Alistair
opened his eyes. The world about him spun at first, then gradually
slowed and settled down. He realized he was in a room, not a
surgeon's tent. The man standing before him was familiar.
"Captain
Hughes," he said, keeping his voice steady while he tried to
untangle nightmare from reality.
"You
had a fall," the captain said. "You sprained your ankle,
and by the sounds of it, got your brain knocked about your skull.
Happened to me once. Rigging fell on me, knocked me bung upwards. But
it's nothing to worry about. Your brain box will sort itself out in
time."
Alistair
rubbed his forehead. It ached, but the pain was nothing to the
pounding misery of the left side of his body. "A fall. Yes, of
course. Hit my head, no doubt. Temporarily unhinged. That explains."
Then
he remembered leaping from bed, half-naked… a pale, startled
face nearby… blue eyes, wide with alarm.
He
looked about the room and found her standing by the fire, her hands
folded at her waist.
Oh,
delightful. He'd been carrying on like a lunatic in front of her.
"Miss Oldridge," he said.
"You
know me," she said.
"For
the moment, yes. It seems I've made a thorough spectacle of myself."
"It
was nothing so very dreadful," she said. "You did not at
any time make any less sense than Papa does. Nonetheless, we should
all feel easier in our minds if you would return to bed."
At
that minute Alistair recalled that he was still half-naked, clad only
in a shirt that didn't belong to him. The fabric was coarser than
what he was accustomed to. Looking on the bright side, however, it
was large enough to conceal the ugly network of scars on his thigh.
He
waved off the captain's offer of assistance and started toward the
bed, which was only a few paces away.
Miss
Oldridge walked to a window and looked out, tactfully allowing him to
complete the clumsy transfer of his mangled body to the bed.
The
room was quiet but for the rain beating against the windows. The
sound was soothing. The bedclothes emitted a faint lavender scent.
Everything surrounding him was immaculate, well-ordered, and
peaceful.
He
could not believe he'd confused this place with a world belonging to
nightmares.
"You
look in better trim already," Captain Hughes said. "Not the
wild-eyed fellow I found when I burst in so unceremoniously." He
turned his attention to the figure by the window. "I hope you
will forgive my lapse of manners, Miss Oldridge. I was downstairs in
the hall, waiting to learn if you'd any orders for me, when I got
wind of the. disturbance on the upper decks."
"You've
nothing to apologize for," she said. "For all you knew, my
father might have set a room on fire again."
Alistair
was brooding about brain damage, having discovered no other way of
accounting for his outrageous behavior. Her words tore him out of his
self-absorption and brought him bolt upright in bed, setting the
entire left side of his damaged body athrob. He ignored the pain.
"Again?"
he said. "Is Mr. Oldridge in the habit of setting rooms ablaze?"
"It
was only the once, some nine or ten years ago," Miss Oldridge
said. "While looking at a letter from my Aunt Clothilde he had a
sudden insight about Egyptian date palms. They plague him from time
to time, for reasons no one else but he and perhaps three other
botanical persons in the world understand. As best he recollected
afterward, this was such a time. He jumped up from the writing desk,
upsetting a candle, which he was too excited to notice."
She
came away from the window. "Luckily, a servant did notice soon
after Papa hurried out. The only damage was some charring of the
writing desk, a partly singed rug, and a lingering smell of smoke."
"I
feel much better," Alistair said. "At least I did not burn
down the house."
She
approached the bed and studied him critically. "Your color is
healthier than it was a short while ago. Not so feverish. All the
same, we ought to put more ice on your ankle. Would you like some for
your head as well?"
Alistair
had almost forgotten his aching head. The violent throbbing along his
left leg had claimed center stage. "Indeed, I would," he
said. "You are most kind to think of it. For my part, I shall
attempt to await the doctor quietly, if not rationally."
She
smiled, and the room seemed to grow brighter, though rain continued
beating at the darkened windows. "I'm vastly relieved to hear
it," she said.
DR.
Woodfrey did not arrive until very late in the day. He was
young—barely thirty—small, wiry, and energetic, and
accustomed to traveling in every kind of weather. Still, there was
only one of him, and the storm's suddenness and violence had caused
numerous mishaps in addition to making the roads all but impassable.
In
spite of this, Dr. Woodfrey was his usual brisk, lively self when he
reached Oldridge Hall. After briefly conferring with Mirabel and
Captain Hughes, he went straight up to Mr. Carsington. Mirabel and
the captain retired to the library to await the medical verdict.
The
doctor joined them about half an hour later and was commencing his
diagnosis when Mr. Oldridge hurried in, his countenance troubled.
Arriving home in good time for dinner, he had seen Dr. Woodfrey's
carriage and was greatly alarmed, believing Mirabel had been taken
ill.
Concealing
her amazement at his (a) noticing so un-botanical an object as a
carriage, (b) recognizing whose it was, and (c) worrying about her,
Mirabel explained about Mr. Carsington's fall and strange behavior
thereafter.
"Good
heavens!" said Mr. Oldridge. "His head is not broken, I
hope. The ground can be deceiving in certain places, especially near
the old mines. I have tumbled more than once. Luckily, we Oldridges
have strong skulls."
"His
head is not broken," Dr. Woodfrey assured him.
"Is
it fever, then?" Mirabel said. "Is that what makes him
delirious?"
"He
is not feverish at present," the doctor said. "He was fully
rational the entire time I was with him."
