Amy Lake (4 page)

Lord Ashdown stared at him. “My leg?”

The doctor knew that it was the talk of amputation which had obtained the man’s full attention, rather than the possibility of losing his life. It was the same for everyone. I’d sooner die, Jonas Hammon told him years ago, after that damned mine shaft had collapsed and half buried him in rubble. And die he had.

The doctor sighed to himself. “You should be fine,” he told Lord Ashdown. “But for now—you stay in this bed.”

The man appeared to accept this. A sudden look of puzzlement crossed his face.

“I beg your pardon,” he said to Dee. “I seem to be forgetting everything. Who is Mrs. . . . Mrs. Marwick?”

“Fiona Marwick is the young woman now making up her twentieth willow poultice for you. This is her home.”

“Ah.”

Dee realized that his voice had taken on an edge, and softened it. “I realize the situation is difficult. But even if you could get back on a horse—”

“Perhaps I could hire a carriage.”

“—any movement of the leg now is likely to retard the knitting of the bone significantly, and you will limp, at best, for the rest of your life.”

Silence.

“I’m sure,” said Lord Ashdown, “that Mrs. Marwick would prefer me out of her home.”

“That’s as may be,” replied Dee, blandly. “She understands, nevertheless.”

Fiona returned at that moment, carrying the poultice, which smelled strongly of willow. It was a smell that some found strong, but which the doctor liked. It smelled of healing, and life.

“This is Lord Ashdown, Fiona. Lord Ashdown, if I may introduce Mrs. Fiona Marwick.”

The man really noticed Fiona for the first time, the doctor saw. His eyes widened fractionally.

The female standing before them, her eyes tired, her hair pulled back in an untidy knot, and her clothing exhibiting a few stains from poultice-making, was nevertheless strikingly attractive. Her eyes were large and a deep shade of green, her nose straight, the finely limned cheekbones the envy of any lady. The people of Barley Mow hardly noticed Mrs. Marwick’s looks, as she’d grown up with them, but Dee knew that under different circumstances Fiona would have been an acclaimed beauty.

She would have cut a wide swath through the
haut
ton
, thought Dee. If she’d been born into it.

“Your lordship,” said Fiona, with a small curtsey.

“Mrs. Marwick.”

“Dee?” said Fiona, nodding at the poultice.

“I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”

She nodded, and left.

His lordship appeared slightly stunned, and the doctor felt an old bitterness rise within him. Perhaps Lord Ashdown was the type that believed beauty was the consequence of class, and expected to find it only in London, among wealthy females.

“This may sting just a bit,” said Dee.

Chapter 6: Lord Ashdown Writes a Note

Lord Colin Ashdown, thought Fiona. Lord Colin Ashdown, the fine-looking scion of the Ashdowns of London, wishes to make it known that he and Fiona Marwick, lately of Tern’s Rest Cottage, in Barley Mow, County Durham, will be wed in St. . . . Elthelburga-the-Virgin, on the fifth day of—

Fiona laughed and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. The relief was making her giddy, she decided. The smell of sickness had already left the cottage, blown off by the sea winds. There was to be no young man dying in her guest bedroom, no solemn procession to the churchyard, no stranger buried without a single person present to know his name. Only a very handsome lord, whose color improved by the day. Whose voice was kind and who had been ever so polite to her.

Fiona grinned to herself, and shrugged. That’s what happens when you have a quiet life and an active imagination, she thought.

She swept the kitchen for a second time—sand was an ever present part of life in a home so close to the shore—and then prodded the fire back into life. She drew another pot of water for tea.

A lord and a widow from Barley Mow—what nonsense! And for all she knew, he was married. If so, ’twas an odd sort of marriage, that a man be riding alone in a part of the country unfamiliar to him, with not even a miniature of his wife for company—but she had heard stranger things said about the men and women of the
ton
.

No, she could not believe he was married, not that it could be of the slightest concern to her.

Her next thoughts were less pleasant. Sir Irwin Ampthill had returned the previous evening. Maddie had seen the procession of carriages proceeding up to Marsden Hall—the baronet seemed to require an army of servants to make even the shortest stay—and smoke rising from each of the four chimneys.

