The Moonless Night (11 page)

“It wouldn’t have happened to you! It would be me you dropped, instead of the door.”

“Not a decent sawbones for miles around, I suppose. What the hell am I to do?”

She expressed not a single word of commiseration, but suggested blandly that she would bring his horse to him, and if he could control his temper till they got back to the Hall, her aunt was very good with a splint or fomentation, whatever was required.

His long jaw looked two inches longer at this suggestion.

“Where is the closest doctor? I don’t want an amateur quacking me.”

“Plymouth,” she answered. “You have to ride past the Hall, in any case. I expect you will want to stop and change over into a carriage.”

She led his stallion to him, and said in an innocent voice, “And you still didn’t get to see what is in that barn. But you must not worry that it is a gang planning to hide Bonaparte out there. I have just remembered—David said the other night that it is used for cockfighting nowadays. That would account for the new door and lock, and the traffic. It has several chairs and tables and so on, that must be kept safe. I wish I had thought of it sooner.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said, glaring at her, and suppressing all show of pain, as it seemed to give the young lady so much pleasure.

Chapter 8

When Miss Boltwood and Lord Sanford reached Bolt Hall, the latter felt unable to go farther without some restorative. Glancing to the dock, Marie saw David and Benson were there, seeing to having
Fury
removed from the wooden horses and returned to the water. Her strong impulse was to abandon Sanford and run down to join them, but training won out in the end, and she assisted him into the house, where the servants without any urging ran for Miss Biddy.

She came dashing in, delighted to have a patient. He was not the Prince Regent and he was of no use as a leech victim, but a sprained ankle was not to be despised, and a sprained noble ankle was a rarity. She took him to the morning parlor, called for splints and cotton, for boiled water, and before Lord Sanford knew what she was about, she had his beautiful Hessian, the artwork of the famous Hoby of St. James’s Street, being cut from his foot with a large pair of scissors, for the ankle had become swollen and the boot would not draw off. Off came the sock, to reveal a nasty purple swelling half as big as a turnip.

“I’ll just reduce this swelling first,” she informed him. “Ice. I’ll need chopped ice, Marie. Run to the kitchen and have Cook chop some ice in a tea towel and bring it. How did you manage to do this, Lord Sanford?”

“I slipped off a ladder.”

“Ladder? What ladder? I thought you were going for a ride.” In her mind reared up a ladder into a hayloft, and for what reason he should have been taking Marie into a hayloft was as clear as noonday.

Marie, aware of her aunt’s every idea, for she seldom kept them to herself, informed her of the truth. “Lord Sanford wanted to see the cockfighting barn, into it, I mean, and put a ladder to the window.”

“Actually it was a door I was using,” he augmented.

“You went as far as Steele’s? No wonder this is such an angry swelling. It’s had time to expand, and the heat of that sock and boot is the worst thing for it.” Her professional concern easily won sway over suspicion of amorous goings-on once she had an explanation.

That Biddy, an elderly lady and a stay-at-home, knew at once Steele’s was a cockfighting barn removed any last vestige of doubt that Marie had been making a May-game of him the whole time.

“Lord Sanford was very eager to see it,” Marie said. “Just an old empty barn with a table and a bunch of chairs. I cannot think why he bothered. It seems so very foolish.”

“Would you be kind enough to get the ice, ma’am, before my ankle explodes?” Sanford asked in a quelling tone.

By the time she returned, there was no mention being made of calling in a real doctor or of continuing on to Plymouth. The subject of leeching, however, had arisen. “I’ll just wash off your arm and put three or four leeches on it,” Biddy was saying.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sanford said firmly.

She persisted a few times, outlining the peculiar excellence of her own leeches, but upon discovering there was a fine graze on Sanford’s wrist where he had tried to break his fall, she relented and settled for the splint and the wrist bandage.

Marie was required to hold splints straight while the cotton was wound around them, later to run for basilicum powder and a plaster for the wrist, and at length for a glass of sherry. When she brought the sherry in, Biddy reached out to take it for herself.

“I’ll make you up a posset, Lord Sanford,” she promised gaily. Doctoring was about the only thing that put Biddy in a good mood.

