Barbara Metzger (4 page)

“Diablo was mistreated in his early years,” Delia explained to the crestfallen boy who thought he’d done something wrong, to be shouted at. “Now he does not like men, and Heaven knows what he’d do to a boy.”

“But he let the major ride him, din’t he?”

He did, which told Delia a lot about the sick man, his strength, his skill, and his sheer stubbornness. She turned to the groom and said, “Just open the stall door and put out Diablo’s grain, Jed. And get Cook started soaking sugar cubes in brandy, even if we have to go without supper.”

She directed the rest of her small staff—two day maids and the cook’s helper—to bring a bed frame and mattress down from the attics, and turn the small, unused rear parlor into a guest room. The windows leaked there, but they would have to keep the fires lit anyway. That way they would not have to drag the large gentleman up the narrow flights, and could lend a modicum of respectability, like her lost cap, to a decidedly havey-cavey business by keeping him away from the family quarters—and Belinda. Besides, this was a temporary arrangement only, Delia prayed. Very temporary.

While Mindle and the groom got his lordship settled, and Nanny fussed over him and his medication, Delia wrote a letter to her cousin Clarence—Sir Clarence now, as his wife was quick to remind everyone. They’d hear soon enough from the servants’ grapevine tonight, or the egg man in the morning. Better they learn about the major now, from Delia. Besides, if Tyverne’s life had been in George’s keeping, Clarence must have inherited him along with the baronetcy and the estate. Clarence and Gwen were welcome to the ailing, addlepated gentleman, with Delia’s blessings. She certainly had no time for a bedlamite beau.

Not that Delia mentioned his lordship’s proposal to her cousins, naturally. There was nothing in the offer worth the ink to write it. The man was raving, obviously out of his mind. Of course any man foolish enough to ride Diablo when he was in such ill health, or to make such an outrageous proposal, could not be altogether needle-witted at the best of times.

Delia did permit herself an instant’s wool-gathering, a smile playing about her lips. After all, it was not every day a handsome gentleman prostrated himself at her feet.

Wasn’t it every girl’s dream to be rescued from peril by a handsome knight on a pure white steed? He’d carry her off to a magical realm where troubles were forbidden, where they would live happily ever after in a rosy glow of eternal love.

In a storybook.

In actual fact, the man was likely here to return Diablo. She did write of that possibility to Clarence, cheered to think of her custard-soft, corpulent cousin trying to ride George’s gelding.

When the letter was sanded and sealed, she checked on his lordship, now made more comfortable in bed, in one of George’s old nightshirts. She supposed the hem wouldn’t reach the major’s knees, and the sleeves left his wrists uncovered, but the man was sleeping soundly. Nanny assured her that, with the fever under control, her prime specimen of British manhood would be right as a trivet in a day or two, except for the scar on his upper arm. That wound might never heal properly, Nanny tsk’ed, but she’d pray for him. Delia left Nanny and her Bible at the gentleman’s bedside, and made sure that Aunt Eliza kept watch over Belinda.

Then, calling for the boy Dover to accompany her, she put on her old chip-straw bonnet, which had taken the black dye even less successfully than her gowns, and told Mindle she was walking to the village to deliver her letter. Delia had to make certain, she told the old servant, that the major hadn’t taken rooms at the inn, or had his valet and bags waiting somewhere. A gentleman simply did not travel with the one clean shirt they’d found in his saddlebag, once they had wrestled the saddle off the impossible horse. Perhaps the major had a wife waiting for him in the next village, she added, to put paid to any speculation on her loyal servant’s part.

As an afterthought, Delia decided to take Belinda’s poor dog with her. Heaven knew the fat little white terrier needed the exercise.

They stopped first at Clarence’s father-in-law’s house outside the village, where her cousin and his wife resided with the old squeeze-crab. A surly footman opened the door, took one look at the ragged boy, the bedraggled dog, and Miss Croft in her ratty hat, and nearly closed the door on them. No wonder Clarence and Gwen were so eager to move into their own establishment, Delia decided after she convinced the lackey to deliver her letter. The house was dark, dreary, and cold, about as welcoming as the spotty-faced, sour-breathed servant.

