Where Dreams Begin(48)

As he reached the landing midway down the stairs, however, his rapid steps slowed and halted at the sight of the disconsolate figure of Rose sitting on one of the carpeted steps. The sight of her, like a prim little doll in her ruffled muslin dress, plump calves encased in thick white stockings, tiny hands filled with her ever-present button string, made him smile. How different she was from the way his sister Elizabeth had been at this age. Rose was wellmannered, introspective, sweetly earnest, whereas Elizabeth had been a spirited little hellion. Holly had done a splendid job so far of sheltering her daughter in a safe, well-ordered existence, but in Zachary's opinion, Rose needed the influence of a father. Someone to help her understand about the world beyond park railings and neat brick-walled gardens, about children who did not wear clothes with lace collars, and people who toiled and sweated for their bread. About the ordinary business of living. However, Rose was not his daughter, and it was not his right to venture any opinions about her upbringing.

He stopped a few steps beneath her and stared at her quizzically. “Princess,” he said with a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “why are you sitting here by yourself?”

Rose heaved a sigh, her pudgy hands sifting through the glittering buttons on the string. Locating her favorite, the perfume button, she lifted it to her nose and smelled. “I'm waiting for Maude,” she said glumly. “She's giving Mama her medicine, and then we're to take supper in the nursery.”

“Medicine,” Zachary repeated, frowning. Why in hell did Holly have need of medicine? She had been perfectly fine not two hours ago when they had ended their dance lesson. Had she met with some kind of accident?

“For her megrims.” The child rested her chin in her hands. “And now there's no one to play with. Maude will try, but she's too tired to be much fun. She'll put me to bed early. Oh, I don't like it when Mama is ill!”

Zachary regarded the child with a thoughtful scowl, wondering if it was possible for someone to develop megrims, an incapacitating case of them, in a mere two hours. What had caused them? All thoughts of his evening activities vanished abruptly. “Princess, you stay here,” he muttered. “I'm going to visit your mother.”

“Will you?” Rose looked at him hopefully. “Can you make her better again, Mr. Bronson?”

The innocent faith in the question somehow twisted his heart and made him laugh at the same time. He reached down and clasped his hand gently over the top of her dark head. “I'm afraid not, Rose. But I can make certain she has everything she needs.”

He left her and ascended the stairs two at a time. Reaching Holly's room just as Maude was exiting, he noted the tension and concern on the maid's face. The peppery sting of anxiety filled his chest. “Maude,” he said gruffly, “what the devil is the matter with Lady Holland?”

Quickly the heavyset blonde jerked a finger to her lips in a signal to keep quiet. “One of her megrims again, sir,” she said in a whisper. “They come on very quick-like, an' any sound or smell or light causes her dreadful pain.”

“What brings them on?”

“I don't know, sir. She's had them every now and again ever since Mr. Taylor passed on to his reward. It usually lasts a day, perhaps a bit more, and then she's back to herself.”

“I'll send for a doctor,” Zachary said decisively.

Maude shook her head at once. “Pardon, sir, but there's no need for that. Lady Holland has seen a specialist, an' he said there's no cure for her kind of megrims, just to rest and take her medicine until she feels better.”

“I'm going to see her.”

The maid's broad face registered instant alarm. “Oh, sir, I do wish ye wouldn't trouble her! Lady Holland isn't fit to speak with anyone—she's in misery, and the medicine makes her a bit out of her head. And she's not…well, she's not properly attired.”

“I won't trouble her, Maude. Now go tend to Rose. She's sitting on the stairs by herself.” Ignoring the maid's protests, Zachary pushed his way past the door and entered the bedroom. Blinking, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness and shadows. He could hear the strained sound of Holly's breathing. A faint sickly-sweet scent hovered in the air, and he sniffed curiously. Making his way to the bedside, he found a bottle and a sticky spoon at the night table. Touching his finger to the spoon, he brought it to his lips and discovered the taste of opiate-laced syrup.

Holly stirred beneath the light sheet, sensing someone's presence in the room. Her eyes and forehead were covered with a damp cloth. “M-Maude?” she whispered.

Zachary hesitated before replying. “I thought you would come away from our dance lesson with your feet hurting,” he murmured, “not your head.”

The soft rumble of his voice caused her to twitch. “Oh…Mr. Bronson…you must leave at once.” She spoke groggily, clearly under the influence of the opiates. “I…I'm not dressed…and this tonic sometimes…makes me say things I don't usually mean to say…”

“In that case, I insist on staying.”

A faint gasp of laughter escaped her. “Please don't make me laugh…hurts dreadfully.”

Zachary lowered himself into the chair that had been placed by the bedside. The creak it made as it bore his weight made Holly flinch. As his gaze adapted to the lack of light, he stared at the luminous whiteness of her shoulders and the sweet curve where her throat flowed into the slope of her chest. “That medicine you're taking is full of opium, sweet lady. I would hate to see you become addicted to it. I've seen the healthiest of men turn into walking skeletons that way.”