Lady Elizabeth's Comet (3 page)

That night was clear as crystal and my observations so satisfying that on the next
morning I woke early--earlier, I should say--and full of good spirits. Arming myself with Anne's
letter, I decided to make a call on Clanross. Let him hear of my efficiency at once, and let Mr.
Brown's Select Seminaries go hang.

I twindled along cheerily, my cheeks stinging in the icy air. As I began the long ascent
past Papa's ornamental water, I fancied I heard someone call and stopped to listen. Imagination. I
took the path that skirted the lake on the edge of the wood. For a short space I was out of sight of
the Palladian mass of Brecon. I might almost have been alone in Arcadia. I stopped to admire the
solitude.

"Lizzie! Liz, help me!"

It was Jean. She burst from the woods, wide-eyed and breathless from running, her
bonnet dangling and her cloak rent.

I gaped.

"Help me, Liz. He's dead!" She began to sob.

I shook her. "Stop that at once. Who's dead?"

"Clanross. He t-told me to fetch Sims--that's his man, I think--and then he just f-fell
down. He's dead, Lizzie."

"You must be mistaken, my dear." I studied her. Her distress was genuine. "Where is
he?"

"Miles and miles," she wailed, despairing. "Near the home farm wall."

"Come along, then, and don't cry. Show me." I set off down the overgrown path and she
trotted after. She sniffed as she went and gave an occasional sob. The story came out in short
gasps.

In the days since Maggie had been confined to bed Jean had taken to wandering the
woods. The previous morning she had met Clanross by chance near the lake, and they had fallen
into conversation. "He's a twin, too, Liz. Did you know that?"

"No. Good heavens."

"But his sister's been dead a long time. I was worried about Maggie." She took a breath
and trotted on. "Hurry, Liz."

I stepped up my pace. "You were worried about Maggie? Darling, it's just a cold."

"I know, but what if it weren't?" She took the lead now, tugging at me, half running. "He
listened to me and I liked him, and what if he's dead?"

"People don't die of nothing, Jeanie." She was ahead of me, almost out of sight in the
brush, so my profound comment fell on deaf ears. Feeling more than a little foolish, I picked up
my skirts and began to run. "Jean, wait!"

She stopped, dancing with impatience. "It's not far now."

It wasn't as far as it seemed. Finally we reached the end of the trees. At first I did not see
Lord Clanross. When Jean pointed to the grey splotch of his cloak, I began to run in earnest.

He was crumpled, face down and still, in the weedy debris at the edge of the wall. An
insect crawled across his cheek.

I knelt, panting, and brushed it off with my gloved hand. He seemed to have fallen
without an effort to stop himself, for his legs and arms stuck out at odd angles. A marionette with
the strings cut. His stillness appalled me.

I tore off my gloves and sought a pulse. His hands and face felt ominously cold. Jean
began to sob again.

"Be still!" I laid my ear to his back and fancied I heard a heartbeat, but my own heart
was thumping so loudly I couldn't be sure. I loosened his cloak ties and pulled the heavy garment
off.

"Look!"

Jean knelt and touched his bottle-green jacket below the left shoulder blade. Her fingers
came away red.

"He's been shot," I said stupidly. I sat back on my heels, staring at the stain that
glistened through the dark cloth.

"No! H-how could he be? I'd've heard the gun. We were just t-talking about my
watercolours, and he said, 'Lady Jean, will you please not ask questions. Fetch Sims for me.'
Then I think he said, 'Tell him this time...' and I didn't catch the rest. He just f-fell. I tried to pull
him up, but he was too still and heavy. So I r-ran."

I touched the dark stain gingerly. It was wet and sticky, and it seemed to have spread. I
took a breath. "At least we know he's alive. He's still bleeding. Jean, you will have to run now. I
ought not to have made you come back with me. Go straight to the servants' entrance, or the
stables if you see someone there. Tell them Lord Clanross has been shot. Insist on seeing Sims.
When Sims comes, tell him to send Jem or John Coachman to fetch Mr. Wharton in the gig from
Hazeldell and to be quick about it. Then tell Sims to bring a hurdle and bearers. You'll have to
guide them. Clanross must be moved to shelter directly. Do you understand that, Jean?"

"Mr. Wharton. Hazeldell. Hurdles." She gulped and nodded.

"Then run. Now."

She hiked her skirt and bounded away like a deer.

