The Frost Fair (7 page)

But he didn't challenge her. He merely shrugged, took the drink from his sister and drank it himself. “And now,” he said after the brandy had been neatly downed, “you must meet Mrs. Rhys in whose care you shall be until you're restored to health.” He led forward the last observer in the room, a robust, neatly aproned, white-capped woman who curtseyed and smiled at Meg pleasantly.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Rhys will have you well in no time,” Lady Carrier agreed, sitting down beside Meg on the sofa. “She's our housekeeper, you know, but in addition to her ability in running this great old monstrosity of a house, she has great skill with herbs and medicines. You'll do very well if you leave yourself in her hands.”

The housekeeper accepted the compliments with merely a matter-of-fact nod of her head. “I think yer ladyship's lookin' a bit peaked, which ain't no surprise,” she observed. “Do y' wish t' wait fer supper, or would ye prefer yer bed?”

Meg was about to ask for bed when the butler entered with a large tray. Even from across the room, Meg could smell the well-seasoned barley soup. Its aroma was so tantalizing that she realized at once how hungry she was. She and Aunt Isabel hadn't had a morsel to eat since noon. Poor Aunt Bel must be famished. “I do think a bowl of soup …” she murmured.

“Oh, good!” Lady Carrier said eagerly. “I am so glad you aren't going to retire just yet. Set up the table here, Keating, and we shall all join in the repast. I positively long to have an opportunity to chat with you both. It's been so long since we've visited London that I quite yearn to hear the latest
on-dits
.”

Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I hope, Mama, that you'll be good enough to excuse me from this female
tête-à-tête
. I have a few matters which must be attended to. And if you can spare Trixie as well, I'd like to take her with me for a few minutes.”

Meg caught sight of an exchange of alarmed glances between Trixie and her mother. But Lady Carrier only sighed and said, “Of course, Geoffrey,” and Trixie, her hands clenched nervously, followed her brother from the room.

Meg felt a stab of misgiving. Perhaps she should have ignored her hunger and gone up to bed when she'd had the chance. Sir Geoffrey obviously found his guests an unwelcome intrusion, and there was an underlying feeling of tension in this house. Besides, she didn't think she could endure making idle conversation while her head pounded and her ankle pained. But the housekeeper wordlessly piled some cushions under her foot, which eased the pain a little. And the late supper, served with meticulous deftness by Keating, the butler, was hot and soothing, tasting quite delicious to the hungry guests. Even the conversation proved to be less of a strain than Meg had feared, for Lady Carrier barely stopped chattering long enough to permit proper answers to the many questions with which she interlarded her monologue about the luxury and excitement of her London days.

Lady Carrier interrupted her prattle only once—when Trixie, her eyes looking suspiciously red-rimmed and her underlip more pouting than before, returned to the room. The mother watched with concern as Trixie took a place at the table, but Trixie kept her eyes lowered and said nothing. After a moment of awkward silence, Lady Carrier resumed her chatter as if nothing at all was amiss.

In spite of her pain and weariness, Meg studied with interest the faces of the women of Sir Geoffrey's household. It was evident that the forbidding, saturnine gentleman did not inherit his looks from his mother. Her watery blue eyes and weak chin were completely unlike his dark, craggy countenance. Neither did his sisters closely resemble him, although Trixie had his dark coloring and Sybil his high cheekbones. Trixie, in spite of her petulant mouth, was close to being a beauty, Meg thought. With her large, speaking eyes and dark curls, she probably attracted every man in her vicinity. Sybil, on the other hand, was pale, sallow and too unformed and immature to be ready to compete with her sister in feminine attractiveness.

The meal had ended, and the ladies were sipping the last of their tea, when Geoffrey returned to tell them that Mrs. Rhys had readied the bedrooms for his guests. “Your man Roodle tells me that the mare's foreleg is only slightly bruised and should be good as new in a few days,” he informed Meg, “and the fellow asked me to assure you that he is pleased with the room we've given him over the stables. I'm afraid, however, that I've some
bad
news regarding the doctor. The groom I sent to fetch him was unable to get very far. The drifts are becoming too deep. We shall have to wait for morning to have your ankle examined. I'm sorry.”

