does she pull away. I realize that I am grateful she knows nothing of the present, for I do not think I could handle her rejection. Yet how I wish she would come to, if only for a moment, so that I might apologize for my behavior! So that she would know her hero has come to her rescue once again; except… is it possible to save her from myself?
"I lied to her, Prudy; I lied to her. I told her it was all in her head… I told her she was experiencing another terror."
"No, Papa… I have not had terrors since I was seven. It is all a lie." Her voice reiterates in my head.
I pinch the corner of my eyes to stave off the tears, stubbornly clearing the lump in my throat. "It was all a lie…"
Prudence drops beside me. There is pity in her gaze, as is disappointment. "You promised me when you involved yourself in this that the lives of our children would not be compromised."
I nod. "So I did."
"Then how is it that our Elizabeth should come to be here, clinging to life in her bed?" Her grip on my hand is crushing, as if trying to squeeze the answer out of me… or clinging to me for dear life. "Pray, help me understand this, Andrew! How could you let this happen?"
I regard her for a moment, weighing my options. However, there was no use trying to deceive her, for she knew me perhaps better than I knew myself, and I am quite done with deceit for the night. My efforts would be useless, anyway. She already knew of my plan to dispose of Penelope, as it was mutually agreed upon that the halfwit's carelessness was irreparable. After all, it had been my dear wife's idea to administer Penelope's nightly treatment tonight to prevent her from growing wise to the inevitable. Prudy's only scruple was my choice of location in which to settle the matter: she thought I ought to have chosen a more secluded location instead of my office, such as the Grove.
I should have listened.
"Barclay caught her spying through the keyhole of my office. She saw everything," I explain.
"Oh, Elizabeth…" My wife groans in exasperation; and then to our daughter, "What were you thinking, my child?"
"I should very much like to know that myself. As far as I knew, she was still abed. Truly, I do not know what she was about! But lord, how I wish I knew!" I shake my head wearily. "I swear: I did not intend to involve her in any of this. I did not want her involved! But you must understand, Prudence. Once I found out, I had no choice but to confront her. But I swear; I never raised a harmful hand to her. I would never harm any of our children! I only came to make certain she would never speak of anything she witnessed to anyone, to reason with her; not only for my sake, but for hers, as well. Her fall was an accident. I was nowhere near when it happened."
She pauses, searching me. "… Has Barclay anything a'tall to do with this?" she finally asks.
I had wondered that myself… and dreaded its answer. I know Barclay was outside the door during the confrontation; I told him to stay there after he'd returned from fetching Joseph, whose help I required to gain access to Elizabeth's room. As Joseph had presently been moaning and groaning on the floor over the injury to his family jewels, and I picking myself up from the floor after dodging Elizabeth's throw—I never knew my Lizzie's aim was so deadly—the only logical explanation was one that I could not bring myself to face. Hence, why I did not ask.
So I lie. That I am to do so without hesitancy frightens me. "No. He does not."
What have I become?
My wife falls into pensive silence. I cannot tell if she believes me. Her face is virtually unreadable. It is just as well, for I do not even believe myself. Elizabeth may have simply lost her footing… but in my heart, I know the truth. And so does Prudence.
Without a word, she rises to her feet and moves to the door.
"Where are you going?" I dare to inquire.
"I am going to call for Mrs. Elshire and Agatha. I shall not be coming to bed tonight. Elizabeth needs me," she answers. The iciness in her voice is like a chill racing down my spine.
"Very well," I sigh, fully aware of what she means. "It seems my summons to Buckingham Palace could not have come at a better time, then."
She pauses and stares at me with mild interest. "You're leaving?"
"I think it would be suitable, yes," I say. "Do not you agree?"
She hesitates, considering her words. "Perhaps it is best, then," she says callously. "Your presence is not required here at Wolbrighton during Elizabeth's recovery."
"I have no choice, Prudence," I object in earnest to her surliness. "There is an urgent matter with which His Majesty desires to discuss with me."
She tries to suppress a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Yes. I am certain your business with His Majesty is quite urgent."
I drag a hand over my mouth, doing my best to maintain my composure. "Oh, come off it, Prudence!" I exclaim. "I would not be leaving if it weren't!"
"And our daughter's condition means nothing?" she bites back.
"Of course it does!" I realize I am shouting, so I take a moment to gather myself. It would not do to lose my head. "Prudence… Elizabeth made a choice. It was the wrong one and I am sorry for it, but I will not be blamed for her foolishness. I tried to reason with her, but it was of no use. She was possessed by conviction, and could not be convinced otherwise. So there is no use for this silly bickering about and casting blame."
"Then by all means, go—if indeed it is that urgent!" she snaps.
Her hostility pricks my nerves, but I refuse to play into her hand. "As a matter of fact, it is. It seems Lord Swann has unexpectedly taken ill and must resign his position as governor of Port Royal; therefore, leaving the role vacant. I must meet with the king if I am to be considered for the position."
She frowns. "And you tell me this now?"
"Well, as I've only just learnt of it, my dear, yes. I received my summons tonight—just after terminating Penelope, as it were," I explained.
If there was ever an expression to indicate my wife was quite done with me for the night, it was the one she wore upon her face at this very moment: eyebrows slightly raised, a spark of irritation and disgust, if not hatred, blazing in her eye, and the presence of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. I have seen this look many a time during our thirty-three years of marriage, and I know that I have exhausted her patience.
"Well, perhaps you should get some rest, then. I shall look after Elizabeth."
"As you wish. I shall send for a nurse in the morning to assist you—"
"—That won't be necessary, Lord Sharpe. I am her mother. I have known her from the womb. I believe I am more than capable of tending to her."
'Lord Sharpe'… There is no denying it: she is livid. "Are you certain?"
"I assure you: your help isn't necessary. You've done quite enough."