“A hot drink, ma’am? It’s just cider. Or maybe some coffee?”
She eyed the cup with revulsion. She couldn’t even think of swallowing—her own saliva sat thick and cloying in her throat. “No, sir.”
“May we drive you home, ma’am?”
The words scarcely penetrated her awareness as the squire began collecting the search party together. Ten or a dozen of them, donning their outer garments, calling for carriages and discussing where they should begin the hunt. Deborah stumbled to the door to wait for them, discovering just how much her feet hurt. No matter, soon they’d be numb again.
Let’s go, let’s go!
Sir James rested a hand on her shoulder. “Leave this to us, Mrs. Moore. You’ll die of pneumonia if you don’t get warm and dry. And when we find your boy, he will need you ready at home.”
She would have argued, but she was shivering too hard to speak.
What in bloody hell am I doing out here?
The December cold bit through Evan’s greatcoat and huddled round his ankles. He couldn’t feel his face, and his toes were just a memory. With each hoofbeat, he feared his teeth would crack. There were more pleasurable ways to cure the restlessness that ailed him—Latimer had the right of it, sitting home by his fireside.
Grady, who’d been Evan’s groom and companion for fifteen years and accompanied him through plenty of uncomfortable situations, didn’t look much happier. Each exhalation of man and horse added to the gray mist that surrounded them. They should have moved to Italy long ago—
southern
Italy. Or Greece. There, at least, if he took a chivalrous notion to go searching for some little boy who’d been mislaid, they would be in no danger of freezing to death.
As Evan’s discomfort increased, each field they traversed seemed a bit larger, and his sympathy for the boy’s mother receded a bit further. He hoped he would feel a similar compassion for any child in hazard, but no use denying it was the woman’s face that had spurred him to join the little troop of villagers scouring the countryside. If one of his own nieces or nephews went missing, there would be a battalion of servants and tenants to search every square inch of ground three times over. That face made a few hours of discomfort seem a paltry sacrifice. Or it had a few hours ago.
The squire had sent them out along the river lane into the partitioned farmlands that surrounded Whately. But searchers already roved up and down the lane, and Evan had decided to leave the roadway, cutting through the hedgerow into a series of fields that ran alongside. They kept the impatient horses to a walk, riding the perimeter of each enclosure as they worked their way out from town.
Several fields later, he doubted his wisdom.
“That’s quite a frown you’re wearing, Mr. Haverfield,” said Grady, glancing up to check the bare branches of a beech tree. “What’re you thinking?”
“A number of things, none of them pleasant.” Except, possibly, what her face might look like wearing a smile. “Are we wasting our time, Grady? Why would a child play here in these empty fields when there are farms and a river on the other side of the road? I suppose you
were
a child once, Grady?”
A chuckle sounded from behind Grady’s muffler. “Aye, sir. But it’s hard to remember what it was like, isn’t it?” He turned his horse and opened the gate into the next field. “Can’t really know, sir. He could’ve been following some animal, or thought he might find his way home cross-country.”
Like all the others they’d inspected, this field was empty but for the frost-coated stubble of whatever crop had grown there. Evan sighed in frustration. With each passing minute, rescue became more imperative, yet seemed more unlikely. Already it was almost dark with those heavy clouds hunkered down in the treetops.
“Don’t s’pose they’ve found him, do you?” Grady asked.
Evan shook his head. “We’d have heard the horn.” He whipped at a low-hanging branch with his riding crop to make sure there was no one hiding behind it. “But surely only a fool would go searching after dark for a small child in a black coat.”
They passed through another gate into yet another enclosure. It looked just like the previous one, and the one before that, and the three or thirty before that, except for the back end of a dog jutting from the hawthorn brambles, snuffling and pawing at something under the hedge. “Don’t s’pose he’s got anything more ’n a dead bird or whatnot,” muttered Grady.
Evan grunted in agreement. Just a farm dog hunting up an extra meal.
The animal looked up and barked.
“Stupid beast,” said Grady. “We don’t want yer stinkin’ carrion.”
“You’re not hungry, Grady?”
Another cackle of amusement. “Oh, a nice slab of mutton would taste just fine. But he’s welcome to whatever rotting critter he’s got.”
