There had been a time when he would have done all those things without thought. Lacking affection at home, he had often turned to the tenant children for companionship. His parents had paid so little attention to him that he doubted they even knew that. Having done her duty and produced an heir, his mother had gone her own way. The ninth duke cared for no one. And so Nicholas grew up alone, his tutor a lazy man who welcomed frequent days to himself.
There had been an element of wonder in the way he looked at the world at that time. The future was a marvel to be embraced and enjoyed. Each new experience triggered enthusiasm. A new day brought a smile to his face. It was hard to recall such carefree impetuosity from the perspective of a cynical, dour man of two-and-thirty. But the memories could not be denied.
That laughing boy would have readily pitched in when confronted by a crisis, doing whatever he could to help without considering either his own safety or the social standing of the victims. He felt no pride in the man he had become, having adopted the worst traits of his parents in an effort to protect himself from another painful interlude like his reckless marriage. But that facade was not Nicholas Blaire. No wonder his life contained no joy.
He climbed down to visit the bookshop, pleased to discover a Fielding novel he had never read. As an afterthought, he added the works of John Donne. As he headed back to the Court, he tried to concentrate on his purchases, but his mind would not cooperate. Sighing, he turned his attention back to his problems. What was he to do? The course he had so carefully charted was impossible. He could not tolerate another forty years trapped in the joyless existence of the last ten.
The only solution was to develop affection for Lady Emily. They needed to feel close if they were to benefit from their marriage. And he must encourage her to speak her mind. It would take time to move her away from Thorne’s expectations, but he must try.
A crash of thunder drew his gaze to the window. The storm had returned. Rain poured down in sheets, accompanied by gusty winds and more lightning. The coach lurched, skidding slightly on the corner. He rapped firmly on the panel that separated him from the box.
“Slow down and take it carefully,” he called to Carson. “We don’t want to risk a ditching.”
“Very good, your grace,” the man responded.
The elderly Carson undoubtedly wanted to get back as soon as possible, but he was a conscientious coachman and would understand the need for care. Norwood sighed. The road had already been muddy. He could feel it worsening under the sudden onslaught.
Ten minutes later, the carriage rocked to a sudden stop. One of the horses screamed in protest.
“What is the matter?” demanded Norwood, opening the window that was away from the wind.
“Accident, your grace. Looks like someone went off the bridge.”
Norwood realized that they had passed the estate gates while he was lost in thought. The main drive crossed a stream on an arched stone bridge a mile from the house.
“Who is it?” he asked, shocking his driver by jumping down from the coach.
“Dunno..” Carson shrugged.
It was raining heavily, with a high wind screaming through the trees. Wheels had plowed deep tracks through the mire that disappeared upon reaching the wood planking, but part of a broken wheel lay against the parapet. He could see the confused hoofprints of wildly plunging horses in the roadway. Lightning had struck the ancient willow that stood sentinel at the far end of the bridge, splitting it in half.
Norwood slogged through the mud until he could see over the edge of the drive. Within seconds, his sodden coat was plastered against his back. A carriage lay on its side in the raging water, wedged almost out of sight against the center bridge support. There was no sign of either coachman or horses. Had they been swept away? More likely, everyone had escaped, leaving the empty coach abandoned until the weather improved. But it had been less than an hour since he had passed this point on his way to town and only fifteen minutes since the weather had worsened. He could not take any chances.
“Here..” He thrust his jacket and waistcoat into Carson’s arms and slithered down to the river bank, the rising wind whipping hair and water into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” shouted Carson.
“I must see if anyone is inside,” called Norwood, testing the current and finding it even stronger than it appeared.
“Let me do it, your grace,” begged Carson. He was already looking for a place where he might descend more easily.
“Stay there,” ordered the duke sharply.
The carriage was half-submerged, wedged under the bridge about eight feet out from the bank. Norwood tossed a stick into the water, watching as it swirled dizzily away, whipping between the wreckage and the bank. He tossed another, farther out, then another and another. Within a minute he had a good idea of where he must go.
