Yorkshire: Richard and Rose, Book 1 Page 5

  Eventually, Carier sighed in satisfaction. He stood back. “I think it’s just a deep wound, my lord. There’s no debris here and no serious injury to the structure of the arm. It would be better stitched, or it will open up as soon as you move your arm. Would you like me to do it for you, or would you rather wait for the doctor to arrive?”

  “I would a million times rather you did it, Carier,” Strang murmured. “I don’t want to risk permanent injury from a country doctor.”

  Carier nodded, and went away to find the materials.

  I sat quietly on the edge of the bed as I waited for Carier to return, but, shockingly, Lord Strang gripped my wrist with his good hand. It must have taken a great deal of his remaining strength to do so. I looked at his face and met his cool, blue gaze once more, trying to clear the shards of sensation that always affected me when he touched me. “I must thank you. Your help has been invaluable. I’d have bled to death, if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Mechanically, I smiled. “Thank you, sir. It must be my country upbringing. I do try to help. Harvest time brings many injuries.” The polite response sounded trite and foolish to my ears. He closed his eyes, releasing me from his gaze.

  In truth, I felt ridiculously shy. I sat here, alone with a complete stranger for whom I felt the most absurd degree of concern. I’d never been alone with a man not a member of my family before, except for Steven twice, not counting the distressing incident last night. I hardly knew Lord Strang at all. Despite his weakened state I grew acutely aware of his virility and his presence. I longed to touch him, not just to heal. I shook the thought aside. This was worrying, and completely unknown to me. It was something I hadn’t a name for yet.

  I told myself not to be so missish, but couldn’t ignore that strong inward pull. For now, I would excuse my response to him as a natural concern for the injured and hope that it passed quickly.

  I started when he spoke. He’d been so still I thought he’d fainted again. “There is something else.” He still looked at my face. “But I will, God willing, be able to speak to you another time about that.”

  Silent, I braced myself to meet his gaze again. I could lose myself there, but could read nothing in it. I tried to smile, to reassure him. Although I decided to answer him, to ask him what he meant, the manservant came back in and the moment was lost.

  Carier returned with the materials he needed and a large glass full of brandy. He put his arm behind his master, lifted him, and made him drink the liquor. Strang drank it when told to without protest, and then lay back, but the brandy acted on him so quickly, I suspected there had been something else in the drink. He watched with an unfocused stare while his valet skillfully got to work.

  I watched, fascinated, as Carier stitched up the wound, forgetting everything else in my interest. I’d never seen such an operation done before. I’d heard of it, but this was the first time I’d seen it done. Carier used a large needle and coarse, brown thread to draw the edges of the skin back together, working quickly. I winced when he pierced the skin, but his lordship bore it without complaint, watching the operation with an interest that matched mine. The sides of the gaping wound came together reassuringly to form a tidy, recognisable arm again as the valet pulled the stitches tight and tied them off.

  The brandy, the shock, or the pain from the stitches made Lord Strang pass out again before his valet had done. It relieved me, as his conscious presence made me something more than uncomfortable.

  After I helped to bathe the wound, gently swabbing away the blood. Carier poured some pungent liquid over the cut. He told me it was good gin, assuring me it would help in the healing process, inhibiting any infection that could prove so dangerous to a healing wound. It was as well Lord Strang wasn’t conscious, as the application of the gin would certainly have caused him excruciating pain.

  When he finished his work, the valet regarded me appraisingly. He must have seen my state of shock, because he made me sit by the fire and drink a smaller measure of the undiluted brandy. I didn’t feel it as it went down, but the strong spirit improved my resolve. Busy winding a clean, white bandage around the wound, he turned his head to say, “You must go to your room and change, madam.”

  I looked down at my new riding habit, now grimed filthy with dirt, saturated with blood, and torn in one or two places. I doubted it could ever be put right, but hadn’t even noticed it until now.

  I took my leave, but not before I looked back at the bed to ensure my patient was comfortable.