Aunt Isabel, her spirits much revived by the warming effects of the fire and the good meal, had become less anxious about her niece's condition and hastened to reassure her host. “There's no need to apologize, Sir Geoffrey,” she said cheerfully. “Neither the storm nor the accident was any fault of yours.”

That's all very well for you to say, Aunt Bel
, Meg thought irritably.
You don't have a bruised head and a swollen ankle
! Meg found it quite impossible to be well-disposed toward her host, and she resented her aunt's noticeable approval of him. In a way, everything that had happened this evening was his fault. If he'd been a bit more gallant in the taproom of the Horse With Three Tails Inn, this entire calamity might never have occurred, and she might now be happily asleep in the best bedroom of the White Hart at Harrogate, with Arthur Steele near at hand and ready to see her home. But none of the others around the table knew anything of the occurrence at the taproom, and it would be paltry on her part to throw the matter up to him while she was a guest in his home—a guest whom circumstance had forced on him. Therefore, although
he
was not acting the compleat gentleman,
she
would show that she could act the compleat lady. “My aunt is quite right, sir,” she said grandly. “Even without the ministrations of a doctor, I shall survive the night.”

“I was quite certain you would, ma'am,” he replied, unimpressed.

They all rose to say their goodnights, Isabel helping Meg to get to her feet. The action set off a chain of reactions Meg did not expect: a spear of pain shot from her ankle through her entire being, while at the same time her head throbbed dizzily. She swayed, her eyelids drooped and a frightening lassitude almost instantly seemed to overcome her.
Good Lord
, she thought with horror,
I'm going to swoon
.

But before she could surrender to the enveloping blackness, she felt herself being scooped up again in a familiar pair of arms, and she was suddenly fully awake. “I'll take her upstairs,” Sir Geoffrey was saying to Isabel.

“Put me down,” she murmured irritably. “It isn't at all necessary for you to carry me. It was only a momentary dizziness. With my aunt's support under my arm, I'm sure I can manage on my own.” She still felt dizzy, but she was not so lightheaded that she could ignore her feelings of embarrassment and distaste at being in his arms again.

“Don't be a fool,” he said curtly. His mouth was tight, as if he were trying to keep grip on his patience. “You may as well grow accustomed to this, ma'am. I suspect that this method of transport may be your only recourse, during the next few days, for getting from place to place. Now be a good girl and put your—”

“I know. Put my arms about your neck and be still.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “I'm glad you've learned your lesson so well.”

He carried her to the stairs, the rest of the assemblage trailing behind. With her hands clasped round her neck, she found herself staring at his profile. His forehead was creased with frown lines, his nose rather prominent and his chin almost forbiddingly strong. The closeness of that face to hers made her exceedingly uncomfortable, and she forced herself to turn away from him. Instead, she looked with interest at the house, the view being much better from this angle than it had been on her entrance. The house was very old, with high ceilings, wide corridors and grandly scaled rooms. There was something medieval about the front hall, with its stone floors and walls, high, narrow windows and faded tapestried hangings. The stairway was very wide and seemed to carry the eye upward with its graceful curves. At first glance one had to be impressed.

But on closer examination, it became plain that the days of this mansion's grandeur had long since passed. Everything was faded, worn and shabby. The carpets showed patches of wear, the massive pieces of furniture were nicked and scratched, and the window hangings should have been replaced years ago. Was the family impoverished, she wondered, or merely negligent?

The ceilings of the second floor were not quite so high, and the room to which Geoffrey carried her was cozily scaled. There was a charming old four-posted bed between two casement windows, its hangings light and clean. A fire was burning in a small, tiled fireplace, and candles had been lit in an adjoining dressing room which she could see through the door in the far corner. Mrs. Rhys had evidently been busily occupied while the rest of them had supped.

Sir Geoffrey placed Meg gingerly upon the bed. “Mrs. Rhys will be right up to help you undress,” he said and turned to go.

“Thank you, sir, for all your trouble,” Isabel said from the doorway, “but we needn't bother Mrs. Rhys any further. I shall take care of Meg.”

“It's no bother, Mrs. Underwood, I assure you,” Sir Geoffrey said, surprising Meg with the note of kindness in his voice.

“Do go along to bed, Aunt Bel,” Meg urged. “You look done in. Mrs. Rhys and I shall deal well enough.”