Taking a deep breath, he moved a few feet upstream, then flung himself into the water. Its speed terrified him. Almost before he could surface, the carriage loomed ahead. He was slightly off course, he realized, kicking strongly as his arms stretched to grasp his target. He should have removed his boots – they were dragging him down. One hand managed to grab a wheel, but he had not counted on the current slamming his body into the perch. The blow drove the air from his lungs, though he managed to hang on.
Gasping, he pulled himself up until he could crawl out on top. But there was not enough room to open the door more than a few inches. Twisting his head around, he finally managed to peer through the crack. The first thing he saw was an arm.
A shout raised no response, but the arm was caught in the loop of the strap, so it was possible that its owner still lived. There was no time to go for help. If there was any chance of saving the victim, he must work quickly, for the water was very cold.
Scrabbling about in the confined space, he detached a metal bar from the remains of the driver’s box. Several minutes of work broke the door from its hinges, and he flung it into the raging river.
Afraid of what he would find, Norwood lowered himself gingerly inside. Mr. Stevens appeared to be the only occupant. He was unconscious, but his head remained above the water, his trapped wrist supporting him only inches from death.
Norwood poked his head out the door. “Have we any rope, Carson?”
“I have it here, your grace,” shouted the coachman.
“Can you pull Stevens up to the bridge with it?”
“I doubt it is that strong,” he admitted.
“Then you will have to come down to the bank. There is only an eight-foot gap. We should be able to cross that with your help.”
Ten minutes later, he was ready to try it. He had hauled Stevens up through the opening and laid him out on top, sorry now that he had abandoned the door, which could have floated Stevens to safety. With the rope about the lad’s chest and an end fastened to his own waist, he was ready to go. The trickiest part would be keeping Stevens’s head above water. Though the river was not deep – no more than four feet – the current would make it impossible to stay on his feet.
But they managed it. Carson pulled them to shore as rapidly as he could, helped by the river that swung them toward the bank like a pendulum. Norwood kept Stevens’s head on his own shoulder and even gained purchase on the streambed with one foot when halfway across.
“Let’s get him to the house as quickly as you can safely manage it,” ordered Norwood, tossing the unconscious boy over his shoulder to climb back up to the road. His teeth were already chattering with cold.
Their arrival caused a considerable stir. Norwood sent a footman racing for the doctor. Sir Harold Stevens was not available. He had gone riding with Thorne and the other male guests during a lull in the storm. None had returned. It was presumed that they were taking shelter until the rain slackened.
Oliver Stevens was still unconscious. Though no bones seemed to be broken, there was a large knot on his head and bruises were already forming in several places. The housekeeper fluttered around him while Norwood took himself off for a hot bath and dry clothing.
What a peculiar day,
he thought as the warm water and newly kindled fire finally combined to thaw his half-frozen body. It might still be September, but the storm felt more like December, particularly when the wind cut through his dripping shirt and sodden pantaloons. He hoped young Stevens would escape contracting a chill, though submersion in an icy stream would certainly not help his constitution any. Winter poured more hot water over the duke, whose skin was beginning to resemble a boiled lobster. An hour later he had donned a dark blue jacket and fawn pantaloons and was adjusting his cravat.
Jameson met him outside Stevens’s door. The gentlemen had still not returned, but the footman had, with the unwelcome news that the doctor was unavailable, having been called out in quite another direction to attend Sir Reginald’s wife, who was experiencing a difficult and dangerous delivery.
“Get Mrs. Morrison, then,” he ordered.
“That is impossible, your grace,” said Jameson woodenly. “She is not allowed in the house.”
“What?”
“There are permanent instructions barring her from Thornridge Court, your grace. Both the house and the estate.”
Norwood recalled the icy stare she had received the day she brought him home after his own accident. He had known that there was no love lost between Thorne and Lady Amanda, but he had never dreamed that the situation included banishment. He had opened his mouth to protest such absurdity when Lady Emily appeared.
