The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,8

months! How disappointing for him that he should be superseded at the moment of his triumph!”

With an ironic bow, Lord John left the bedroom.

Kathryn put her hand to her tear-wet face. “Am I mad? Oh, God, what is happening? Is this delirium—or am I really living in England—in the year 1775?”

Desperately she pulled together her disordered wits. There must be a rational explanation. Was she experiencing a nervous breakdown? She had been deeply shocked, wounded, by the cavalier treatment she had received from Donald Madson. But surely that would not have been enough to cause this kind of hallucination? Perhaps her soaking in the icy rain had given her a fever—but so soon? Or was this a virus infection, strengthened by nervous tension and exposure . . .? Was she in a hospital, suffering fever and delirium? There was some comfort in the thought. Kathryn focused her eyes on the elegantly-furnished bedroom. Surely an elaborate fever dream! Even her wealthiest school friends, who had occasionally asked her to visit at their homes, had never boasted such a room.

The walls were paneled in pale green satin framed in white wood. The hangings were made of the same satin, draped back over sheerest white net with golden cords. The carpet, deep-piled, was a silky pale green. Charming gilt and satin lounging chaises were set on either side of a white marble fireplace, in which now gleamed and danced a cheery fire. Heavy crystal bowls of hothouse flowers perfumed the air. And everywhere there were mirrors—gold-framed, ornate large, small, round, rectangular. This was the bedroom of a woman who worshipped her own beauty.

As she studied the room, Kathryn heard the door open quietly. She glanced quickly toward it, hoping against reason that Lord Elsingham had returned to discuss her situation. Entering the room was the same gaunt, black-clothed woman whose eyes had so terrified Kathryn during the time the doctor had been setting her arm. Kathryn drew the bed covers up to her chin in a futile effort to protect herself from that flat black gaze.

At the woman’s shoulder was the same slender, dark-haired man who had stood behind her in the railed gallery. Very furtively now he followed the woman into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. The two advanced toward Kathryn’s bed.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Kathryn stammered. “Go away! I am sick!”

The gaunt woman stood near the bed, scanning her face intently. Without taking her eyes from Kathryn, she addressed the young man. “Something’s amiss,” she muttered. “The drug was not to have such an effect. I may have given her too heavy a dose—”

“Damn you and your devilish potions,” snarled the man. “Didn’t I warn you against it? I could have won her to me without your messes! You’ve driven her out of her senses, you damned old hag! What good is she to either of us in this state?”

“Keep your voice down,” the woman commanded. “D’you want to bring the household on us? Have you forgot I’ve already been sent away by his high and mighty lordship? How long do you reckon you’ll last around here if she’s gone mad?”

The young man peered angrily at Kathryn. “Well? Has she?”

Kathryn pulled herself together. “I have told you to leave my room. Do I have to summon help to have you put out?” Her eyes went to the heavy bell-rope which dangled by the head of the bed.

The man drew back, alarm on his pale, handsome face. The woman was made of stronger stuff. She adopted an attitude of wheedling servility.

“Come, now, milady, you’re not angry with old Donner, surely? Her that’s been nurse an’ maid an’ dresser to ye since ye were a slip of a girleen, running hey-go-mad on the lovely green turf of home? ¼Tis only a distempered freak you’re feelin’, from the pain in your blessed arm. Let Donner give you a potion, dearie. ¼Twill do ye more good than all that silly doctor’s quackery—”

Kathryn made a convulsive lunge at the bell-rope. Cursing under her breath, the young man leaped to prevent her. But Donner only smiled.

“Let her do it, ye cowardly scut. Sure an’ it’ll completely convince her fine lordling to put her away, if he’s informed by his top-lofty London servants that his lady’s entertaining her painter-boy in her bedchamber!”

Kathryn drew back her hand. Donner grinned. “That’s better, milady. Now suppose you just let old Donner give ye a little draught to calm your nerves, like always?” She drew a