Fenella Miller (4 page)

She had no option but to agree. The breakfast tray returned from the study with everything eaten, and the children were perfectly happy for her to absent herself for a few hours.

"If Mr Foster is certain I am allowed to play the pianoforte, then my morning will be well spent, Mama." Mary looked sternly at her little brother who was wriggling on his seat in excitement. "You had better be on your best behaviour, Jack. If you get into trouble Mama might well lose her position and we will all have to leave here."

"I'm a good boy, aren't I, Mama? Jethro says I can milk a cow and collect the eggs. He's going to kill a chicken for dinner. I'm going to help him do that as well."

Emma shuddered but refrained from comment. Mary was not so tactful. "How horrible; I think you are nasty little boy to wish to help kill one of God's creatures." She tossed her head and her blonde ringlets danced on her shoulders.

"If someone don't kill animals, you'd have nothing on your plate but vegetables, Miss Mary. The good Lord gave us food, it's up to us to farm it."

Mary pursed her lips and frowned at Jethro. Emma hid her smile, the gardener had said exactly what she had been thinking. Jack scrambled down from the table and shoved his sister as he ran past. "So there, you don't have to eat it. No chicken for Mary tonight, Mama."

Before she could comment her son had vanished across the yard. "You will be vigilant, won't you Jethro? I can always take him with me if you think you will be too much for you."

"He'll do very well, missus, I'll see he gets up to no mischief. I'll have the cart round in a jiffy. Fred's gone to fetch the pony from the meadow."

Emma needed pen and paper in order to write a list of their requirements. It would be a substantial list, not only did they need basic foodstuffs to replenish the empty larder, they also needed cleaning materials and needle and thread in order to begin mending the bed linen, tablecloths and no doubt, shirts and other items for Mr Bucknall.

Mr Foster had taken Mary to the drawing-room so she must go in search of the items herself.

She had already put her cider covered apron in to soak, unfortunately her spare needed to be pressed before she could put it on and there was no time to heat up an iron on the range before she left for the village. It was not correct for her to appear without one, but she had no choice.

The library was next to the study, she must be vigilant when she passed his door, it would not do to disturb the lion in his den. She wanted to make herself indispensable, make his life so comfortable he would think twice before dismissing her.

The directions she'd been given were quite clear, the servants' stairs into the back corridor, turn right and go to the entrance hall. The library was down the widest passageway, the third door on the right. She had not needed to go back to the study since last night, Mr Foster insisted it was his place to collect and carry trays to the master. She rather thought he was protecting her, he was a lovely old gentleman, but he should be enjoying a peaceful retirement at his age.

Keeping to the shadows she slipped like a wraith through the house until she came to the chamber she sought. There was no need to knock, the room would be empty. Also the noise might alert the one person she did not wish to confront again this morning.

The door opened smoothly and she sailed in. She bruised her toes on the end of her boots she stopped so suddenly. The room was occupied, he was precariously perched on a small wooden ladder stretching up to remove a book from the uppermost shelf.

Seeing her, he lost his purchase and crashed backwards. This was done without the usual cursing, he fell in total silence which made the sickening thud of his head, first striking the edge of the desk, and then bouncing on the boards, far worse. For a second she was unable to move, shock and horror glued her feet to the floor. Then she rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him.

"Mr Bucknall, I am so sorry. Can you hear me?" Blood pooled beneath his head. She had killed him. It was her fault. Snatching up her skirt she ripped off the lower half of her petticoat. Then tore this in two, quickly making a pad with one piece she raised his head and pressed the folded material against the cut. Next she wound the second strip around to hold the pad in place.

His eyes were closed, he was, she thought, deeply unconscious. She was reluctant to call out for Foster, to do so would alarm her daughter. She must wait until he came to investigate her disappearance. It could not be long before Fred came to the kitchen door demanding to know why she was tardy.

All she could do with a moment was cradle his poor head in her lap and pray that his injury was not as severe as she feared. She stared down at his blood streaked face, it was the first time she'd had the opportunity to look at him closely. Of course she had noticed the scars that puckered the right side of his face, but these were mostly hidden by his overlong black hair.

