[Author's Note: I'm going to send out the next two parts; after that I'll need to do some serious editing to fit Mrs. Clark in. Also, I have to put my Grandma's hat back on tomorrow and then EVERYONE is coming to our house for Thanksgiving! I will be too busy to write, edit, or post until after the holiday but it didn't seem fair to leave you hanging for nearly a week, wondering about the poor Avenger. ;-)]
[Previously: Cedric is ambushed while out doing his Avenger thing; Lavinia awakens to the news--tearfully delivered by Jeanne--the the Avenger has been murdered.]
Chapter Eight
It's the same grey sky as yesterday, Lavinia thought as she stood near her bedroom window, wiping yet more tears from her cheeks. But yesterday she had awakened to the promise of a new love, to a day spent without the unwelcome company of the Earl, and to a world that was better because one brave man had chosen to risk his own life for the lives of friends, as well as strangers.
Ambushed! They had tricked him and shot him, then left him to die in the forest; alone and unaided, and probably frightened. That's what bothered Lavinia the most. He'd helped so many people, and to have to die alone ..! The thought was almost unbearable. Fresh tears were forming and she moved away from the window to fetch a clean handkerchief.
Poor Jeanne! Lavinia had not seen the woman so distraught since the night they had all fled their home in France, certain that they were being pursued. She had sobbed while telling Lavinia all that she and the other servants had heard.
"The cowards! Les poltrons! They are in une taverne now, Lavinia Marie, boasting of their triumph, laughing and toasting one another, bullying le cabaretier and his family into serving them! If Le Vengeur were still alive, they would not dare to do so!"
Lavinia tried to comfort Jeanne, but was only partly successful.
"The men," she continued, tearfully, "they will search for him today, for his body. Les villageois, the people from the farms, they all loved him."
Jeanne had helped her mistress to dress and then left her, but Lavinia hadn't yet composed herself enough to go down to breakfast. Her father would be looking for her she knew, but the mere thought of food made her feel unwell.
Her thoughts turned to those who would be looking for the Avenger's body: they were willing to risk the criminals' possible wrath to find him. She hoped they would. The local people would need time to mourn their fallen hero, and they would want to honour him with a hero's funeral.
It made her even sadder that she'd never discovered who he truly was. Perhaps he had had a family? A mother, or sister perhaps, who even now were wondering what had become of him? Finally, sadly, everyone would learn the Avenger's true identity, but too late to thank him in person.
Wiping her eyes and bringing her thoughts back to the present, she knew she did not still harbour romantic feelings for the Avenger. Those feelings had faded away once she'd found Cedric. But she could not help but grieve for the loss of one who had been kind to her. He had been strong and brave and caring, and he'd deserved a better death. He'd deserved a better life, but he'd chosen to serve others rather than sit safely by his own hearth.
That last thought energized her, pushing her grief to the side. There had to be something that could be done! Some way to avenge this brave man's death! She wondered if Cedric had heard the news. Perhaps he would know of something, could help think of something--to organize the locals, or someone who could be approached about getting more officers of the law into the area--some way to bring those cowards to justice.
Deciding that she'd hidden in her room long enough, she went to the wash stand to bathe her face. No doubt her father had broken his fast by now and was in the library. As soon as she looked presentable again she thought she would knock on Cedric's office door to see if he was at work. If not, then perhaps she would find him downstairs. It felt important to speak to him, so she devoutly hoped he had not left the house yet.
With this plan in mind she made her way to the end of the passage and took the stairs to the next landing. It was only a few steps further to the door of Cedric's office. Her knock elicited no response from inside, so she tried the latch. It resisted a bit but then opened, with a louder click than she remembered hearing the evening she had first entered this room with Cedric. She didn't give it much thought, however, because she could see right away that the room was empty. He must be downstairs then. Perhaps this evening they would be able to revive their interrupted plans!
She was about to turn and go downstairs when she received the distinct impression that she wasn't as alone as she'd thought. Lavinia glanced around the room again, but there was still no one in sight. Then she thought she heard something off to her left. Involuntarily she glanced that way and, for the first time, noticed there was a door, opened just by a crack, neatly hidden amongst the darkened panelling of the far wall.
Relieved by this sight, for she was certain that room must also belong to Cedric and the noise she'd heard had most likely been made by him. Not wanting to intrude into what was assuredly his private room, she was once again on the point of leaving when she heard a faint moan. Ignoring everything else but the fear that Cedric must still be ill, and in need of aid, she rushed across the office and opened the previously hidden door. She was greeted by the sight of a very ill Cedric indeed.
