Regina Scott (9 page)

“You there!” he shouted, striding down the corridor. “Stop!”

He reached the stairs and pulled up short. The candles had been lit when he’d climbed to his room a few moments ago. Someone had snuffed them; he
could smell the smoking wicks in the darkness. He could also just make out something moving below. Trevor threw himself after it.

“Stop, I say! Mrs. Bentley!”

With an audible crack, his foot collided with something solid, and Trevor pitched forward. He managed to pull in his arms and tuck his head, rolling with the momentum, but he felt the edges of the solid wood steps biting into his spine, his ribs. He fetched up on the landing with a grunt, and something thumped down beside him.

Trevor lay a hand over it, panting, even as he heard footsteps approaching and Mrs. Bentley’s voice calling from below. A lamp flared.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself hugging the shepherd statue, chipped now from the collision. It seemed someone else besides Trevor thought it would make a good stumbling block for an enemy.

T
hough it was past time for bed, Gwen stood at the worktable in the gatehouse kitchen, fully dressed, gazing at her mother’s recipe book. Her mother’s precise handwriting marched down the stained page.

The horehound syrup was simple, just a few ingredients and instructions on how to steep them to bring out the flavors. Certainly it would be needed. All indications were that it would be a hard winter. But the syrup had been her mother’s special recipe, the one cure everyone linked to her. How could Gwen be certain she’d do it justice? Besides, making the syrup without her mother felt wrong.

Someone pounded on the front door, the noise echoing through the little house. Gwen’s heart started pounding, as well. Someone was sick. Knocks had come at all hours for her mother, who had been the village midwife and sometimes apothecary; now they came for her. It felt just as wrong,
but she refused to think about anything except that she was needed. She gathered her skirts and hurried to answer the door even as her father clambered down the stairs, pulling on his coat as he came.

Rob Winslow stood on the step, face pale, eyes wide. “It’s Sir Trevor. He fell.”

Though she’d been ready for bad news, Gwen felt as if the floor had suddenly dipped. She snatched at Rob’s arm and dug her fingers into the soft wool of his livery. “Is he alive?”

Rob nodded. “Aye, but in a great deal of pain. We need you.”

“Go on,” her father urged her. “I’ll be right behind.”

Her mind felt numb, but her mouth and her limbs seemed to know what to do. “Bring Mother’s liniment and the cotton wrapping,” Gwen told him, taking her wool cloak off the hook by the front door and throwing it about her shoulders. “And leave Dolly at home.”

She was out the door with Rob before her father could nod agreement.

“What happened?” she asked as they hurried through the night. Rob’s lantern cast a golden glow on the graveled drive, yet the grounds disappeared into darkness just beyond. Ahead, the entryway of Blackcliff Hall blazed like a beacon of hope.

“He fell down the stairs,” Rob said, and she could hear the worry in his voice. “A strong man like him. How could such a thing happen?”

She knew a reason, but she hated even thinking that about Sir Trevor. Still, she had to know if she was to deal with his injuries. “Had he been drinking?”

“I don’t think so. You’d have to ask Mrs. Bentley for sure, but I didn’t smell anything when I checked him a moment before I left.”

Gwen rounded on him. “Rob! You checked him and left him in pain? Why didn’t you help him!”

“I only know horses,” he protested, raising the lantern higher so she could see her way up the stairs to the door. “You know more about healing people, Miss Allbridge.”

If only that were true.
Lord, help me to remember everything Mother taught me!

Mrs. Bentley was fluttering about the entryway as Rob opened the door and let Gwen in.

“Oh, thank You, Lord!” she said as she took Gwen’s hand and drew her close. “I couldn’t move him by myself, and Rob ran off. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Allbridge!” Trevor’s voice was a bellow from the landing, but it was the finest sound Gwen could have heard at that moment. She pulled off her cloak and ran to meet him.

He was sitting on the carpet of the landing, legs out in front of him, back up against the paneled wall as if he’d tried to use it to pull himself upright, and failed. Sweat stood on his brow, making his dark
hair curl at the temples. Seeing Gwen, he raised his head and tried to smile. It was crooked.

“My father’s on his way,” she said, crouching beside him. “Rob says you fell.”

“I tripped.” He patted the shepherd statue, which was propped against the wall beside him. “This lad somehow found his way across the stairs.”

Gwen frowned. She was certain the statue had been at its usual place in the entryway when she’d left that afternoon. It hadn’t moved by itself.

Please, Lord, not another man lost to gin!

She leaned closer on the pretense of straightening the drape of his coat and took a surreptitious sniff. All she smelled was a hint of a musky cologne that reminded her of leather and old roses.