  I went wearily back to my room to find a simple gown I could struggle into without help. I needed time to reflect, to try to absorb all the things that had happened that day. After I had changed, I sat on the bed, and tried to think.

  The emotions sweeping over me overwhelmed me, nothing like anything I’d ever felt before. They were just recognisable to me as desire, and maybe, love. But that way lay madness.

  I must, at all costs, stay calm, keep my feelings to myself. They might well pass in a week or two, indeed they might even be the result of today’s events. I stared at my ruined riding habit, cast on the floor ready for the maid to take away for rags or burning, not seeing it, thinking, thinking.

  The intensity of all this, the helpless feeling, the confusion finally knocked the last nail in the coffin of my infatuation with Steven, so some good had come of it. I scolded myself for being so foolish. I had always been known for my sensible outlook: I should call on it now.

  After a short mental struggle I managed to persuade myself my new feelings were only the result of shock. When I tested my theory, I found I could live with it. Mentally armoured, I went back downstairs.

  I found James and Martha in the parlour, tucking into a hearty breakfast, together with a man introduced to me as Mr. Fogg, the family lawyer. He had come over from York that morning to draw up the marriage contract, the one which would not now take place. He’d kindly agreed to stay on for a while to clear up the current situation. With the earl dead, and the next earl lying unconscious upstairs, matters could change at any time. One glance at my brother’s genial, handsome face told me he knew exactly what that meant. I instinctively trusted Mr. Fogg, neatly but expensively dressed, and of an age my father would have been, had he lived.

  I couldn’t eat much, but I was glad of the hot, strong coffee that restored some of the warmth to my chilled bones. I watched the others as they ate, having what might well have been the first decent meal to grace that table for many years. Mr. Fogg seemed to have no problem, and made a hearty meal in between telling us what we needed to know.

  He studied James dispassionately. “The late Lord Hareton made a standard will, which he drew up while his father still lived. After his wife’s disposition, the rest of the estate would pass to the next earl, with the title.”

  James looked interested but said nothing, so the lawyer continued. “However, last week Lord Hareton asked me to visit. I replied that I would arrive today, if that was convenient to him.”

  “You didn’t see the overturned coach, sir?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.” He turned his friendly grey gaze to me. “I came from York. That’s the other way. The bend in the road would have prevented me seeing it.”

  I nodded while he continued with his narrative. “His lordship informed me he was desirous of changing his will.”

  “Did he say in what way?” James held out his coffee cup for Martha to refill it, not looking at her until she had finished. His smile of thanks clearly showed his affection for his wife of ten years. People had wondered why such a handsome, well-off man as my brother should have married the plain daughter of an Exeter gentleman with an inferior estate to his. They should have seen that look. Then they would have known.

  “He did, my lord,” Mr. Fogg replied, evidently too discreet to elaborate. We all knew what it would have included—the breaking up of the estate, its dispersal to a doubtful cause.

  “Last night, Lord Hareton told us that he intended to break the entail,” James said.
Mr. Fogg nodded. “It can’t be broken now,” my brother went on. “My son and heir is only ten years old. As I understand it, this entail requires the heir, and his heir to sign, and Walter is very much a minor.”

  “Sir James, I’m glad to hear it.” The lawyer’s expression hinted that a great weight had gone from his shoulders and James looked pleased, too. To break an entail was a serious matter, something he wouldn’t have approved of under any normal circumstances. Ever the country squire, the status quo meant a lot to my brother.

  To my surprise, I found the little I ate for breakfast very welcome. Since Martha had now taken temporary control of the household during Lady Hareton’s indisposition, she’d had fires lit in all the occupied rooms and food taken up to all those people who preferred to stay in them, driving the remaining servants into an unaccustomed frenzy of activity.

  Steven joined us, sitting down with a plate of food. It could almost have been a normal day in Devonshire, but for the lawyer’s presence and air of tension. At home, Steven would often join us for breakfast if he’d visited anyone in the area of our Manor house.