In the silence I became exceedingly conscious of my isolation. Someone had shot
Clanross in the back. What if the villain were lurking nearby ready to finish what he had begun?
I started to shiver and brought myself sternly to heel. A fit of the vapours was not called for.
What was called for was something to stop the bleeding. Ruthlessly I ripped Clanross's muslin
cravat from his neck and folded it into a pad.

No. I ought to lift his face from the bracken first. He might breathe in some of the loose
debris and choke. If he were still breathing. Grimly I lifted his head far enough to slip the cloak
beneath it.

I looked about, removed my petticoat, and began tearing it into strips. It was
exasperatingly well made, but it finally tore. Then I reached under his right arm and felt for the
buttons of his jacket. Drat the man. He was wearing a waistcoat. I fumbled at the smaller buttons,
uttering unladylike words, and contrived to loosen them, too.

For a man thin to the point of emaciation, Clanross was remarkably heavy. A
deadweight. The ugly phrase stuck in my head, and I yanked the jacket and waistcoat down from
his right shoulder, almost frantic. What if I weren't in time? His limp arm resisted my efforts, but
I finally forced the jacket sleeve and waistcoat off.

The back of his shirt from the shoulder blades down was brown with drying blood. I
jerked the shirttail out and bared the flesh. Perhaps the cold air on his skin stung him to life, for
he groaned and muttered something. I spoke to him, but he had fainted again. It was hard to see
where the wound lay.

I took the frayed edge of my petticoat and wiped the blood off, exposing several
unpleasant scars and a hideous bruise. At the center of the bruise a small, innocent-looking slit in
the skin--fairly near the ridge of his spine--oozed fresh blood as I dabbed at it. It didn't look like
a gunshot wound, or rather, as I had imagined a gunshot wound to look. It looked like a knife
cut. What could have happened?

First things first. I placed the cravat-pad over the injury and, wrestling mightily,
contrived to pass a strip of my petticoat beneath Clanross's lower chest. When I had tied this
makeshift bandage in place, I watched for a time. The muslin reddened. Still bleeding but not
rapidly.

I pulled the waistcoat and jacket back over him. His skin was cold. I took my snug
pelisse off rather grimly and wrapped it round him. He was probably going to die anyway, and I
would perish, too--of an inflammation of the lungs. An east wind cut through the fabric of my
gown like a knife.

A knife. I rose, rubbing my arms, and began a search of the ground nearby, all the while
telling myself such a thing was impossible. If the wound were a knife cut, either Jean had
stabbed her guardian, which was absurd--she didn't have that strong an aversion to education--or
he had stabbed himself in the middle of the back, which was impossible. My search fruitless, I
squatted miserably beside Clanross and listened to my teeth chatter. Where was Jean? Where
was Sims?

Clanross stirred. I held my breath, listening, but the movement must have been
involuntary. I touched his cold, sinewy hand. Should I chafe it? It couldn't hurt. I began rubbing.
At least the activity warmed me. His lordship continued unconscious.

How long I shivered and hunched beside Clanross I don't know. It seemed forever
before I heard crashing noises from the wood and Jean's voice piping, "He's over here. Do
hurry!" and an answering rumble that turned out to be the man Sims.

Sims was efficient and matter-of-fact. He had his master bundled in rugs and borne off
up the path on a hurdle by two scared but excited grooms in no time at all.

"Don't be jolting 'im now, lads. Easy does it."

I picked up my abandoned pelisse, which was bloodsmeared, and donned it with shaking
fingers.

"Kind of you, me lady."

"I couldn't very well let him freeze," I snapped, and trudged along behind Jean and in
front of Sims, red-Indian style. The path was narrow. "I daresay you should set the men to search
for whoever did it, Sims, though I must say it doesn't look like a gunshot wound to me. Jean
heard no shot."

He gave a short bark of laughter. "'E were shot, right enough, me lady, but you'll not
find the culprits wot did it in England."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I stumbled over a loose branch.

He took my elbow efficiently and dropped it as soon as I steadied. "The major was
wounded when we crossed into France, me lady. That's three years gone. Took part of a charge
of cannister in the left side, see. Cut up 'is arm somewhat and bust four ribs. Bits of bone and
brass went sliding on round 'is ribs and come out 'is back. Leastways most of 'em come out.
Some didn't."

I was silent, reflecting. "Then he's bleeding because one of the metal or bone fragments
is cutting its way out?"