Perhaps that was why she was thinking so much of the man in her guest room bed. It made a far happier subject than Sir Irwin. The baronet would insist on stopping by the cottage, even though she’d given him no reason to think she enjoyed his visits, nor did he seemed to enjoy them himself, as it happened.

Where was Madelaine? wondered Fiona. ’Twas nearly time for his lordship’s tea.

  * * * *

Lord Colin Ashdown had now been a resident of Tern’s Rest for nearly a fortnight. Once he stopped insisting that he would hire a carriage and leave on the instant, and became reconciled to the fact that he would be an inhabitant of one of Fiona’s spare bedrooms for some time, he made a agreeable enough house guest. Although hardly chatty. They all assumed he would want to notify his family as soon as possible, whoever they might be, but his lordship had been wholly unconcerned on that account.

“I’ll write a letter to my man of affairs in London,” was all he told Dr. Fischer. “He will see to any notifications.”

A short note, using the cottage’s best writing paper, had been duly posted, and his lordship showed no further interest in correspondence.

Dee shook his head when Mrs. Marwick questioned him. “I’ve no idea,” he told her, “but he doesn’t seemed troubled about it. Perhaps he has no close family.”

“Or doesn’t wish them to come to Barley Mow,” said Fiona, with a touch of rue. She was well aware of Sir Irwin’s low opinion of the village, which he had expressed clearly enough in front of his servants, if not to her.

No-one had heard of the Ashdowns, which was to be expected, although a few people did think the name sounded familiar. There were many lords and ladies in England, and the villagers could not be expected to know each one of them.

In the meantime there were two extra people in the cottage—Colin Ashdown and Agnes Groundsell, who had clearly settled in for the duration as chaperon. The woman was, fortunately, not as annoying a presence as Fiona had feared. She slept until mid-morning, took a bit of toast and jam, and then headed out for Barley Mow’s tiny post office, which was the local meeting place. Mrs. Groundsell had never been popular in the village, and was enjoying her new status as a source of gossip, to whit, what was happening to the handsome lord sleeping in the widow Marwick’s best guest room. She could be found sitting down at tea for most of the afternoon, surrounded by an ever-changing group of villagers, all of whom were curious for information. Fiona had heard, roundabout, some of the stories she’d been telling. Lord Ashdown’s leg had, as it seemed, poured blood and he’d been at death’s door until Mrs. Groundsell had made up her best colt’s foot poultice for the man. He’d been ever so grateful, and rich as Croesus he was, not that she cared of course, ’twas all the same to her, lord or commoner, they were all equal in the sight of God, but
this
one was ever so handsome.

Dr. Fischer had forbidden the woman to enter Lord Ashdown’s room. He’d been quite firm on the point, despite her protests, and both Madelaine and Fiona had been recruited to enforce his rule; if Mrs. Groundsell stepped into the hallway outside Lord Ashdown’s bedroom one of them was there, with a cheerful smile, to close the door.

“Shh. He’s sleeping.”

Two extra people meant two extra mouths to feed, of course. Lord Ashdown had not broached the subject of payment with Fiona, which relieved her to no end, as it would have been mortifying to be thought unable to care for an injured person without money changing hands. But he had spoken to Dee, and apparently come to some kind of understanding about the matter, because a basket of food was now delivered to her kitchen door every morning, and when she inquired as to payment, the boy only shrugged.

Fiona thought of protesting, even then.

“Don’t,” said Dee.

“I’m not a charity case. I can afford to feed my guests.” This was true, although the small income Fiona had inherited after Joseph’s death would not allow for much more.

“I know that. But I also know his type. He’ll insist, and you’ll insist, and pretty soon he’ll work himself up into a lather. ’Twould be bad for his health.”

Fiona shot him a look. “Bah,” she said.

“Bah, yourself.”

They both laughed. Having Dr. Fischer visit each day was worth even the bother of Mrs. Groundsell, Fiona decided. As to his lordship—

It was time to bring him some tea. She could do it herself, but something in Fiona made her hesitate to spend any more time with Colin Ashdown than was necessary. He was very handsome, and in the clothes they’d found for him—a pair of trousers and a few coarsely-woven shirts from the Watterson’s oldest, who was several years at sea as a quotaman for the Royal Navy—he gave the impression of an unusually refined and well-spoken farmhand.