Gently she smoothed his hair away from his forehead. It grieved her to see how badly he'd been burnt; how he must have fought to save his wife and child from the blaze. Poor man—to lose a spouse was hard enough but to lose a child would be agony indeed. Her babies were her life, the reason she forgave her profligate husband time and time again. For without him she would not have her precious children.

This man was as different from her husband as chalk is to cheese. Where John had been blonde, slim and weak willed, not famous for his courage under fire. The man whose head she held was as dark as a raven, strong and formidable and prepared to risk his life to save those he loved. Her eyes pricked, not for her own loss, but for his. His grief must have been terrible for him to have abandoned hope like this.

His breathing was even, his colour pale but not frighteningly so. She remembered a doctor telling her you could check the pulse of a patient by putting your fingers at the juncture of the chin and the neck. Sliding her own down, she felt the roughness of his unshaven cheek beneath her fingertips. As she pressed then into the place she had been shown, his eyes opened.

Rupert gazed upwards through blurry eyes. His head was resting somewhere soft, a golden haired angel was staring down at him. That was a relief, he'd not been pitched into the fiery furnaces as expected. The angel looked vaguely familiar and far more anxious than an angel should.

Devil take it! It was Mrs Reed. His head was cradled in her lap. He tried to sit up but gentle hands restrained him.

"Please, sir, lie still. You have sustained a nasty injury to your head, it is going to require the attention of a physician. I am certain that Mr Foster will be here in a moment, that will be the time for you to attempt to get up."

Her lap made decidedly comfortable pillow, it was many years since he'd enjoyed such intimacy. He might as well make the most of it.

* * * *

Emma felt his shoulders relax. Thank goodness; she was terrified that as soon as he moved the hideous gash on the back of his head would reopen and his life would be at risk. His eyes had closed, now they opened for a second time. They were fully cognizant, he knew exactly what he was about.

A strange flutter began in her chest as his mouth curved and his eyes widened. He was all but irresistible when he wasn't scowling and roaring at her. It was decidedly improper to be sitting in this manner, she was tempted to abruptly tip his head from her skirts but did not dare do so.

"My dear Mrs Reed, do you think you could explain to me how I come to be in this…this peculiar position? The last thing I recall I was about to remove a book from the shelf."

Under his scrutiny her cheeks flushed. "You overbalanced, sir, and when you fell you hit your head on the corner of the desk. I have managed to stop the bleeding temporarily, but the injury will require sutures."

Lazily he raised his left hand and fingered the dressing she'd cobbled together. "I see. It is fortuitous that you had about your person the wherewithal to make this bandage, is it not?"

His innocent enquiry was accompanied by a slightly raised eyebrow. Now she was puce from head to foot. The wretched man was well aware from whence the material must have come and was deliberately goading her. She refused to remain in this invidious position a moment longer.

At that precise moment Mr Foster appeared. With remarkable aplomb he nodded. "I see, the master has met with an accident. I shall fetch Tom Coachman and the groom to assist you, sir, and send a stable boy to fetch Dr Andrews." His words were accompanied by the distant sounds of pianoforte music. Mary had obviously not lost her musical ability.

The butler turned and almost hurried from the room leaving her still nursing the smiling head of her employer. She glanced around the room, not a cushion in sight that she could put under him. It was insupportable to be trapped in this way, and most improper. Unwanted tears brimmed, now this gown was ruined from his gore and she had nothing else to wear apart from the one she'd travelled in yesterday.

Unexpectedly his gloved hand closed over hers. "Don't cry, I'm not worth your tears. I know you are loathing every minute of this. Please, madam, let me lie here on my own. I do not deserve your assistance."

"Do not say so, Mr Bucknall. I do not blame you for being irascible and for having let yourself go, what you have suffered…to have lost your wife and child and been injured yourself…no one could blame you for having lost your way."

His harsh bark of laughter chilled her to the marrow. "Pray, madam, spare me your misguided and unwanted sympathy. I am as I choose to be, I find it suits me to be, as you so kindly put it, irascible and unkempt." His elbows dug painfully into her knees and then she was free. She could not hold back her exclamation of distress.