Nonetheless,
he went on to say, the patient might have sustained a concussion,
albeit a mild one. By all accounts, he had lost consciousness for no
more than a minute or two—perhaps merely seconds—and did
not display symptoms associated with severe brain injury: he was not
sleepy and dull-witted or vomiting or taking fits. Still, he must be
watched carefully for the next eight and forty hours.
Dr.
Woodfrey was concerned as well that a cold or affection of the lungs
might manifest themselves during this interval. These concerns,
combined with the sprained ankle, argued strongly against the
gentleman's expressed wish to return immediately to his hotel.
Having
rendered this verdict, the doctor took Mirabel aside to give her
specific instructions.
"It
is of sovereign importance that our patient remain where he is,"
Dr. Woodfrey told her. "In addition to his brain and ankle,
which need rest in order to heal properly, he displays symptoms of a
fatigue of the nerves. This may prove even more worrisome. Acute
fatigue has been known to set off hallucinations and other irrational
behavior, which would explain what you took to be delirium."
Mirabel
could not believe Mr. Carsington suffered from any sort of fatigue or
nervous condition.
True,
he had mastered the fashionable appearance of boredom and lassitude,
but he was far from feeble. On the contrary, he was dangerously
compelling.
She
recalled his hands on her waist, and her physical awareness of his
strength, and her heated, nearly demented reaction. She could not
remember when the mere proximity of a man had disturbed her so
profoundly. Even William, whom she'd loved so fiercely, had not made
her feel so much with so little effort.
William,
too, had been abundantly masculine, forceful, and dashing. But he had
not made her feel, palpably, every change of mood as she did in Mr.
Carsington's vicinity: the displeasure that set the very air
athrob—and more troubling, the easy charm, as palpable as a
caress, she found nigh impossible to withstand.
She
recalled the pun about his expensive boots—"so very
dear"—and the lighthearted boy's grin, and said, "He
is the last man on earth I should have thought weary and worn out."
"I
agree he looks healthy enough," said Dr. Woodfrey. "But
today's shock has disrupted a delicate balance. The best medicine is
rest. I shall leave it to you how to accomplish this. You are a
resourceful young woman."
He
gave a few simple instructions about diet and treatment, regretfully
declined her invitation to dinner, and departed to attend the next
patient, leaving Mirabel to devise a means of managing a man even the
Earl of Hargate found troublesome.
"WOODFREY
is wrong." Alistair made this pronouncement in the imperious
accents his father employed to stifle all argument. It wasn't easy to
appear magisterial while sitting in bed, wearing only a nightshirt,
and propped up with pillows, but he was not about to be bullied by an
elfin doctor and a disheveled young woman.
The
latter was regarding him with an anxious expression that made him
uneasy.
"I
am not sure you are in a condition to judge with any accuracy what is
best for you," Miss Oldridge said.
"I
can judge better than he," Alistair said. "Woodfrey doesn't
know me. I have inherited my paternal grandmother's constitution. She
is four score and two, goes out at least three nights a week, and is
a terror at whist. She is in full possession of her wits and in
complete command of everyone else, for time has only honed the deadly
fine edge of her tongue. She would never allow herself to be confined
to bed for a mere sprained ankle and a bump on the head."
Miss
Oldridge did not immediately respond. She nodded at the footman, and
he took away Alistair's dinner tray.
Since
she had kept him company while he ate, she must have seen that his
appetite was in fine order. He'd left not a crumb behind.
When
the servant was gone, she walked from the fire to the window at the
opposite end of the room. It wasn't her first such journey. Even
while inhaling his dinner, Alistair had watched the rhythmic sway of
her hips as she came and went. Now the food was gone, he could give
her his undivided attention.
She
wore a wine-colored sarcenet dress trimmed in blue. The style was too
severe and the colors weren't quite right for her complexion, but it
was the least unflattering dress she'd worn so far.
Her
inept maid had made an attempt to dress her hair in the antique Roman
style fashionable several years ago. As one would expect, the two
knots at the back of her head were coming unknotted.
Reflected
light from the candles and fire glimmered along a trail of hairpins
to and from the chimneypiece. He found the sight arousing, heaven
help him.
On
the positive side, if mere hairpins could arouse him, he could not be
anywhere near death's door.
"If
your ankle is not allowed to rest, it will not heal properly,"
she said when she returned to the fire. "It will become weak and
susceptible to repeated sprains."
"Your
miniature doctor exaggerates the danger," Alis-tair said.
"Medical men always make dire predictions. That way, if one
dies, it isn't their fault, and if one recovers, it's due to their
brilliance."
"Everyone
knows what happens with sprains," she said. "At least in
the country we do. You would be foolish to take such a risk. You
especially cannot afford a weak ankle. It will undo all you've
accomplished in recovering use of your leg."
The
speech was as simple and blunt as a club to the head, and equally
effective.
His
leg was fussy and uncooperative at the best of a times. Given a weak
ankle, it might refuse to perform at all.
Alistair
had the usual quantity of masculine pride. On the other hand, he was
not a dumb brute. He refused to behave like an idiot merely to
appease his pride.
"It
grieves me to say this, but you have made an excellent point,"
he said. "We must on no account upset the famous leg. There is
no predicting what it will do."
Her
taut expression eased. She approached, took the chair by the bed, and
folded her hands in her lap. "It is understandable, your being
upset," she said. "Anyone who's endured a long period of
immobility, as you have done, must cherish his freedom of movement.
Even a day or two of being confined to bed must seem a great deal to
you."