Candice Hern (62 page)

"He might have sustained a broken rib or two," she said. "I cannot be sure. But there is no obvious injury to his body. All this," she said with a sweeping gesture over the muddy, bloodied garment, "must have been from the cut on his head. He has lost a great deal of blood."

"I'll have a look at the leg," Terrence said, moving quickly to the other side of the silent figure.

Meg returned her attention to the head wound. Lord Sedgewick's thick blond hair was heavily matted with blood from the gash over his left eye. Her linen handkerchief was already blood-soaked, so she quickly began to rip the cotton lace from her petticoat, and to tear the plain cotton into strips and squares. She concocted a good-sized padding and pressed it firmly against Lord Sedgewick's bleeding temple, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. Satisfied with the results, she tied the padding tightly into place with the strips of lace. Removing her own cloak, she folded it and gently placed it beneath his head.

Absently wiping her bloodied hands against her skirt, Meg looked toward her brother. He was hunched over the horribly bent leg, and she swallowed the taste of bile at the sight of it. She had seen her share of broken bones, having grown up on a farm, and therefore was not generally given to squeamishness. However, such an unnatural bend could not fail to affect her.

Terrence looked up. "It doesn't look as though the skin has been ruptured," he said, "so we can hope it is a clean break. We won't know for certain, though, until we cut off the boot."

"Now?" Meg exclaimed in alarm. "Here?"

"No," Terrence replied as he stood up. "I do not care to take that chance. We might inadvertently cause further damage."

"Should we try to get him into the gig?" Meg asked.

"No," Terrence replied as he hurried across the road toward the two geldings, "I do not think we should move him. That leg should be set before lifting him. Besides, the gig is too small. We will need a litter." He began to untie the reins of one of the horses. "I'm going to ride to Thornhill for help," he called over his shoulder. "I'll try to locate Garthwaite. You stay with him, Meggie. Try to keep him warm."

Meg watched as Terrence slipped off the harness and tossed it to the ground. He then looped the long carriage reins over and over around his hand and walked the gelding away from the tree. She had no need to ask why he did not take their own horse, understanding at once that the superior strength of one of the beautiful chestnut geldings would serve him better than the older, slower mare they had brought with the gig. Terrence led the dancing, whinnying gelding away from the other horse, all the while stroking his long nose, crooning in his ear, and occasionally blowing gently into his nostrils. Meg watched as her brother expertly calmed the nervous animal before mounting him bare-backed in one graceful, fluid movement. Keeping the carriage reins wrapped tightly around one hand, Terrence turned him toward Thornhill and kneed him into a gallop.

"Hurry!" Meg shouted to her brother's retreating back.
Oh, please hurry
, she thought as she gazed down at the silent figure lying at her side. Gently taking Lord Sedgewick's hand in her own, she closed her eyes and prayed for his recovery. Surely God would not be so cruel as to let him die. Not this man.

She gave in to the sheer pleasure of holding his hand in hers, stroking his long, slender fingers, and tracing the clear lines of his palm.
My angel
, he had called her. Of course, he had been delirious and spouting nonsense, though Meg thought she had seen a flicker of recognition, or something, in his eyes when he spoke.
My angel
. Meg smiled as she hugged those sweet words close to her heart. It mattered not that the man was probably out of his mind. Any endearment from Lord Sedgewick was to be cherished, for she would doubtless never hear such from him again.

She lifted his fingers briefly to her lips, acknowledging at last how cold they were and how precarious his condition was. Meg knew firsthand the dangers of head wounds. Her own father had died of one when he had been thrown from a particularly vicious stallion he had been attempting to train. Recollections of her father's death brought a sick feeling to Meg's stomach.

No, by God, there would be no sad ending this time, if she could help it. Not for this man.

Still holding his hand, Meg kept a careful watch on Lord Sedgewick's face, alert to any sign of change in his condition. Good Lord, but he was pale. And so cold. She gently moved Lord Sedgewick's hands to his sides and tucked his greatcoat more closely around his chin and shoulders to protect him against the chilly March air.