  “The sight of her fiancé put Miss Cartwright out a great deal. It wasn’t at all, proper to allow her to see him in such a condition.” Steven’s disapprobation didn’t seem to extend to me.

  “Is she better now?” Martha asked.

  “She seems to be, thankfully. Her aunt and I were seriously concerned by her distress, but we gave her some laudanum and she’s asleep now.”

  Martha asked me. “How is Lord Strang? He looked so pale when they carried him in.”

  “He lost a great deal of blood, much more than can be thought comfortable.” Trying to be tactful, I remembered Martha’s squeamishness about blood and forbore to give her any more detailed information. “He’ll recover. He had a deep, clean wound and his valet stitched it. He’s resting now.” Relief showed in the various faces. “I don’t think he’ll want to stay much longer, but I don’t know what sort of patient he is. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be up in a day or two, as long as he keeps the arm still and he doesn’t do too much.”

  Martha smiled, and I felt sorry that my next news wasn’t as cheerful.

  I reached for my cup. “I met the doctor before I came down. The new Lord Hareton doesn’t seem to be recovering as well.” Martha’s expression returned to one of serious concern. “He’s not conscious. He seems to be deeply asleep and that’s never good.” I took a sip of coffee, relishing the bitter taste. “I couldn’t find anything seriously wrong, there’s no broken bones, but he’s not well, Martha.” Martha looked at James, her eyes wide with alarm. She knew what would happen if this Lord Hareton died. Neither wished for that. To give up a handsome estate and comfortable life for a broken inheritance, even if it included a title, wasn’t a comfortable thought.

  Mr. Kerre and Lizzie joined us after a time. While Lizzie had changed her clothes, she’d cajoled help from somewhere, as she was far more becomingly attired than me. I smiled, not jealous, long used to being cast into the shade by Lizzie’s beauty. She was getting into her stride, using this sad situation to her advantage. It couldn’t be helped, but none of this was our doing, so why not?

  By the time we finished our meal, the doctor had arrived. I went out to the hall to meet him and found him with Lord Strang’s valet. Carier assured the doctor Lord Strang wouldn’t be in need of his services.

  The same surly servant who showed us in the day before took the doctor straight up to the new earl’s room. I accompanied them, to see if I could assist in any way. I seemed to be the unofficial nurse, for now.

  Lord Hareton lay on his comfortless bed. Extra bedding had been procured, probably by Martha, and piled on top of the coverlet. A fire had been lit. The room’s austerity startled me, even compared to the ones we had. I had thought the occupants of the house must have some extra comforts, but it was not so. No ornament or drapery lifted the mood here. A well-thumbed Bible by the cheerless bed was the only book in evidence.

  The new earl was alarmingly pale. His breath came in small, shallow gasps. “There’s no time to waste.” The doctor lifted out his knife case. I was relieved to see the instruments were reasonably clean.

  He rolled the man’s sleeve up several turns, glancing at his face as he felt for a vein. Nodding, he directed me to the bowl on the nightstand. I picked it up and held it under the arm as the doctor cut deeply into it. I stood back as far as I could as I’d had enough of blood for one day. I had just changed my dress, and my supply of fresh clothes wasn’t limitless.

  The blood dripped into the bowl. The doctor watched it closely. Lord Hareton still slept, breathing heavily, not in the least disturbed by the bloodletting.

  The doctor felt Lord Hareton’s forehead with his free hand. “No fever. That’s good.” He staunched the wound, binding it tightly. I put down the half-full bowl carefully, watching the discarded blood leave small dots of intense colour where it swilled around. The doctor stood back, assessing his patient.

  He put a hand up to his chin, and sighed heavily. “I can do little more for him. We must let nature take its course. Either he recovers, or he doesn’t.”

  He examined Lord Hareton’s head more closely, running his fingers over the scalp. “Ah. There’s a bad wound here, but little blood. The poor man seems to have received a blow to the back of his head which has crushed part of his skull. It’s soft and yielding.”

  Despite my lack of squeamishness, I paled at the thought and made no move to examine the wound. I could imagine it only too well. “Can we do anything?”