They visited Whitaker’s Inn after that, then the vicarage, the livery, and Mrs. Hensell’s, who sometimes took in travelers. No one knew of the ailing officer, or of anyone asking for him. Now, though, they all knew that Miss Delia Croft of Faircroft House was sheltering a wounded friend of her deceased brother’s. It wasn’t what anyone could like, of course, but what else was she to do with a gallant officer of the Peninsular Campaign? Obviously there was nothing hole-in-corner about the situation, for Miss Croft was not making the least effort to keep the matter quiet, was she?

Delia’s plan was working, except for the Farthingale sisters, who pulled their skirts away from Delia’s contamination in the everything store. The merchants were more friendly than they had been in weeks, though, when they saw how Miss Croft intended to increase her orders for her unfortunate guest.

Invalid food would not put meat back on a wounded man’s bones, the butcher agreed, tossing a scrap to Belinda’s little dog.

A highbred horse like Sir George’s needed more oats and fresh bedding than Miss Croft kept on hand for her old mare. Jack Browne at the livery would load up a wagon.

Naturally the apothecary could mix more fever medicine. Mr. Clayton handed Dover a peppermint stick, without charge, while filling a large sack with lemon drops.

Soothing teas, the latest books from the lending library, the most recent London journals, a new shaving kit, a bottle of port. Whatever else Delia could think of a gentleman needing, she ordered. Oh, and she directed all the bills to her cousin, since the viscount was, of course, actually Sir Clarence’s guest.

Chapter 5

Moaning. Weeping. Praying.

He was back at the field hospital. But Ty could not open his eyes, and the prayers were at his bedside. He must be dead then, with coins placed on his lids so he wouldn’t be staring upward at eternity. Odd, though, that the Spanish nun was reciting the Bible in English, and he smelled—yes, a mustard plaster on his chest.

He jerked himself up and pulled the heavy damp cloth from over his eyes. If he was dead, they’d laid him out in a parlor, for he could see a sofa and a deal table, china figurines on a mantel. “What the devil?”

An old woman shook her finger at him. “There will be no blasphemy in Faircroft House, young man.”

Not dead, then, but in Kent. It all came back to him, the storm-tossed sail home, the hurried stop in London, the mad ride to Kent, the race against time and nature. He had absolutely no idea who this woman was, nor why he was sleeping in a parlor, in a too small nightshirt. “You are ... ?”

“Nanny, my lord. I helped raise up Master Georgie and Miss Dilly, and their mum and Miss Lizzie before them. If the Good Lord is willing, I will help swaddle the next generation.”

“The baby
...
?”

“Know about that, do you, my lord? Aye, if you are that good a friend of Master Georgie’s, you would know.”

Ty did not have the energy to explain that he’d known George Croft for less than five minutes. “Has it come?”

“When the Good Lord decides the time is right, He tells us.”

Ty wished he were on such speaking terms with the Almighty, for he still had no idea if Miss Croft had borne her illegitimate infant. He vaguely recalled a slender young female at the entrance to the house when he’d ridden up. He’d practically fallen at her feet before he’d lost consciousness. There was something else his befogged mind was trying to remember, something she’d said, or he’d said. He’d given his name and then—“Bloody hell! I proposed to the wrong woman!”

Nanny poured a sleeping draught down his throat.

* * * *

Delia returned to Faircroft in a much better frame of mind than when she had left. Just getting away from the house, getting some fresh air and exercise, and getting nods from some of her neighbors, worked wonders. Now she could even face with equanimity this new coil of George’s creation, and ascertain how soon he would be ready to leave.

Mindle reported that his lordship was still sleeping, and would be for some time yet. Nanny, it seemed, had declared that sleep was most helpful for the officer’s recovery, after muttering something about heathens and heretics and heroes. Delia shrugged, used to Nanny’s sermons, and decided to steal a few more minutes of freedom. She would go check on the horse.

Sending young Dover inside with most of the parcels, Delia kept only the sack of sweets with her. Unaware that Belinda’s little dog had followed her, and the treats, from the house, Delia held a candy out to the gelding, through the bars of the stall gate. The sweet rolled off her gloved palm, and the furry white terrier chased it, under the door, nearly under Diablo’s feet.

