An Inconvenient Wife (23 page)

“Yes, although not strong,
no bones were broken in the other leg. Why, Bill? What are you thinking? I
assure you Westcott has had myriad medical opinions by some well-respected
physicians and they all agree there is nothing to be done.”

Fenton hesitated, his broad
hands twisting his hat as he prepared his words. “When I was with your father
in Egypt—your mama went to Scotland with you that year, which you mayn’t
remember, being as you were pretty young. I met a man there. A healer, he
called himself, who had this way to strengthen limbs that hadn’t been used for
a long time. He let me come with him to visit some of his patients, seeing that
I was interested, and taught me a bit about it. I think it would help Miss
Sarah.”

“Bill….”

“Now don’t say no right off.
It’s nothing strange or bad, and if it don’t do any good, neither would it do
any harm.”

Anne pursed her lips. “All
right, explain it to me, and for gracious sakes, sit down.”

Fenton gave her a dubious
look, his unwillingness to join her on the bench evident, but bent enough to
crouch beside her and rest his hat on his knees. “The way it was told to me,
when you don’t use your muscles, they start to wither and get weaker all the
time. I’ve seen it in horses when an injury keeps them on three legs any length
of time.”

“Sarah is not a horse!”

“Course she isn’t,” Fenton
said impatiently, “but that don’t mean her muscles act any different. She needs
to be exercising
both
legs until she gets some strength back in them. If
she could use her good leg, she could get around a little with a pair of
crutches.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Not saying it would be
easy. You’d have some things to do; massaging her legs and helping her do some
simple exercises. Might be I could contrive some type of brace or support for
her foot, enough so she has something to help her balance.”

Anne considered it for a
time, weighing the chance of raising the child’s hopes with so risky a
practice, but what if Sarah
was
able to stand, move around a little? Was
it worth the risk? Did she dare go behind Westcott’s back? She could not see
him agreeing to try this, but what a difference it might make in Sarah’s life!

“Very well, Bill. I will
speak to Miss Sarah about it and if she agrees, you will show me what to do.
But please do not mention this to anyone else.” She smiled. “Except Maggie, who
no doubt already knows.”

Bill grinned and heaved
himself up. “She won’t be too happy I said anything to you, but she’ll help if
you need her.”

Anne stood and placed a hand
on his arm. “I know she will. Thank you for caring, Bill.”

~* * *~

Sarah had agreed, albeit
with little expectation of success. Anne suspected the child feared to hope,
not being able to bear the disappointment should they fail.

Painstakingly, and it was at
times painful, prodding unused muscles to life, they followed Bill’s
instructions, massaging and working her legs. “I am just like a bug on its
back, Mother Anne,” Sarah said one day, a particularly successful day, when she
was able to lift both legs and wobble them above her.

“You are a very pretty bug,
if so,” Anne said, beaming almost as much as Sarah. “Enough now. You don’t want
to get overtired.”

Sarah’s legs flopped onto
the bed and she let out a noisy huff. “No, we plan to practice our skit after
luncheon.” She looked at Anne, her smile fading. “But I don’t get as tired now,
so it is working, isn’t it? Do you think I am almost ready to try standing up?”
Sarah held out her hands for Anne to help her sit up. “I want to do it, but I
think I am a little afraid, too.”

Anne sat on the edge of the
bed and put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “I agree. You are much better,
sweetheart, but let’s give it just a little longer before you try, shall we?”
Anne nursed a similar fear and was not inclined to rush. Although the longer
this went on, the more chances Westcott would suspect something.
So you will
simply need to assert yourself, Anne, and tell him he cannot keep his daughter
an invalid all her life.
Since Anne was uncomfortable even thinking about
confronting her husband thusly, she gave a mental shrug. Sarah’s wellbeing was
what counted, and Westcott be dammed. It was time he climbed out of his shell
in any case.
Of course, if you are wise, you will manage to be elsewhere
when he does.