"That'll be it. Brass more like." He sounded absurdly cheerful. "We reckoned something
of the sort'd 'appen soon. Pain's been bad this fortnight. Got so's 'e couldn't ride at all. Nor sit still
for that matter."

No wonder the poor man was stiff. I felt my face flame with chagrin, which was part
shame and part resentment. He might have warned us. "Then Lord Clanross was invalided from
the army some time ago?"

"Same time Boney was sent off to Elba, me lady. Much good that did." Sims fell silent,
then went on, still cheerful, "Well, Sims,' 'e says, 'I got me Chelsea ticket after all. D'ye stick by
me or do I inflict you on Lord Bevis?' That was a joke we 'ad, like."

"Bevis?" I echoed, feeling as if I'd been tossed in a blanket. My beau Bevis?

"D'ye know 'is lordship? Dentical fine fellow. Any road, I told the major I was suited
with 'im, and we set up in a cottage near Rye."

I made an encouraging noise, and he continued, huffing slightly from the brisk pace,
"When Lord Bevis come 'ome on leave, 'e asked the major to look after 'is place in Lancashire
for 'im, and the major agreed. 'E was that bored. 'Sims,' 'e says, 'I know damn-all'--begging your
pardon, me lady--'I don't know nothink about coal mines or timber or leases, but if I stay 'ere
another fortnight I'll be chewing the carpet.' Not but wot we 'ad a carpet, but I seen 'is point. So
off we go to Lancashire, and there we'd still be if the major 'adn't come into the title
sudden-like."

"I see," I murmured. I was trying hard to recall what marvellous satires on Clanross's
manner and appearance I had written in my witty letter to Bevis. No wonder he hadn't replied.
My ears burned.

We strode along some distance in silence. Jean had been listening, too. She piped, rather
shrill, "Will he die, Mr. Sims?"

"I dunno, me lady. It's been a bad session, this time. No doubt of it."

"Mr. Wharton will know what to do," I interposed soothingly.

"Surgeon?" Sims made a noncommittal noise that indicated his opinion of surgeons.

"Mr. Wharton studied at London and Edinburgh," I said firmly. "He is an excellent
man."

"Good luck to 'im. Begging your pardon, me lady, but the major was cut about in France
and cut about at Chelsea 'ospital, see, and there ain't nothink more can be done. Oh, I dessay your
man'll nip out the bit of brass that caused the bleeding, but there's a whacking great chunk lodged
alongside 'is backbone and no surgeon'll touch that. It'll kill 'im or cripple 'im sooner nor later. A
matter of time, see."

That silenced me. Jean began to cry. Sims cleared his throat. "Now, Lady Jean, don't
take on. 'E's 'ad a good run for 'is money. 'Ere! I dessay 'e'll pull through this time, too."

That only made Jean cry harder and I wasn't feeling cheerful myself, what with guilt and
pity and chagrin and exasperation and various other less well-defined emotions. I pulled Jean to
me and walked along hugging her.

When we reached Brecon at last, Sims once more displayed the sangfroid of long
experience and began directing Smollet to fetch linen, lint, and basins of hot water quite as if she
were an orderly.

She obeyed, whitefaced. The two footmen were sent to rig a table and bring lamps for
the surgeon to the antechamber of the estate office, a small room well lit by tall windows.
Smollet summoned the butler, and between them they made a proper fire.

Sims regarded their effort with benign approval. "That's the ticket. Now we're set for the
bloody sawbones right and proper. I'll go to 'is lordship." He vanished into the estate office.

Mrs. Smollet and Jenkins looked at me apprehensively and Jean shrank closer. What did
they expect of me?

I explained to the servants what was amiss as briefly as possible. They were suitably
shocked and Jean began crying again. It occurred to me--at last--that I ought to send her
away.

"Will you go home, Jean? We've both missed our nuncheon and Alice will be wondering
what's happening."

"No!"

"You've been very useful, darling. In fact, you're quite the heroine, but there's nothing
you can do at the moment."

"You're staying."

"I intend to assist Mr. Wharton," I said, rather grim, for I did not look forward to the
task.

That brought a shriek of horrified protest from Mrs. Smollet and admonitory squawks
from the butler. Jean stared at me wide-eyed.

"I have done so before--when he set Jem's leg and when Harris was kicked by
Lightning." I returned Mrs. Smollet's stare, challenging her. "Do you care to do so, ma'am?"