She glanced up to find him gazing at her with a gentle smile that made her feel unsteady. “I’m not drunk, Miss Allbridge.”

“Certainly not,” she said, straightening even as heat flushed up her.

Her father came through the door just then, and for the next few minutes, he and Rob worked at getting Sir Trevor on his feet without hurting him further. Gwen couldn’t see them carrying him all the way to his bedchamber on the upper story, so she directed them down the last few stairs to the main floor and the music room just beyond.

“Gently,” Gwen urged as they eased him onto the curved-back chaise longue. She’d thought the music room an odd place for the long couch when Colonel
Umbrey insisted it be moved from the upper sitting room after he’d had the Hall remodeled. The colonel had hardly been the type to sit and listen to anyone play the black enameled pianoforte in the corner of the room or the tall golden harp next to it. He’d never hosted musicales and filled the little rows of gilded, fan-backed chairs with guests. The fire Mrs. Bentley was lighting in the black marble fireplace was probably the first in years.

But Gwen was thankful now for the faded-green velvet chaise. It was probably the only piece of furniture on the main floor that would accommodate Sir Trevor’s length.

“Move your fingers for me,” she said as her father and Rob backed away from him and gave her room.

“My fingers aren’t the problem,” he assured her, but he held out his large hands and wiggled his fingers nonetheless.

Gwen refused to let him see her relief, though she sent up a prayer of thanks. As the village midwife, her mother had taught her any number of things about the way a human body reacted to sudden stress like a fall, illness or an impending birth.

“Now your toes,” she insisted.

“You can’t see them inside my boots,” he pointed out, but his boots flexed as if he were obeying. His handsome face tightened in a grimace, and he sucked in a breath.

Gwen bent over his feet. “Which one?”

“Right,” he grit out, body tensed.

Gwen could feel her father, Rob Winslow and Mrs. Bentley watching her. Rob had seen Gwen help his mother through pneumonia. Mrs. Bentley used Gwen’s mother’s liniment on her hands. Her father knew what she’d been trained to do. They all expected her to work a miracle.

You’re the miracle worker, Lord. Help me.

Gently, she poised a hand on Trevor’s right ankle, moved her fingers back and forth. It seemed beneath the supple leather she felt a hard lump that should not have been there.

“The boots have to come off,” she told the others, straightening. “You’ll probably have to cut the right one.”

“No,” Sir Trevor snapped, but she ignored him. It was hard enough to say the rest. She fixed her eyes on the middle button of Rob Winslow’s brown coat.

“And I’ll need you to remove his trousers, as well.”

Bless Rob, but he didn’t question her. “Aye, Miss Allbridge. I’ll help the master.”

“And Miss Allbridge and I will wait outside,” Mrs. Bentley added as if to assure Sir Trevor of his privacy. “There’s a lovely silk banyan that belonged to the colonel. We found it while cleaning. I’ll just fetch it for you.”

Gwen risked a glance at Sir Trevor. He nodded his thanks, but his face was pinched, as if he dreaded the jostling his leg was about to receive.
She gave him a commiserating smile before leaving him to Rob’s good graces.

“Odd piece of business, that,” her father said in the corridor as Mrs. Bentley hurried off after the banyan. “How’d that statue get in the middle of the stairs?”

Gwen held up a finger. “Don’t you start, too! I heard Mrs. Bentley muttering about ghosts. You know there’s no such thing.”

“Oh, I’ve wondered. You don’t think it strange, the colonel dying like he did?”

Gwen tried not to remember the day she’d found him white and cold. His eyes had been closed, but his hands had gripped the covers so tightly they’d had to cut the sheets to get him out of the bed. “He was an old man, Father. His heart gave out. The physician from Carlisle said so.”

“Oh, aye. A fine fellow that physician was, too—let everyone know how put out he was to come all this way as a personal favor to the squire. I’d have felt a great deal better if you’d had a chance at the body.”

“The coroner wouldn’t have taken my word,” Gwen reminded him. “I’m not even a midwife. Let us focus on the moment, if you please. I have little interest in discussing the previous master of Blackcliff when the current master needs us.”

Mrs. Bentley returned down the corridor then, puffing from her exertions, a pale green silk banyan draped over her sturdy arms. She passed it in to
Rob, and, a few minutes later, he opened the door and let them all in.

Sir Trevor was leaning against the satin bolster Rob must have put at his back, his upper body and legs swathed in the elegant drape of the banyan. Rob had removed his cravat, as well, probably hoping to make him more comfortable, but Gwen could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat. She felt as if her own pulse was beating in time.

