The Makeshift Marriage by Sandra Heath

Nicholas lay so still. Laura’s eyes went to the table beside her.
    Augustine Townsend’s beautiful face stared at her from its dainty little frame. In front of the miniature lay a folded, sealed document —the last will and testament of Sir Nicholas Grenville of King’s Cliff in the county of Somerset.
    Laura bowed her head, the tears stinging her tired eyes.
     

Chapter 10
     
    The long, dark shadows of the Venetian sunset lengthened across the floor. Outside the sky was a dazzling gold as the day at last came to an end, but still Nicholas lingered uncertainly between life and death.
    Henderson sat on a chair in a far corner of the room, his tired head nodding forward on his chest as he slept. Like Laura, he had not slept the night before, and the anxiety and uncertainty of the day had taken its toll. Laura remained at Nicholas’s side. While he still lived and breathed, then there was hope… .
    Major Bergmann had returned several times, but there had been nothing to tell him. Nicholas neither deteriorated nor improved. The maître d’hôtel had personally brought a tray of food to the room, but neither Laura nor the valet had had any appetite, although they had thankfully accepted the dish of tea he insisted they take. Henderson quite obviously still blamed Laura for what had happened, but he had managed a smile when she had remarked that the maître d’hôtel quite obviously believed that come what may, the British took tea!
    Now she leaned her weary head back against her chair. Her thoughts returned to the moment she had embarked upon her journey to Venice. Little had she then thought events would take this disastrous and momentous turn. She held Nicholas’s right hand and it seemed suddenly that his fingers stirred a little. She sat forward immediately, her heart beating like thunder. Now his lips moved, as if he was trying to form a word. She bent close. It was almost unintelligible, but to her it was only too clear. It was a woman’s name, ‘Augustine’ .
    But there was no time to give in to the heartbreak that single utterance brought her. “Henderson!” she cried, “Henderson, quickly! Sir Nicholas spoke. Bring Dr. Meyer!”
    The valet was rudely jerked from his slumber and without question he ran from the room.
    Anxiously, Laura returned her attention to Nicholas. “Nicholas? Can you hear me?”
    There was no reaction.
    “Please, my love, open your eyes!” She held his hand against her cheek.
    “Augustine?”
    “Open your eyes.”
    His eyelids flickered a little and then he was looking at her. He seemed puzzled at first, as if he did not know her, but then a smile touched his ashen lips. “Laura.” He was barely audible.
    “I’ve sent Henderson for the doctor.”
    “Doctor?” The puzzled look returned.
    “You are badly wounded.”
    Memory seemed to return then. “The duel —”
    “The baron broke the rules. Do you remember?”
    “A little.”
    “You wounded him,” she said, hoping to encourage him just a little. His voice was so faint and shaky that she could barely understand him. Her hands trembled as she poured him some water and held the dish to his dry lips. He drank only a small amount, and even that effort seemed too much for him. His dull eyes closed again and he slipped back into unconsciousness.
    Almost in tears, she replaced the dish on the table. At that moment Henderson returned with the doctor, and they were accompanied by the portly, black-clad, and bewigged figure of a chaplain.
    The chaplain bowed. “The Reverend Xavier Smythe,” he said. “Attached to the British consulate here in Venice. Your servant, ma’am.”
    “Sir.” Laura rose slowly to her feet. “But why…?”
    The doctor put down his bag. “I took the necessary precaution, Fraulein, of sending for the chaplain as I think it only right that Sir Nicholas should have the comfort of a priest at this time.”
    It seemed so very final. “But Sir Nicholas spoke to me,” she protested. “He spoke to