Thank God it was not raining again this afternoon, she thought as she looked up at the overcast sky. The poor man would probably have died of a chill. She shivered and clutched her arms at the elbows. Looking up at the leaden skies, she hoped their luck would hold out. Meg's eyes followed a cluster of grayish clouds to the line of black poplar trees across the road, their spiky, leafless branches silhouetted against the silvery haze, and then down to the muddy, rutted road below. Catching sight, then, of the gig, an idea occurred to her. She quickly rose and shook out her skirts, dismissing the errant thought that the beautiful blue kerseymere—one of her favorite winter dresses—was now streaked with blood and ruined beyond repair. As she walked across the road, she tried to recall whether or not she had seen a spare horse blanket tucked away in a corner of the gig. Terrence usually kept one handy.

She pushed aside the packages of goods and supplies she and her brother had purchased that morning in Bury St. Edmund's, at last coming upon a worn and stained blanket wrapped into a tight roll. She retrieved the roll, unfurled the scratchy red wool, and shook it out, squinting and coughing against the bits of straw and hay that scattered in the air. She wrinkled her nose as she held the blanket out and examined it. Yes, it was ugly and smelly, but it would do.

Meg hurried to the other side of the road and carefully laid the blanket over Lord Sedgewick's greatcoat. This should at least help to keep him warm, she thought, casting her eyes once again to the threatening skies above.

Meg turned her gaze to the road toward their farm at Thornhill. What was keeping Terrence? Hopefully, her brother would be able to return with Dr. Garthwaite. If Lord Sedgewick had indeed sustained a compound fracture to his leg, the young and compassionate village physician was more likely to attempt a repair than to amputate, as many other doctors would. So, there was little more she could do for now, save keep an eye on the head wound.

Meg knelt once again at Lord Sedgewick's side. At least he still seemed to be breathing; and her makeshift bandage appeared to have effectively staunched the flow of blood. There did not appear to be anything more she could do, except to feel helpless and wait.

And so she waited. And waited.

She rose occasionally and stood staring down the road toward Thornhill, shielding her eyes against the midday glare. Determining at last that watching the road only made the wait seem longer, she returned to her patient and sat back down on her knees at his side. Her brow furrowed as she looked down at him. Dear, sweet Lord Sedgewick. He looked so helpless and young, though she guessed him to be at least a dozen years her senior. She had never thought to see him again, keeping so close to Thornhill as she did. With wry amusement, she considered the irony of the situation. It was her typical ill luck that when Lord Sedgewick's path finally crossed hers after all these years, it was only to lie half dead at her feet. She shook her head in dismay as she studied his ashen face.

"Do not worry, my lord," she whispered as she brushed back a lock of blond hair from his pale brow, "we will not let you die. We will patch you up and nurse you and send you back on your way."

It was the least she could do for the only man she had ever loved.

Chapter 2

"He should sleep quietly for some time now," Dr. Garthwaite said. "But he is already slightly feverish. It would be best to have someone watch over him at all times, in case the fever worsens. And when the laudanum wears off, if he is conscious, he will likely be in a great deal of pain, and very uncomfortable." He picked up his medical bag and retrieved a small blue vial. The solemn young man turned toward Meg and handed her the medicine, his eyes earnest behind the glare of his spectacles. "You may give him two more drops of laudanum if he needs it. Just be sure he does not jar the leg too much. Try to keep him as immobile as possible so that the bone can set properly."

Meg nodded, then puckered her brow as she looked down at the bandaged head of their patient. "And the cut on his head? Is there anything special we should do?"

"Ahh," the doctor said, dragging the syllable out as he turned toward the bed. He absently pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, squinting as he gazed down at Lord Sedgewick's unconscious form. "That is the real concern, is it not? We can never be sure about head injuries."

Meg sucked in her breath and slanted a glance at her brother. He drew his brows together sharply. Then, looking down, he apparently found something interesting to study on the toe of his boot. His straight auburn hair fell over his eyes so that Meg could no longer see his face. Poor Terrence. He had never forgiven himself for their father's death. He had known the unruly stallion was dangerous and untrainable, but had nevertheless teased his more experienced and very competitive father into trying his hand with the beast. Sir Michael, always pleased to demonstrate his superior skills, had attempted to put the animal through his paces. He had been thrown, struck his head on a rock, and had never recovered.

