"There's more, isn't there?" the duchess predicted, her eyes searching his grim face.
Sir George drew a long breath and slowly expelled it. "We've known all along that press gangs were very active on the night in question, and after further investigation, we discovered that one of the gangs purchased a man whose description was unmistakably that of Hawthorne. Believing he was passed out from drink, and finding no identification on him, they paid the rabble for Hawthorne and then delivered him on board one of His Majesty's warships—the Lancaster. "
"Thank God!" Alexandra cried as joy exploded in her heart. Without thinking, she caught the duchess' icy hand in her own and squeezed it tightly. But Bradburn's next words sent Alexandra's spirit plummeting into the depths of hell. "Four days ago," he said grimly, "the Lancaster was engaged in battle by a French ship, the Versailles. Another of our ships, the Carlisle, was limping back to port under cover of the fog, crippled from an encounter with the Americans. Unable to go to the aid of his sister ship, the captain of the Carlisle witnessed the entire battle through his glass. When the battle was over, the Versailles was barely under sail…"
"And the Lancaster?" Alexandra burst out.
Sir George cleared his throat. "It is my sad duty to inform you that the Lancaster was sunk, and all on board were lost—including his grace, the Duke of Hawthorne."
The room whirled before Alexandra's vision; a scream rose in her chest and she pushed her hand against her mouth, her wild gaze flying to the duchess' tormented face. She saw the duchess sway, and Alexandra automatically wrapped her arms around the weeping woman, rocking her back and forth as if she were a child, stroking her shaking back, whispering mindless reassurances to her, while torrents of tears raced down her own cheeks.
As if from a great distance, she heard Sir George Bradburn say he had brought a doctor with him, and she was dimly aware of someone gently but firmly pulling Jordan's weeping grandmother from her embrace, while Ramsey took her arm and guided her upstairs.
Chapter Thirteen
Nightmares pursued Alexandra all the way into wakefulness as she rolled onto her back, trying to escape from a dream where she stood in a churchyard, surrounded by hundreds of headstones, each one bearing the name of her father, or her grandfather, or her husband.
Her eyelids felt as if they were weighed down with iron when she made an effort to force them open, and when she finally succeeded, she wished she hadn't. Her head felt as if someone had buried an ax in her skull, and the sunlight pouring in from the window made her eyes ache. Wincing, she turned away from the source of the sunlight, and her gaze riveted on a thin woman in a starched black uniform, white apron, and cap, who was dozing in an armchair beside her bed. The parlormaid, Alexandra realized dimly.
"Why are you here?" she whispered in a feeble, rasping voice she scarcely recognized as her own. The parlormaid slept on, snoring softly, and Alexandra tilted her throbbing head on the pillow. Her gaze settled blankly on the table beside her bed, where a spoon and glass lay beside a bottle.
"What is that?" she whispered, more loudly this time.
The exhausted servant jerked erect, saw that Alexandra's eyes were open, and leapt from her chair. "Laudanum, my lady, and the doctor said you was to eat the very minute you came round. I'll fix you a nice tray and be back in a trice."
Too sleepy to sort that all out, Alexandra let her heavy lids slide closed. When she opened them again, there was a tray beside the bed, and the sun had angled much lower in the sky. It was afternoon, Alexandra realized, feeling disoriented and fuzzy, but rested.
The parlormaid was awake this time, peering anxiously at her. "Goodness, you've been sleeping like the dead!" she burst out, then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
Alexandra peered curiously at her, and awkwardly struggled into a sitting position so the maid could place the tray on her lap. On the laden breakfast tray, as was the custom, there was a red rose and a copy of the Times folded in half. "Why was I given laudanum?" Alexandra asked, annoyed with her slurred speech and inability to concentrate properly.
"Because the doctor said you should have it."
Alexandra frowned in confusion, then automatically asked the same question she had asked each morning since she'd come to this house. "Has Sir George come to—" Pain shrieked through her body and erupted in a tortured moan as her mind snapped into focus and she remembered Bradburn's last visit on Tuesday. She shook her pounding head, trying to blot out the images marching across her mind, the voices saying, "… Sad duty to inform you that all hands on board were lost… Quick, get the doctor… Authorities duly notified… Ramsey, get her to bed…"
"No!" Alexandra cried and jerked her face away from the maid, but the Times was lying on her lap. She stared at the bold print on the front page.
"What's wrong, my lady? What do it say?" the horrified maid asked, staring uncomprehendingly at the words she'd never been taught to read.
Alexandra understood every agonizing one of them. They said that Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende—12th Duke of Hawthorne, Marquess of Landsdowne, Earl of Marlow, Baron of Richfield—was dead.
Alexandra's head fell back on the pillows, and she closed her eyes, oblivious to everything but the torment searing her mind.
"Oh, Miss—your grace—I never meant to give you cause to be upset," the maid whispered, wringing her hands. "I'll get the doctor. Her grace has taken to her bed, so ill she be that he said he daren't leave her—"
The last of that slowly penetrated Alexandra's desolation. "I'll go to her in a little bit," she told the distraught maid.
"Oh, no, your grace, you've been ill yerself, and it won't do no good anyway. Craddock told Mr. Ramsey that her grace don't talk. She can't. She don't recognize no one—she just stares…"
Alarm overcame Alexandra's grief and, ignoring the maid's protests, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, grasped the bedpost to steady her swaying senses, then pulled on her dressing robe.
In answer to Alexandra's knock, the physician opened the door to the duchess' bedchamber and stepped out into the hallway. "How is she?" Alexandra asked anxiously.
The physician shook his head. "She's not good, not good at all. She is not a young woman and she has sustained a terrible shock. She will not eat or speak. She merely lies there, staring into the distance."
Alexandra nodded, remembering her mother's behavior when, shortly after her father's death, his mistress had called upon them. Her mother had also retired to her bed, where she would neither eat nor speak, nor let anyone console her. When her mother had eventually emerged from her self-imposed confinement, she never was herself again. It was as if all the grief and bitterness were still bottled up inside of her, eating away at her mind.