“Oh, no,” Delia said with a moan. The dog meant the world to Belinda, who had so little. She could not lose her pet, too. Delia started tossing lemon drops for Diablo to the other side of the stall, away from the dog. The stupid mutt started chasing them, too, yapping excitedly at this new game instead of coming to Miss Croft’s calls.

Diablo’s ears were twitching, not a good sign, Delia knew from experience. She held a peppermint stick in her hand. “Come on, you spawn of the devil, you. Any other horse would prefer a carrot, or an apple, but not you. You have to have expensive candies. Well, here.”

The big horse was more interested in the trespasser. He lowered his head, with those massive grinding molars, toward the dog.

“If you injure that animal,” Delia threatened, “you’ll be pulling dung carts in Hades, You’ll be ground up for swine food and
...
and your hair will be used for stuffing furniture. Ugly furniture, like in Gwen’s father’s house.”

Horse and dog touched noses, and Delia let out the breath she’d been holding. Some horses liked having a companion in their stables: a pony, a donkey, a cat. Why not a small dog? Because Diablo was a mean son of a stallion, that was why.

Delia knew she couldn’t scream or wave her hands. Diablo was liable to step on the buffle-headed bitch by mistake. She did the only thing she could think of to distract the gelding while she slipped into the stall and scooped up the foolhardy fur-ball: she gave Diablo her chip-straw bonnet.

“And I hope the dye turns your teeth black, you miserable, misbegotten nag.” Delia found herself weeping into the dog’s fur. “How could you come home without George?”

* * * *

Moaning. Weeping. No praying, thank God. Or not.

This time Ty knew he was alive because he hurt too much. Perhaps the moans had come from his own dry-as-dust mouth. Someone was prodding and poking at the tender flesh around his wounded arm.

“Don’t take it!” he shouted, coming fully alert with a start, to find another old woman, a different one, leaning over him. This one was dressed in brown homespun, with a thick knitted shawl over her shoulders. She had frown lines around her mouth, and she smelled of asafetida.

“Tscha,” the old crone said. “I’m merely checking the handiwork what passes for doctoring these days. I be old Mags, my lord, the healer hereabouts, and I’ve seen neater stitching on a five-year-old’s sampler.”

Ty did not look. He pulled the edges of his borrowed nightshirt together with what dignity he could, considering he was flat on his back and weak as a kitten. “At least they left me my arm, and I can use it somewhat.”

“Aye, I give you that. A’course, you’ll have this ugly scar for the rest of your life. I could of done better.” She pulled open his collar again and slathered some foul-smelling salve on the wound. “This might help, late though it is.”

Ty wrinkled his nose. “That smells like something they put on horses.”

“Works, doesn’t it? Might take some of the stiffness out, if you start using it more.” She wiped her hands on a bit of sacking and stowed the jar in a basket at her feet. “A’course, you’ll have the fevers for the rest of your life, too, I s’pose. Can’t do much about that, more’s the pity. Liable to come on you anytime, especially you go off half-cocked, riding cross-country in the cold.”

“Yes, so the physicians warned me.” Ty had not listened to them, and he did not intend to listen to an old country witch. “But now that you have done with cheering up your patient, Mistress Mags, perhaps you could give me some information. Such as Miss Croft’s condition
...
?”

Mags lowered her brow. “As good as can be expected, considering her woes. She’s a good lass, is our Miss Dilly, and don’t you go forgetting it.”

Since the hag was even then holding his nose to make him swallow yet another noxious brew, Ty was not liable to forget.

“And the infant?” he managed to ask after drinking the barley water she held out, to rid himself of the other taste.

Mags shook her head. “That’s out of my hands now.”

Why would no one tell him whose hands the child
was
in? Ty could feel the drowsiness seep through him, but he had to know more. “How soon
...
?”

“How soon can you be up and finding more ways to destroy your health that the French and the physicians haven’t? A sennight or so, I’d guess, before you regain strength enough to sit in the saddle.”

“No, too long. I have to be back. Promised.”

“In a hurry to kill yourself, are you?”

Ty’s eyes were drifting closed, despite his best efforts to stay awake. “London
...
my
...
Nonny.”

Mags pursed her lips. “I don’t care how many bits of muslin you have waiting for you in the City. You wouldn’t be much good to her anyway, sweating and shaking. Mayhaps you could ride back in a carriage sooner. We’ll see how you fare on the morrow.”