“What is this I hear about Mr. Stevens?” she demanded, though softly as they all stood just outside his room.
“His carriage went off the road at the bridge,” said Norwood. “He is seriously injured, still unconscious when I checked on him just now.”
“Surely the doctor has been summoned!”
“He is unavailable. I have been trying to call in Mrs. Morrison, who has considerable experience with the sick and injured, but Jameson informs me that she is forbidden the house.”
“That is true. Father disowned her nine years ago..” She frowned.
“I care nothing about your family disagreements, Lady Emily, but one of your guests is like to die without care, and the best person to provide that care is your sister.”
“Half-sister,” she corrected absently. “Is he that bad?”
“I have no way of judging, but he remains unconscious and was submerged in cold water for some time..” His voice was grim. “Are you trained to care for him?”
“No,” she admitted, as he knew she must.
“Nor is Mrs. Hammond,” he reminded her, watching the emotions cross her face. It was the ultimate dilemma for a conformable miss – her father and her betrothed were making conflicting demands.
Emily made her decision and straightened her back. “Jameson, you will send a footman to summon Mrs. Morrison immediately.”
“I have my orders, my lady,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Who is in charge of the house?” she demanded.
Uncertainty flickered in the butler’s eyes. “You are, my lady.”
“Then you will follow instructions. I want her here as soon as possible. It will be on your head if Mr. Stevens dies unattended.”
“Yes, my lady.”
* * * *
Norwood was pacing the hallway outside Stevens’s room when Amanda finally arrived. She seemed surprised to see him there.
“Thank heaven you were able to come,” he said in relief. Just the sight of her was enough to lift his spirits. She would know what to do. And with her at hand, Oliver would not dare die.
“What happened? The footman was nearly incoherent and Jameson merely glared.”
Again he explained all he knew of the accident. “As near as I can tell, his head remained above water the whole time, but he is still unconscious from a sharp blow. Nothing appears broken, though he has been rather battered about.”
“What have you done for him so far?” she asked as they entered Oliver’s room. He removed her cloak, noting absently that her green gown set green glints glowing in her brown eyes.
“Mrs. Hammond has been looking after him..” He nodded to the housekeeper who was seated beside the bed.
Unlike the butler, Mrs. Hammond’s eyes did not glare with disapproval. “The poor boy shows no sign of waking,” she announced.
“Aside from cleaning him up, have you done anything else?”
“Just kept him as warm as possible. He won’t swallow, and I’ve little experience with the injured.”
“How cold was he when you brought him home?” She turned questioning eyes on Norwood.
“Quite. His legs felt especially icy. The stream was very cold.”
She turned back the sheets and ran her hands down his limbs. “They are warming well, so that is one less concern for the moment.”
Norwood raised his brows in question.
“If the legs remain cold several hours after submersion, he risks developing gangrene,” she explained. “But if they warm up, that is much less likely. I would hate to see him lose anything.”
He blanched and she flashed an impish grin at his discomfort.
Amanda prodded Oliver’s head, gently feeling the large knot. “Good,” she murmured, laying a pad over the site and wrapping it.”
“What is good?” asked Norwood.
“The bone does not seem depressed under the swelling. That is another thing that often leads to serious complications..” She turned to Mrs. Hammond. “I will need water, both for washing and for making tea. The latter will need to be kept hot, so make sure there is plenty of coal in here. Have one of the girls renew the warm bricks. There is nothing further that can be done until he wakes. I will sit with him. Hopefully, the doctor will call soon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morrison,” murmured Norwood when the housekeeper left.
“The footman said that you rescued him?” Her voice held a trace of surprise, though she was busy unwrapping Oliver’s wrist to inspect the scrapes left by the strap.
He flushed. “Yes.”
“He owes you his life, then.”
“It was nothing.”
“I doubt it, though I always suspected you were not the unfeeling iceberg you pretend. How badly were you injured?”