"Mr Bucknall, I beg you do not move, already the blood is seeping through the pad I pressed on it." Hastily she wriggled away and scrambled to her feet. Ignoring the fact that he was watching her every move she snatched up the hem of her gown and ripped another strip from her chemise.

"Hold this against the pad that is already there. Press it hard, it will stem the blood." He didn't argue, must have sensed the urgency in her voice. With the final strip of her ruined garment she bound the second wad of material against the wound, praying it would do until the physician arrived.

When this was done she tore down the nearest curtain and folded it into a makeshift support. "Rest on here, sir, I shall fetch a footstool for your feet. I remember now, when my husband received a similar injury, the doctor raised his feet. I've no idea why this is efficacious, but I shall do the same for you."

The padded stool was ideal for the purpose. However his booted feet proved remarkably difficult to arrange. Each time she managed to place one to her satisfaction and turned to lift the other the first mysteriously returned to the floor. As she was on her knees with her back to the patient she had no idea if he had swooned and this was why things were so difficult.

After the second attempt she glanced over her shoulder to be met by a smile that caught her breath. He had been deliberately teasing her. "You are impossible, have your feet any way you choose, it is no matter to me if you bleed to death."

This time his laughter was genuine and added to her discomfiture. "I beg your pardon. There, see, both feet neatly arranged as instructed. Please, go about your business, madam, I shall do very well here until the quack arrives. He lives but a mile from the end of the drive, he should be here in no time."

Crossly she stared at him. His colour was better, his extraordinary eyes quite definitely twinkling. She was not going to remain in the room and be made fun of. She curtsied, but kept her head lowered not wishing to meet his eyes. "Excuse me, sir, I must rearrange my appearance before going into the village. I am sure that Mr Foster will be back momentarily to take care of you."

Leaving the door open she hurried out, not stopping until she was safely in her own chamber. In despair she looked at her gown, the bloodstains would never come out. She rallied, with luck the damage would be hidden by her apron. However, she could not go to the village as she was, she must put on her travel stained gown.

This had once been a pretty shade of blue, it was now somewhat faded from frequent washing. She had sponged it down last night, it didn't look too bad, and at least it was less like something a menial would wear. Maybe there would be sufficient money to buy herself a length of material, if the village shop stocked such items. She was an excellent seamstress and had always made her own clothes and those of her children With the long summer days it would be possible to sew after she had finished her duties for the day, if Mary helped her with the straight seams she could have a fresh garment completed in a couple of days.

The cart was waiting outside the back door, there was no sign of Fred or Jethro. She was quite capable of driving the vehicle herself, the pony looked amenable enough. It was of an indeterminate brown colour, with large intelligent eyes. On impulse she walked round and stroked its long nose. "There, you are a fine young man. I'm sure we shall deal well together. Fred must be helping Mr Bucknall, so let us depart immediately. I do not wish to leave my children any longer than necessary."

The animal snorted and blew into her hand. She scratched between his pricked ears, untethered him, and climbed nimbly on to the slatted seat. It was some time since she'd driven, but she had been quite competent in her youth at both riding and driving. Expertly releasing the brake handle, unwinding the reins from around the post, she clicked to the pony and they were away.

* * * *

"Up you come, sir, we're all ready for you now." Foster's wrinkled face loomed into view.

Rupert's vision was somewhat clouded, he was light headed; the loss of blood was taking its toll. He didn't have the energy to reply, remained slack on the carpet allowing his minions to manhandle him on to a trestle. Although he'd lost a quarter of his bodyweight since the fire, he was still a substantial burden for his men to carry.

He ought to make an effort, somehow get on his feet so they could support him, not carry him. Too late, he was hoisted up and, with the butler supporting his head, was carried with surprising ease back to a chamber. He no longer slept upstairs, only returned to his rooms in order to change his apparel occasionally. If truth were told, he no longer slept anywhere. As soon as he closed his eyes he suffered nightmares, so preferred to sit up in a chair in his study.