Chapter Eighteen

Blue skies and a light
breeze carrying the scents of spring encouraged everyone to spend more and more
time outdoors. Anne picked up her hat and gloves before going to ascertain that
Danielle and Sarah were settled in the garden with Miss Caxton. She paused at
the gate to survey the “pocket” garden, as Sarah called it. Although the
vine-covered stone walls gave it the appearance of intimacy, the area held a
small pond, meandering stone paths winding in a seemingly haphazard fashion,
and several apple trees just coming into bud.

The girls were seated by the
pond today; Danielle curled up on a blanket laid out beside Sarah’s chair and
Miss Caxton on a nearby bench. Several flutes lay beside Danielle, but no
practice had begun as yet. Conversation, interspersed with giggles, drifted
across to Anne, and she slipped away without disturbing them. Westcott and Guy
were no doubt already waiting for her at the stables.

The viscount was delayed, a
groom informed her, but Guy was feeding his pony her daily sugar cube. “You are
spoiling Polly dreadfully, young man,” Anne said.

Guy grinned at her and
looked slyly at the piece of apple in Anne’s hand. “I do just as you do, Mother
Anne. You also spoil Belle,
oui
?”

“Yes, you wretched boy.”
Anne laughed and ruffled his hair. She turned then, as another groom approached
with her mare. Head up and nostrils flaring, Belle appeared eager to relish the
fine day as well.

“Thank you, Peter.” Anne fed
Belle her apple and brushed the silky black mane aside to scratch lightly at
the sensitive skin on the horses’s neck. There was a spot right
there
,
and Belle snuffled her appreciation and butted her head against Anne’s arm.

“I know you like that but
don’t be slobbering over my new habit, girl.” Anne left the mare to Peter to
finish bridling while they waited for Westcott. She stood beside Guy, chatting
idly, one part of her mind on the boy, whose adaptation to his new home and
language was remarkable, and the other on Westcott, striding toward them. He
was dressed in the fawn and brown colours he favored; breeches that clung to
his strongly muscled legs; glossy, high black boots; and a creamy white shirt,
opened a little at his neck, that was a sharp contrast to the form-fitting
jacket of dark brown superfine. She liked looking at him when he was unaware of
it. He was not a handsome man in the manner of the detested Major whose pursuit
still haunted her dreams, but there was a pleasing strength in the firm chin
and mouth. A mouth that, although infrequently, could soften into a warm smile.
Was she deluding herself to think she had seen that smile more often this past
week?
More likely it is a combination of your imagination and the pleasant
weather. Nothing has changed.

Shaking off the moment of
discouragement, Anne turned to her horse and took the reins from the groom.
“Have a good ride, my lady.”

“Thank you. I’m sure we
will. It is such a splendid day.”

“A very pleasant day,”
Westcott agreed, as he lifted Anne into the saddle. “My apologies for keeping
you waiting. Mr. Atkinson caught me just as I was leaving the house.”

His hand lingered, resting
on her waist while she placed her feet in the stirrups, and a rush of heat
flashed through her. Anne bent her head, attending to the reins with pretended
care, lest he see the blush she knew stained her cheeks, and the longing she
feared showed in her eyes.

He waited until she was
settled securely, then took Maximus’ reins from the waiting groom, and mounted.
Anne felt his gaze sweep over her in what she had come to realize was a careful
assessment of her well-being, and warmed by this evidence of concern, looked up
and touched her heel to Belle’s flank.

Westcott still had it in his
head that she was an inexperienced rider, the evidence of the past weeks’ rides
notwithstanding, and Anne hid a smile. She may not be one to careen about the
countryside, but she had years of riding behind her, under sometimes difficult
conditions.