The room was dimly lit because the curtains still covered the windows, but even by candlelight she could tell that he must have passed a very uncomfortable night. The bedclothes were disarranged because he'd been moving about restlessly, and he'd managed to get his shoulders and one arm out from under the covers. His brow was creased as if still in pain, and his hand felt hot to her touch. She was moved to pity and reached to gently stroke his pale face. She'd had no idea he suffered as much as this from his headaches, poor man!
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, her sad thoughts for the Avenger still lurked, but they had been over-taken by her concern for Cedric. Where was Jacques? And, why had he left his master unattended?
Cedric muttered something, too low for her catch what he'd said, and his hand moved--his fingers twitching against hers--which she thought indicated that he knew she was there. Yet, when she spoke to him, he did not respond. His dark hair was no longer confined by its usual black riband, and now lay scattered on the pillow, although some strands, damp with perspiration, clung to his face. Lavinia continued to hold his hand while she spoke soothingly to him and tenderly straightened his tumbled hair.
Suddenly, he moaned again and arched his back slightly, a grimace of pain darkening his face. Searching for some way to help him, she decided to straighten the blankets and rearrange the pillows, to make them more comfortable for him. The pillow he was currently using felt damp, so she eased that one out from under him, vaguely noticing that something fluttered to the floor as she did so. Next she pulled on the blankets and smoothed them over him, covering him up to the chin to keep him from getting chilled. She looked upon her handiwork with satisfaction. Now he was in a more prone position, and his neck and spine were aligned, which she thought ought to feel better to someone with a headache.
Bending down she picked up the extra pillow from where she'd dropped it and noticed a handkerchief lying underneath it. This must have been what she'd seen fall to the floor. She picked that up too, thinking she could use it to bathe his face, and looked around for the water pitcher. There it was, over on his shaving stand.
She dropped the pillow onto a chair and walked to the shaving stand, grateful that she had decided to stop by his office first. Who knew how long he might have lain here, unattended, if she hadn't come!
The pitcher was nearly full, so she put the handkerchief down in order to use both hands to pour the water. Only when she had reclaimed the bit of linen and lace, ready to dip it in the basin, did it occur to her that this was a rather dainty handkerchief for a man to use. She held it up to a candle, to look at it more closely, and her breath caught in her throat.
Surely, this was hers! The one she'd given to the Masked Avenger! How had Cedric--? Did he know who the Avenger was? Were they friends? Why would the Avenger have given this to Cedric?
The questions were flying through her head faster than she could articulate them. Why? When? And, most importantly, how?
It makes no sense, her brain cried!
Yes, it does, her heart responded. And then ... she knew.
Her mind stopped whirling, but her heart was pounding. She was remembering now: the way he had sometimes seemed to be two different people, his kindness towards others, his horsemanship, how his arms had felt when he held her, his smile, the way he'd bent to kiss her hand--both as Cedric and ... as the Avenger.
Cedric--her Cedric--was the Masked Avenger. He wasn't dead! He was here ... alive! Sick, but--
Wait! Jeanne had said those villains had boasted of having shot and killed the Avenger. Shot ...!
Fearfully, clutching the handkerchief tightly, Lavinia approached Cedric's bedside once again. He was still muttering in his sleep, but now, as she bent closer she could make out the words and realised he was using a mixture of English ... and French! She grasped the sheet and blankets, and pulled them slowly down, past his shoulders, past his chest, until ...! Sure enough, there it was; a bandage, with faint bloodstains, wrapped around his lower ribs. It was true, then ... all of it: Cedric and the Avenger were one and the same!
From the wall on the other side of the bed, came the sounds of soft footsteps and of a hand on a latch. Lavinia froze, illogically terrified that Cedric's would-be murderers had come to finish what they'd started. What could she do? Frantically she looked around for a weapon with which to protect him, but there wasn't a knife or pistol in sight. The sounds grew louder. An opening magically appeared in the wall and through it stepped Jacques, his arms full of damp clothing.
For what seemed like a very long time they stared at one another over Cedric's unconscious form: Lavinia still holding the blankets and exposing his injury, while Jacques clutched the Masked Avenger's disguise.
It would have been hard to tell which one of them was the more nonplussed.