  “No. We must keep him kept quiet and as still as possible.” We stood by the bed and watched the shadow of a man laid out so straight under the thin covers.

  The new earl took several deep, dragging breaths. The last ended on a choke, the kind I’d heard once or twice before in my life, and hoped not to hear again.

  The doctor didn’t need to tell me what had just happened. That sound only meant one thing, together with the eerie silence that followed it. The man died as he had lived—quietly, without fuss. I had barely heard him speak. The fifth Earl of Hareton was dead. Long live the sixth earl.

  My God. James. My own breath nearly stopped at the thought.

  The doctor went on to Mr. Pritheroe’s room, but he could set a simple break on his own and tired now, I went downstairs to see my family. I left a tearful maid to do the laying-out. I wasn’t sure how my family would take the news.

  Mr. Kerre, James, Martha, Lizzie, Steven, and Mr. Fogg the lawyer all sat in the small parlour. It was crowded but warm now, unlike when Lizzie and I had found it earlier in the day. Chairs had been brought in from the dining room. I sat, gratefully. Mr. Kerre lifted his head and stared at me.

  “There seems to be no danger to Lord Strang, but we must pray the wound doesn’t become infected. They can kill so easily when that happens.” I stopped abruptly, choked by the thought.

  Mr. Kerre promised to send word to Miss Cartwright when she awoke. He added, “I wondered if I should leave to inform our parents, but I don’t think there’s any need if Richard is in no immediate danger. I’ll write.” That surprised me; I would have thought his mother would want to be present, but I supposed he knew his own family best.

  “The minister’s leg is broken,” I continued. “The doctor is setting it now.” Martha nodded at the news. There were a few polite murmurs of sympathy.

  When I thought of the news I had to convey to them now, I tensed. Martha must have seen the way my jaw clenched, something I knew I did when nervous, for she immediately put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in alarm.

  “The new earl died a few moments ago.” I was too weary to be tactful, to break the news gently. “So that leaves you, James. You’re the Earl of Hareton now.”

  Chapter Five

  A long silence fell as everybody absorbed the news. James looked horrified, dark eyes wide in his pale face. Inheriting a crippled title with a ruined manor and estate hadn’t featured in his
plan of life. We had a comfortable existence in a completely different part of the country. To leave all that, the estate he’d worked on so hard, all his friends, his whole life up to this point, would be a terrible blow.

  Overcome, Martha indulged in no outward show, other than a short gasp. Only because I knew her so well could I interpret her stillness of expression as distress. As always, she thought first of her husband. She leant forward and laid her hand gently on James’s arm. “Never mind, dear, we might be able to wind things up here and then go home.”

  James’s face cleared. He smiled back at her, and his broad, handsome face took on its usual expression of contentment. After all, nothing had to change except the title he used, if he wished it.

  Lizzie could barely hide her elation but, knowing her as well as I did, I saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes. If we’d been alone, she’d have clapped her hands together in delight, as she usually did when something excited her. This meant she had a stake in society, she didn’t have to stay on the edge of things in Devonshire. When we visited Aunt Godolphin in London next year, we would have a new status. This gave her a chance, the opportunity she had longed for all her life.

  I couldn’t condemn her for her excitement, but I felt nothing but shock and disbelief. I felt as if I stood apart, watching a very vivid dream and I wished with all my heart to wake up in my own bed at home.

  The lawyer looked as pleased as a lawyer can. He knew James, a right thinking man, wouldn’t wish to break the entail. He couldn’t, even had he wished to. I thought of his son and my nephew, Walter, who now would one day be the Earl of Hareton, and this realisation went a long way to bring me back to normality. The thought of that scamp ever having the dignity to hold the title of earl lifted my spirits.

  Mr. Fogg rose and cleared his throat. “I am delighted to be the first to welcome you into the Abbey as the new Earl of Hareton,” he said formally, extending a hand to James. My brother stood and took it, still bemused, but beginning to come to terms with it all. James was a slow thinker, but he always got there in the end.