“No, thank you. Possets disagree with me, but a glass of that sherry...”

“You never want to take straight spirits on top of an accident! It thins the blood, and makes you giddy. You want a few drops of wine in a nice posset, curdled.”

The grimace that lengthened Sanford’s jaw showed pretty clearly that he wanted nothing of the sort, but Marie, tired as she was of running, volunteered at once to fetch the ingredients, and did so, then sat smiling while Biddy heated the milk at the little portable spirit lamp that was an integral part of her doctoring equipment. So handy for warming the linseed oil and melting pinguid.

“Really I feel fine! I wish you will not put yourself to the bother of a posset,” Sanford pleaded, trying once again to rescue himself.

“No bother,” Biddy insisted merrily, smacking her lips over the sherry. “I always make Henry take one after I leech him. It will be ready in a minute.”

“The doctor knows best,” Marie added mischievously.

“Does the doctor not think Miss Boltwood requires a posset after her trying ordeal?” Sanford asked with a threatening glance at Marie.

“I had no ordeal! I feel fine.”

Biddy spared her a quick glance. “You
do
look a little flushed.”

“No, no, I feel fine.”

“You’re bound to be upset, watching Sanford take such an awful tumble as he did.”

“It didn’t upset me in the least.”

“Well it should have, if you had any proper feelings. Here, there’s plenty of milk. You have some of this posset, too,” Biddy persisted.

“Doctor knows best,” Sanford repeated with a satisfied smile, lifting his glass to salute her. “
À
votre très bonne santé
,
Mam'selle
,” he continued, and drank without quite gagging.

She scowled at him and took a tiny sip, wrinkling her nose in distaste, then set it aside. “I’ll get Lord Sanford a walking stick,” she announced in a moment, thinking to get away without taking her medicine.

“You drink up your posset,” Biddy commanded. “I’ll get it. Henry has an old blackthorn walking stick in the hallway.” She bustled from the room, her thoughts winging ahead to consider further therapies for her noble patient. He was within ames-ace of a purge, though he didn’t know it.

“Drink up your posset,” Sanford said in a stern voice.

She went to a potted palm and poured the drink on it, washing it in with some of the hot water to hide the traces of milk. “Hot water is very bad for plants,” he said, wishing he had waited and done the same.

“Hot posset is very bad for me.”

“Serves you right. Why didn’t you tell me it was a cockfighting barn, and save me all this bother?”

“It is a conspiracy,” she told him laughing. “I always take my beaux to Steele’s barn, to provide patients for my aunt. It is the only pleasure she has in life.”

“Then it is Mr. Benson you ought to have taken, is it not? I assume he is your beau, and certainly I am not. I observe languishing looks passing between the pair of you. You are choosing poorly, if I may be forgiven saying a word on a matter that does not concern me.”

“I don’t expect that would prevent you, as it did not seem to stop your all but inviting Madame Monet to come to Bolt Hall. But I’m afraid I cannot agree with you that Mr. Benson is undesirable.”

“Is that what has you incensed, my friendship with Monique?” he asked with a speculative look.

“Monique! Upon my word, you work fast, Lord Sanford. Already on a first-name basis after an hour’s acquaintance.”

“I get on more quickly with some ladies than others, Miss Boltwood. Are you not curious at all to hear why I consider   Benson a poor match for you?”

“Not particularly.”

“I shall tell you, all the same. He is all to pieces. Was required to sell his property at Devon, not too far from Paisley Park which is how I came to hear of it. He has managed to keep it pretty close, for what purpose you may imagine.”

“No, I can’t imagine.”

“You are dangerously unimaginative. He wishes to nab an heiress while he is still
considered
eligible. Once the word gets out, he will not be welcome in such homes as this.”

“That’s not true! He is as rich as may be.”

“He is virtually penniless. It must be gambling, though he has not the reputation for it. A strange thing, he was required to sell out. It is usually a gentleman’s last resort, to sell his patrimony. I assume he had already disposed of all other assets. Well, a word to the wise.”