Evan frowned as they rode closer. “Don’t know, Grady. He looks mighty happy to share.” The dog dived under the hedge, backed out, and barked again, his scraggly tail wagging his whole hind end.
Evan dismounted and passed his reins to Grady. “What have you found, fella?” He squatted down to peer under the branches. And there he saw no bird, no mouse, but a boy who matched the description they’d been given. Evan gave the dog a quick pat on the head and crawled into the child’s cave. The urchin lay not six feet from the lane, but he would never have been found from that side. He would not have been found at all without the dog.
Curled up on his side facing the entrance of the cave, his hands shoved under his arms for warmth, the child looked very pale and small and—well, dead. Evan groaned. The boy’s skin was cold, and he did not respond to touch or voice, but under the collar Evan detected a faint pulse. He dragged him out and stood up with his limp parcel. Dark eyes flickered open for a moment, unseeing—Evan’s heart thudded faster and he forgot about the cold.
Mounted again, he nestled the little body against his side, pulling his greatcoat closed again around them both. Icy feet, one of them bare, rested against Evan’s thigh. Perhaps he had, indeed, spent some part of the afternoon by the river as his mother feared. They cut through to the lane and spurred the horses to a canter, bearing their precious cargo back toward Whately.
Some half-mile from town they met Squire Reston, huddled inside his greatcoat wearing a scowl. His face brightened at the sight of them. “By God, man, you found him!” He held a hunting horn to his lips and sounded a double blast to call off the search. “I was just about to put an end to it, anyway—it’s all but dark. How is he?”
“He’s unconscious and his feet are like ice, but he is alive.” Sir James reached out to take the child, but Evan shook him off. “I know where he lives. I suggest you ride for the doctor.”
In front of the widow’s little cottage that Latimer had pointed out on their drive home earlier in the day, Evan slid carefully down from the saddle, hoping his numbed feet would support him. He sent Grady and the horses up the road to the inn and turned toward the house. The gate stood open. Three short steps took him to the front door. A lantern hung beside it, rocking on its peg. Smoke from the burning lard blew into Evan’s face, and he coughed as he pounded on the door.
She had changed her gown and tidied her hair, but her face was pale and pinched, and one hand gripped the doorjamb as though clutching the reins on a runaway horse. The other went to her throat as she scanned the inert form of her child. Then her eyes darted to Evan’s face, burning, begging for an answer
.
He managed the ghost of a reassuring smile. “He’ll be all right.” He hoped it was true.
Evan had never seen a woman faint, but he was surely about to do so. Those fevered eyes went blank, her face slack. Before he had any chance to react, she recovered herself and reached anxious arms for her son.
“I’ll carry him, ma’am—just show me where.”
“Molly!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried Evan into a small parlor off the tiny entrance hall. The warmth of the room felt alien after so long out in the cold.
“Thank the Lord!” cried a plump matron, jumping up from her chair by the fire. Evan had visited Whately many times, hunted and dined with the squire. This was the man’s wife; a familiar face.
“Why, it’s Mr. Haverfield. I didn’t know you were in town.”
He acknowledged Lady Reston with a nod. “I arrived yesterday.” But his attention was on Mrs. Moore. “He took shelter under a hedge and must have fallen asleep.” Small hands clutched at his coat as Evan lowered the boy to the sofa.
“On the river road? I searched all along there, twice.”
“I don’t know Whately well enough to tell you precisely where. But he was well-hidden. We found him from the fields, not the road. If it weren’t for the dog…” Evan helped her pull off the boy’s coat. “I’m afraid his feet are quite frozen. Sir James has gone for the doctor.”
A maidservant rushed into the room, wringing her hands. She was very young, and her face was red and swollen with crying. She burst into fresh tears when she saw her young master.
“Oh my God, he’s dead! Oh, it’s all my fault!”
“Be quiet, girl!” said Lady Reston, authoritative in her expensive silks. “He’s not dead and not going to be.” Her eyes met Evan’s, and she shook her head at the girl’s stupidity. “I hope you have better luck with your servants, Mr. Haverfield.”