She forced herself to focus on his stockinged feet instead, where they protruded from the hem of the banyan. The ankle on the right was obviously the larger of the two.

“This may hurt,” she warned him. As gently as she could, she probed the puffy flesh with her fingers, checking muscles, tendons, bone. A tremor ran up his long leg. She glanced at his face to find it white, his nostrils flared. But he said nothing, merely watching her, trusting her, eyes as green as the banyan.

Gwen straightened. “It doesn’t seem to be broken, which is a blessing. I’d say you have a nasty sprain. You’ll need to keep off it for a few days, perhaps a week.”

He groaned, but she thought it was more from frustration than pain. “Impossible. I intended to ride for London by Friday.”

Something tightened inside her. He was leaving? Had all her efforts come to naught? Had he found nothing worthwhile in Blackcliff, even her?

“I’m afraid that
is
impossible,” she said. “Friday is only a few days away. Your ankle will never mend that fast, and I imagine you’ll have a few other bruises that will protest a grueling ride, as well.”

He shifted on the chaise as if feeling them even now. “There must be something you can do.”

Oh, there were any number of things she could do, and she was ready to do nearly all of them to save Blackcliff. Gwen smiled at him. “I’ve some excellent liniment that should ease the pain.”

As if on cue, her father stepped forward and handed her the clear jar with the peach-colored ointment inside. She’d rubbed it on many an elderly lady, yet she could not make herself open the jar. Instead, she held it lightly in her hand, staring at Sir Trevor’s ankle.

Oh, but she didn’t feel up to removing that sock, running her hands on his skin. And why had Mrs. Bentley stoked up that fire? The room must be sweltering.

She pushed the bottle at Rob. “You’ll need to rub this in, morning and night.”

He nodded. “I remember. Father swore it helped Ruby through last winter.”

She could only hope he wouldn’t tell Sir Trevor that Ruby was his father’s favorite horse. “And cold compresses to reduce the swelling,” she called to Mrs. Bentley, who was tidying up the little gilt chairs.

“Of course!” the housekeeper promised, hurrying to her side.

“That ought to help,” Gwen told Sir Trevor, “but I cannot promise that you’ll be ready to ride by Friday.”

“With your determination,” Sir Trevor said with a valiant smile, “I have no doubt I could fly by Friday if needed.”

Her father clapped Rob on the shoulders. “We’ll leave you to it, then, lad. Unless you need me, Sir Trevor.”

Trevor’s smile was slipping, and Gwen felt for him. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your care and concern.”

Her father nodded, but Gwen hesitated to follow him out the door. She wanted to stay, to be the one to drape the cool cloths across Sir Trevor’s ankle, to speak quietly and low to lull him to sleep, to keep watch over him that night in case he woke in pain.

But she knew it wasn’t proper for her to stay. If people were already wondering whether she’d set her cap for him, they’d think she was out to trap him if she stayed the night in his company.

“I’ll check on you in the morning,” she promised before leaving the room.

Mrs. Bentley followed her out. “Now, don’t you worry, dearie. I’ll be sure to check on him tonight.”

Gwen fought back the wave of envy those words brought. “Thank you, Mrs. Bentley. If he’s in any
kind of pain, try chamomile tea. My mother swore by it.”

“I’ll do that. And I think there’s one of the colonel’s canes in the umbrella stand by the kitchen door. I know you said Sir Trevor shouldn’t be up and about, but I fancy he won’t be one to stay abed.”

Gwen was afraid the housekeeper was right. Sir Trevor had called her determined, but she’d never seen a man so fixed on leaving a place that welcomed him. The ache inside her only grew, and she feared it was for far more than the loss of Blackcliff Hall.

The housekeeper touched Gwen’s arm, face turning serious. “And what about our positions, Miss Allbridge? If he leaves for London, will he want to keep a staff here?”

At least someone remembered the reason to keep Sir Trevor in the village. “I don’t know,” Gwen admitted, trying to block the worry from her voice.

Mrs. Bentley sighed. “I was so hoping to stay on here rather than spend the winter in the poorhouse in Evendale. I’m grateful for the kindness there, mind you, but it can be a dreary place.”

So would the gatehouse be, Gwen was sure, once Sir Trevor rode away down the lane. But she couldn’t think about that now or she very much feared she’d start crying.

“First we must heal him,” she told Mrs. Bentley. “And we’ll make life so simple and pleasant, he won’t want to leave.”

“So you’ve said,” the housekeeper replied. “But he doesn’t seem to find any pleasure in the place, and I don’t see how this mishap will help.”