Marie was aware of a strong feeling of disappointment. She didn’t think Sanford was lying, making the story up out of whole cloth. Why should he do so? He was not personally competing with Benson for her, had no reason to invent such a story. She considered this, worried. Those few remarks Sanford had made that morning about Benson being interested in the fortune of his friends—this was what he had meant. And Benson had disliked it very much, had not questioned the remarks, or contradicted them.

There had been tentative hints from Benson that he was interested in herself—the word “competitor” had arisen with regard to Sanford. She fell to wondering if Benson were indeed trying to attach her before his position became known. It was such a low, underhanded thing to do. But she soon dismissed the idea. He was not here because of her at all. He was here as a spy, and his dangling after her was only an excuse. He had not really made up to her at all strenuously. He was only being friendly enough to give the illusion of caring for her, to fool the likes of Sanford, for example, and the illusion must be maintained, to prevent people from guessing his real reason for being here at Bolt Hall.

“Mr. Benson is connected to us, a relative of my mother. My father may accept an offer from him on my behalf despite his poor luck in losing Oakhurst.”

“Estates are not lost by poor luck, Miss Boltwood, but by poor management. Your father will not accept any offer from him once he hears of Benson’s position, and I trust you will tell him, that you not put me in the undesirable position of having to do so.”

She looked, but made no reply. For a moment she wondered if Benson were even Benson. David had said he was not, but then Sanford, a neighbor, recognized him, so of course he was really Mr. Benson.

Soon Sanford was continuing with ideas of his own, dangerously accurate ideas. “Or am I mistaken in thinking he is here because of you? Is there another reason for his presence?”

“There is no other reason, except that he wants to see Bonaparte, of course,” she answered promptly, to change the subject before he should tumble to the truth.

“He has already seen Bonaparte, and not taken much pleasure from the sight, either, to hear him speak.”

“To see all the crowds and commotion, I mean—like yourself.”

“You’ll soon be rid of him then.”

“Do you dislike him so much?”

“I dislike anyone who wishes to see Napoleon killed,” he replied, quite clearly including the present company.

She smiled in derision. “Pity, but you will be in poor shape to thwart any attempt to rescue him all the same.”

“As it is one hundred percent your fault that I am incapacitated, it is only just that you help me. We really want the same thing, for our different reasons. We both want to prevent his being taken off Billy Ruffian. I, because I think he deserves better than a life of hide-and-seek, and you, because you want him beheaded.”

“I don’t! I mean—I would be satisfied to know he is where he can do no harm. I don’t really care whether he is killed. I am not so bloodthirsty.”

“You have an odd way of showing it. No, I don’t refer to your signing Sir Henry's infamous petition, but to my poor battered self. You set me up for that fall, and if you have any right to the name of lady, you will help me. Well?”

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, though it was ninety percent curiosity speaking. She had very little intention of helping him to do anything.

“To talk your father into...” He was interrupted by the reappearance of Biddy with the walking stick.

“Not very elegant, but that little ornamental malacca stick you usually carry isn’t up to your weight, Lord Sanford. This is a sturdy one.”

He looked with grief at a very ugly, knobby stick that was two inches thick at the narrow end, four at the top, more closely resembling a tree trunk than a cane. “Thank you. That looks very serviceable,” he said, standing up to test it, hobbling around the room, and looking with sorrow at his favorite Hessians. He was cautioned not to overdo it, then soon handed over to his valet to be aided upstairs, as it was time to change for the early dinner.

Marie went to do the same, thinking as she went of poor Mr. Benson’s misfortune in losing his home, and of her own hefty dowry, really quite sufficient for two to live comfortably. As she pinned a velvet bow amidst her curls, she realized she was in the paradoxical position of being not at all disinclined to accept any offer from him if he did make one or make up to her in any serious way, but if he was clearly dangling after her in his impecunious position, he was not at all the thing.

His behavior over dinner told her exactly nothing. He was a shade more than polite, and a shade less than lover-like. Behaved, in fact, like the family connection he was, come to see Napoleon and not to court the daughter of the house, on whom he bestowed just the right amount of attention to do credit to her youth and sex without singling her out in particular. And she was disappointed with him. But then, there was really no course open to Benson that could please her.