Fiona found the sight of his lordship in a homespun shirt, worn open at the neck, oddly disturbing.

“Maddie!”

Her daughter was nearly in the kitchen before the word was out.

“Tea for Colin?” she asked her mother, eyes bright.

“Lord Ashdown,” Fiona reminded her.

“He says I can call him Colin.”

“Umm.”

“He said so! He likes your biscuits. Can I bring him biscuits, too?”

Fiona nodded, repressing a smile. “Don’t pester him, Madelaine.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

Which was probably true. As best she could judge the matter, Lord Ashdown found her daughter . . . entertaining. She forgave him for this, since he was undoubtedly bored lying in a strange bedroom all day, and Madelaine was, if anything, a continual breath of fresh air. The girl had scoured the cottage bookshelves for their guest, and came up with
Le Morte d’ Arthur
and Chapman’s
Iliad
, which he proclaimed more than adequate. She also rooted out a packet of playing cards, and had convinced ‘Colin’ and the doctor to teach her three-handed loo.

Dee had suggested that Fiona join them. She had demurred.

Chapter 7: Sir Irwin Makes a Call

A tray with tea and biscuits arrived as usual in the mid-morning, carried by Madelaine. The girl had proved to be excellent company and he found himself looking forward to her conversation, her discoveries from the rock pools, and their frequent games of piquet. The marquess was accustomed to a life of considerable activity. Remaining bedridden for the better part of a fortnight would have driven him mad, if not for Madelaine’s continued attempts to amuse him.

“Why were you climbing down the cliff?” the girl asked, helping herself to one of the biscuits.

“I was rescuing a damsel in distress,” Colin told her.

“A damsel! What damsel?”

“You.”

Maddie laughed in delight, and then turned serious. “Don’t be silly. I didn’t need to be rescued.”

“Well, I know that now, don’t I?”

“You should,” said Madelaine.

  * * * *

The wind had come up, rattling the shutters and the doors of the cottage. ’Twas not enough to be called a true winter storm, but Fiona spent some of the morning checking what Hobbs called the cottage’s ‘seaworthiness’—making sure that all the hardware was in place and that the shutters would close if needed, and that the pump handle for the well was protected, and unlikely to go flying off in a real blow.

She was outside, then, when Sir Irwin came to call. He arrived in a carriage, as usual, a small gig driven by one of the villagers. Dee said that the baronet was the worst horseman in the county, and could not be trusted to stay on his mount.

“Mrs. Marwick.”

Fiona, having finished with the shutters, was in the garden, looking for any stray onions that may have escaped Hobbs’ careful eye. She straightened up and saw the baronet walking toward her, smiling his tight, false smile. She inclined her head slightly. Fiona refused to curtsey to the man, and he had so far chosen to overlook this omission.

“Sir Irwin.”

“You are looking lovely today, Fiona.”

Her hands were dirty from the garden, and her apron not precisely clean. Fiona ran her hand through her hair, which was even now escaping from its mare’s tail, and tried not to laugh. She hated that he felt free to use her first name but, like the missing curtsey, it was left unremarked, part of an ongoing game played between them.

Fiona despised this game.

“What brings you to Tern’s Rest?” she said, bluntly. She had no time for Irwin Ampthill today.

“I hear we have a visitor.”

  * * * *

Colin could see Mrs. Marwick’s garden from the guest room window, which was immediately next to his bed. He had spent many hours gazing out that window during the past few days. He could see the well-tended boxwood and gravel paths of the immediate yard, the lawn which sloped slightly down toward the seacliffs, and the corner of the stables. He knew a bit of the routine of the household, now, and found himself looking forward to its various activities. Particularly those involving Fiona.

She’d come to the bedroom only a few minutes earlier, knocking on the door—

“Lord Ashdown?”

“Please,” he told her. “My name is Colin.”

Mrs. Marwick tilted her head and looked at him from under her eyelashes. She was beautiful, and the marquess felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Colin,” she said. “And who else calls you by that name?”

The invited familiarity did not seem to impress her as much as Lord Ashdown intended.

“Ah,” said the marquess. “My sisters, I suppose.”

“But not the ladies of the London
ton
, I’m sure.”