As far as Evan could tell, Mrs. Moore did not resent Lady Reston’s assumption of authority, but neither did she yield her own. She sent the maid off to the kitchen for warm water and stripped off her son’s trousers, shirt, and underclothes. She said nothing, but her hands shook as she took gentle hold of each small foot. The skin was flushed except for a white gloss that colored portions of each toe. The boy stirred and opened his eyes, muttering something unintelligible before sliding back into unconsciousness. Lady Reston helped to put him into a warm, woolen nightshirt.
Evan retreated to a small dining table at the far end of the room, laid with books and writing paper. The women were busy, and he saw no way he could be of use. Probably he should leave—a stranger could not be welcome. He told himself there might be need of a messenger or some other assistance he could provide. But mostly he wanted to hear, firsthand, the doctor’s report on the child he had found.
He watched the widow as she worked. She was not fashionable. Her hair was not the preferred blonde, nor cut short in the current mode, but a dark chestnut, pulled back into a thick plait and neatly pinned up. Evan missed the wayward curls from earlier in the day—so feminine, so vulnerable. He was happy to see her warm and dry, however, in a gray woolen gown that
might
have been in style at one time, though he was positive his sisters would consider it suitable only for their maids. Her pallor had lessened, and in the heat from the fire, her skin glowed with a richness that had little to do with the cream and peach-fuzz complexion so admired by the
ton
.
He’d been caught, like a hare in the sights of a gun.
“What can possibly be keeping that girl so long?” exclaimed Lady Reston. “I’m sorry I sent her to you, but her mother has given us such good service over the years…”
“She is very upset,” Mrs. Moore replied quietly.
“
Molly
is upset? She loses your son because she can’t keep her eyes off the dairyman’s boy for five minutes—heaven knows where her hands were, or his!—and you make excuses for her?”
Evan saw the widow stiffen, her lips pressed tight, but her eyes remained on the child.
“You
are the one who should be upset,” Lady Reston went on. “Irate, in fact!”
“Molly is fully aware of her negligence, Lady Reston, and of my disappointment in her. Ranting about it will not help.”
“I can scarce believe how calm you are!”
One brief glance she gave Lady Reston. Then her attention returned to her son. “Perhaps you might see if you can hurry her along.”
Lady Reston rustled out of the room and returned in a few minutes, scolding the girl who trailed behind her carrying a washtub. This she set on a stool Lady Reston pulled up in front of the sofa.
Mrs. Moore carefully checked the water temperature and settled herself, pulling Julian close against her side so his little legs reached the water. She submerged his feet, and almost immediately he began to fidget, crying out as the frozen tissue began to thaw. Very soon he was fully conscious and wailing, kicking out against the pain. Water splashed on every surface within three feet.
Molly struggled to hold the child’s feet still, and Lady Reston retreated to a safe distance. “Come, girl, can’t you do any better than that? You’ll flood the whole house.”
Mrs. Moore continued murmuring to her son, but her hands shook and her chin trembled. Abandoning his dry corner, Evan strode across the room. “Here, let me try.” The widow gaped up at him in surprise—he suspected she’d forgotten his existence.
“Oh, Mr. Haverfield,” Lady Reston exclaimed. “You’ll ruin your coat!” But Molly, who had just been kicked in the face, was only too eager to pass her responsibility off to someone else. Down on one knee, Evan pressed the boy’s feet deep into the tub. There was not much water left, and it was barely warm.
A tremor in her voice, Mrs. Moore spoke. “Molly, I need you to fetch the laudanum and a cup, and—Lady Reston, you’ll tell her what we need.” The girl fairly ran from the room. The squire’s wife followed more sedately, swiping at her wet skirts. “Pardon me, sir, you
did
say the doctor was coming?”
“Yes indeed,” Evan replied. “I would guess Sir James did not find him at home.”
Lady Reston returned with a glass of water and the bottle of laudanum. Mrs. Moore eyed it doubtfully. “I’m not sure how much to give him…”
Lady Reston chuckled. “Believe me, dear, with nine children, I’ve had plenty of experience. Let me see—Isabella broke her arm falling from the saddle at age two, and Charles fell in the river and nearly drowned, and Harry’s broken more bones than I can remember. And they’ve
all
had the toothache at one time or another.” She added a few drops to the water.