"My biggest concern," the doctor continued, forcing Meg's attention back to the issue at hand, "is the severity of the fever. If infection cannot be arrested . . . well, I'm afraid I cannot predict the outcome." He turned away from his patient to face Meg and Terrence once again. "Promise you will send for me if the fever worsens."

"Of course, Dr. Garthwaite," Meg said.

"Then I must be off. Sally Maddox is near her time and I should look in on her."

Terrence followed the doctor out of the guest chamber, leaving Meg alone with their patient. Disturbed by the doctor's warnings and the recollections of her father's death, she bent over the unconscious Lord Sedgewick and laid the back of her hand against his cheek.

"How is he, dear?"

Meg turned to find that her grandmother had entered the room. "He seems quiet enough for now, Gram," Meg replied in a soft voice, moving her hand to his other cheek. "His breathing is regular. He is slightly flushed but not overly feverish just yet."

"Thank the Good Lord for that," Gram said. She moved across the room to the seating area near the fire and sank her plump frame into a chair in front of the grate. "Come, my dear," she said, keeping her voice hushed and waving toward the chair next to her. "Sit down and relax. I have asked Mrs. Dillard to bring us a pot of tea while we watch over Lord Sedgewick."

"Thank, you, Gram," Meg said as she checked the tie-back on the green damask bed curtain, insuring that the heavy drapery was tightly pulled back to allow easier access to their patient. She then stood straight, pressed her palms against her lower back, and stretched her spine. "I am a bit fagged," she said. "Tea sounds wonderful."

At that moment, the bedchamber door was flung open and the bony bottom of Mrs. Dillard, Thornhill's stalwart housekeeper, backed its way into the room. The old woman, who must have been Gram's age if she was a day, swung around balancing a large, well-laden tea tray in her hands.

Meg went to her side and reached out to help with the tray, but the indomitable woman ignored the offer, as Meg might have known she would, and sailed on toward the far end of the room where a tilt-top tea table was placed in front of the grate. She placed the tray on the table without so much as rattling a dish. Mrs. Dillard was given to making a great show of demonstrating that age had not slowed her down, that she needed no help in running their small household, thank you very much. Meg smiled as she watched the housekeeper arrange the teapot, cups, saucers, and slop dish to her liking, and then uncover a plate of plum cake slices with a subtle flourish. The dear woman deserved a much grander house to manage, Meg thought after thanking Mrs. Dillard and watching her sprightly exit.

"Here you are, dear."

Meg turned at the sound of Gram's voice and reached out to accept the steaming cup of tea she offered. Carefully balancing the cup and saucer, Meg eased her tall frame into the vacant chair. After a long, restorative swallow, she replaced the cup on the tea table, stretched her legs out to their full length, and slid down in the chair so that her head rested on its back. Finally able to relax, exhaustion almost overwhelmed her. Her stiff muscles ached with fatigue and strain.

It had been a stressful afternoon and evening. By the time Terrence had returned to the roadside with Dr. Garthwaite and several grooms, Meg's nerves had been strung as tight as a drum. The doctor had quickly splinted the leg and had had Lord Sedgewick moved to a litter and on to Thornhill. Once the patient had been settled in a guest chamber, the doctor had taken meticulous care in setting the leg, wrapping it tightly in the complex overlapping folds of a multi-tailed bandage, and re-splinting it. He had also tended the gash over Lord Sedgewick's eye with great care—cleaning it, stitching it, and re-bandaging it as best he could. The wound was quite deep, though, and Meg knew the doctor feared the effects of concussion and infection. Though he slept peacefully enough just now, the patient must be closely watched.

Unfortunately, now that she was stretched out so comfortably, Meg did not believe she could keep her eyes open long enough to do much watching. The darkened room only exacerbated her drowsiness. At the doctor's instructions, they had drawn the heavy velvet curtains over the large windows overlooking the stables, and the wood-paneled room would have been pitch dark but for the fire and a few candles. Meg stifled a yawn. Gad, but she needed a brisk ride to work out the tension in her muscles. Knowing she was unlikely to get up and do anything quite that sensible when there was a cozy fire in the grate and a pot of tea at hand, she simply slid down further in the chair, stretched out her feet, kicked off her kid slippers, and flexed her toes.