“No apology necessary, sir.
Watching your mares and foals is always an enjoyable pastime.” She guided Belle
to fall in beside him, Guy on his other side, and asked, “Where do we ride
today?” They had been over much of the estate already, Anne and Guy being
punctiliously introduced to every tenant. She knew little of farming, but the
snug, well-cared-for cottages and wide acres, touched now with the green of
spring crops, spoke of a prosperous land. Not that she expected anything less
of Westcott. A man willing to shoulder the responsibility of two orphaned
children and a troublesome, unwanted wife, would keep his home in good heart.

“The north woods. My
forester feels some areas need to be thinned. I thought to take a look before
approving, although Marker knows his job.”

“How much woodland do you
have?”

“Not a great deal, but since
it adjoins St. Clair’s woodland, it appears larger and both parcels stretch the
length of our borders, which is a good mile,” Westcott said, and then looked
toward Guy and raised his brows. “What say you, lad? Shall we trot a way?”

Guy grinned, banged a heel
against Polly’s plump flank, and took off as fast as he could coax the pony
into moving. Maximus needed no encouragement, being, Anne felt sure, bored with
the slow pace. She followed leisurely, gazing at the landscape around her with
interest. When her companions disappeared over a low rise, Anne realized she had
lagged behind and urged Belle into a slow canter.

By the time she paused on
the top of the hill, they were some little distance ahead. The trees, a
sweeping expanse of browns and spring greens, with the mauve buds of the alders
scattered like paint splashes over a canvas, lay below. A beautiful scene, but
since it was seemingly unappreciated by the two ahead, she chirped to Belle and
rode on. She had almost come to the place where they awaited her, Westcott
half-turned to look back over his shoulder, when a loud crack sounded and she
saw him lurch sideways in the saddle. A gunshot? Surely not, but Anne knew that
sound all too well. Fear surged through her as she raced forward, barely aware
of Westcott’s shout.

“Get into the trees, Guy,
now! Anne, go!”

Guy’s pony plunged forward.
Anne began to halt Belle when she reached Westcott, but his horse was following
Guy’s, and she stayed alongside, ignoring his terse, “Go ahead, you fool. Some
idiot is in there with a gun.”

Anne slid from her horse the
instant she got to the tree line and tossed the reins to Guy. “You are the
idiot if you think I don’t know the sound of a gun. Dear heavens, Nicholas.
You’ve been hit!”

Ashen-faced, the viscount
slumped over and half-slid, half fell, into her arms. “Stand, Max,” Anne commanded.
She had heard and seen the stallion obey this order often enough and gave
silent thanks to his willingness to mind her. She eased Westcott to the ground.

“It’s nothing,” he
protested, but his eyes were glazed with shock and blood seeped from underneath
his coat, staining the white shirt a sickening red. Swallowing the bile
flooding her throat, Anne sank to her knees.

“Idiot. It certainly
is
something. You are bleeding like a stuck pig!” She jerked her hat from her
head, pulled off the decorative feathers, and wadded it into a pad. Thank God
it was made of felt.

“You should not call your
husband an idiot,” Westcott said between clenched teeth.

“Then do not act as one,”
she said shortly, folding back the viscount’s lapel to thrust her crushed hat
hard against the wound.

“Dammit, Anne. What the hell
are you doing?”

A grunt of pain escaped him
and she winced. “I am sorry, so sorry, Nicholas. I don’t know how else to stop
the bleeding.” Blood soaked through the hat into her glove and her stomach
clenched. She knew so little!
You know enough to understand the importance
of stopping the blood flow and to get help. This is not the place for the
vapors.

 “Mother Anne? What has
happened?
Est-il mort
?”

Reminded of their situation
by Guy’s tremulous voice, Anne spared him a glance. The boy was pale, but not
panicked, which was a blessing, since it depended upon him now. “Of course he
is not dead. Wounded by some crazed poacher, but not dead.” It had to be a
poacher. To think otherwise meant someone intentionally attacked….
Were they
being watched?

“Guy, I need you to be very
brave and ride for help. If I help you mount, do you think you can take Belle?
Don’t agree if you have doubts. Better to go more slowly than to risk a fall.”