“Yes, Mrs. Underwood,” Lady Carrier argued from the corridor, “our Mrs. Rhys likes nothing better than taking charge of a sickroom. Let me show you the way to your bedroom. Did you decide to give her the Marlborough Room, Geoffrey, my dear?”

“Yes, indeed. You must forgive Mama, Mrs. Underwood, for her inordinate pride in what is really a quite ordinary bedroom. The one thing that prevents her from completely despising this house is the fact that the memorable Duke once spent a night under this roof.”

Mrs. Rhys bustled in at this moment, bearing a small tray on which were a number of glasses and jars filled with mysterious liquids and creams, and she firmly ordered them all to go about their business. Isabel, succumbing to Sir Geoffrey's and Lady Carrier's persuasion, bid her niece a reluctant goodnight and permitted herself to be led away.

As soon as Mrs. Rhys closed the door on them, Meg allowed herself to groan wearily. The pain in her ankle and the hammering in her head were bringing her close to the point of tears.

“There now, my lady, don't you fret. We'll 'ave ye comfortable in no time,” Mrs. Rhys murmured sympathetically. She bent over her patient, examining her carefully. With knowing fingers, she probed at the lump on the back of Meg's head. “Don't think anything's broke in there,” she said with brisk authority, “but it wouldn't surprise me none if ye 'ad the headache fer quite a while. Now let's 'ave a look at that ankle.”

She sat down on the bed and lifted Meg's leg to her lap. Carefully unlacing the modish short-boot, she slowly eased the shoe from the foot, causing Meg to gasp with pain. The ankle was swollen to more than twice its size, and the discoloration of the skin could be seen right through her white silk stocking. “Poor lass,” the housekeeper sighed. “You'll 'ave a troublesome night. But when the doctor binds it t'morra, it'll feel much better, you'll see.”

Keeping up a stream of optimistic promises about the speedy way a youthful body heals itself, the kind, quick-fingered woman cut off her stocking, stripped off her clothing, washed her with a sweet-smelling, lotion-like liquid and slipped a clean muslin night-dress trimmed with lace over her head. “It belongs to Miss Trixie. She says she hopes ye'll find it comfortable.”

“Do thank her for me, Mrs. Rhys. You've all been very kind.”

Mrs. Rhys was gently brushing the tangles from Meg's thick hair when there was a knock at the door. “It must be my aunt,” Meg said, her brow knitted in pain and her mouth tense. “Be a dear, Mrs. Rhys, and tell her I've fallen asleep. She won't sleep a wink either if she becomes worried about me.”

But it was not Isabel at the door. Meg heard Sir Geoffrey's voice in murmured conversation with the housekeeper. After a moment, Mrs. Rhys returned to her side and pulled a comforter over her. “It's Sir Geoffrey, my lady, come to bandage yer ankle. Just let me cover you up a bit, an' we can 'ave 'im in.”

“But I don't
want
—” The sentence died on her lips, for Sir Geoffrey at that moment stepped into the circle of light thrown by the branch of candles on her night table. For a brief moment, he stood stock still and stared at her, a strange, arrested look in his eyes … almost as if he'd wandered into the wrong room. Instinctively, without realizing she was doing it, she pulled the comforter up to her neck. “Sir Geoffrey, what—?”

He recovered himself at once. “I don't mean to intrude, ma'am, but it occurred to me—and Mrs. Rhys concurs—that you're not likely to get a wink of sleep with your ankle unbound. I've brought some bandages which we'll be able to tie into a passable support which will do until the doctor gets here. And this drink I have here will help even more to put you to sleep.”

“That was very kind in you, sir, and I don't wish you to think me ungrateful, but I scarcely think—”

“A common affliction of females,” he interrupted caustically. “They ‘scarcely think' at all.”

“Come now, Sir Geoff, let's 'ave none o' yer sharp tongue,” Mrs. Rhys scolded. “Ye mustn't mind, 'im, my lady. 'E's always makin' wicked remarks about our sex.”

“Yes, I've noticed that,” Meg muttered drily.

“Did you hear that, Mrs. Rhys?” he asked as he came up to the patient's side. “I'm not the only one with a sharp tongue. Here, ma'am, drink this down.”