~*~
Before the clock stroked a new hour, the doctor entered the front parlor. “I’ve given him a full examination. Doone is putting him into a nightshirt. Good thing you moved him as little as possible.”
“What is the diagnosis?” Mr. Cleaver rose to his feet.
The doctor stroked his beard. “Classic case. I’ve treated many like it. Ankle. Yes, a severe sprain to the ankle, bruised ribs, and a large lump on the head.”
A sprained ankle, bruises, and a bump? That didn’t sound so bad. Perhaps her concerns were unfounded. “Has he awakened? Said anything?”
“No, Miss. He remained unconscious for the entire examination.”
“Can you tell what happened to him?”
He smoothed each eyebrow before responding. “If I were to guess, I’d say he charged his assailant, stepped into a pothole, stumbled and was struck from behind by an accomplice, perhaps? Dragged him into the ditch. No honor among thieves.”
Was the man an amateur detective as well as a doctor? Melissa found his scenario too pat. Was he a seer? Not that it mattered. “But how can you be certain?”
“Young lady, merely a guess, as you asked me for a conjecture as to what befell him. I only put together a rough scenario based on the few signs available.”
“Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I’m simply so worried. He’s special, to me, since I found him.” She clamped her lips shut against such babbling, not wanting to reveal her heart any further. She glanced at Mr. Cleaver, eyebrows raised and questioning, pleading for distraction from her foolishness.
Mr. Cleaver passed a hand over his brow. “Thieves in the district represent a concern.”
Dr. Swithins slurped his tea and checked the clasp on his leather medicine satchel. “Either way, with this type of head injury, combined with his ankle, I prescribe bed rest for two weeks and willow bark for pain.”
“What about his wounds?” Deferential, Miss Cleaver held her pencil above a tablet, ready to take notes.
Smiling with approval, the doctor gave instructions. “The wound on his head is superficial, but the blow was heavy. Change the dressing in the morning and keep the room dark and quiet. If he avoids fever, he’ll be well. The patient seems quite healthy and strong. I expect him to regain full consciousness soon. I shall return to check on him tomorrow.” He peered over his spectacles at Mr. Cleaver. “You’ve alerted the magistrate?”
“Yes, I’ve sent Toby to the village. I hope the trail hasn’t grown cold. It’s essential for thieves to be brought to justice. Praise the Lord we found him, and he wasn’t killed, whoever he is.”
Mr. Doone stuck his head in the door. “All’s set with the patient. I tucked him in and he’s sleeping restfully. Shall we go, Doctor? To take care of the squire’s servant?”
“Ah, yes. Off to another case. I’ll be back tomorrow. Follow my instructions.”
“We will.” Melissa smiled. She hoped the Cleavers would allow her to help. To do something besides rolling linen strips into bandages.
Strong desire flooded her heart. Desire to care for the man as he recovered. She wanted to tend to him until he was completely healed. Her planned departure couldn’t come at a worse time.
3
Lord Mark Russell opened his eyes. His head throbbed with a pain reminiscent of his hangovers before he gave up drinking. Where am I? He glanced around the room, and then down at his bandaged lower leg. The light hurt, and he dropped back on a soft, scented pillow, flinging his arm across his field of vision. Peeking under his arm, he spied a tall woman bustling into the room, wearing a blue and white striped dress, her ample form covered by a large apron.
She smiled, her cheeks rounded and flushed. “You’re awake.”
“Water,” he croaked out on a gasp of effort. His lids clamped shut briefly before he forced them open again. The sounds of water pouring and footfalls scuttling toward him made his sore head pound. She lifted his head, and then held the cup tilted to his lips. Water never tasted as sweet.
A few sips later she pulled the cup away and dabbed his chin with a soft cloth. “There. That’s enough for the moment. You’ve been terribly injured, but besides a fever, little permanent damage is expected. Your color is better, and the swelling is down.”
“Where am I?” Mark whispered. The effort drained him. That wouldn’t do.
“You are in my brother’s vicarage on the outskirts of Russelton. I’m Miss Cleaver, housekeeper to my brother, Mr. Cleaver, Russelton’s minister. We brought you here after my young guest found you in a ditch in a bad way.”
Mark made a gesture toward the cup and raised his hand in a pantomime of drinking. She moved close to the bedside and complied.
He relished a second sip. “How long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday. It is Wednesday. The doctor will return to check on your injuries. You rest, now, and soon, I will bring you some broth.” She clasped her hands at her waist. “By the way, who are you, young man?”
“I’m Lord Russell.” It was odd to be called by a title that once belonged to his elder brother. Grief lanced him anew.
“Oh my. Do tell. You’re the new heir? The entire town’s yammering on the topic. Fancy that.” She brought both hands up to her cheeks. Her fingers moved to press her chin, and her eyes widened “The whole neighborhood’s been speculating up a storm about your impending return to take up the reins of the family estate.”
“Yes, I am he. Glad to give folks something to talk about.” He closed his eyes and subsided into silence.
“What a sad state of affairs that you, of all people, ended up in a ditch. Robbery’s a black mark on the community. That one such as you would be struck down in broad daylight is a scandal. I’ll return in a while with that broth, and you can tell me what happened.”
She patted his shoulder, moved towards the door, stopped short, and turned, “May the Lord be praised Miss Southwood found you. You being unconscious out in the damp could have led to pneumonia or worse. In His providence, all things do work together.”
~*~
Whatever had Miss Cleaver meant, ‘the Lord be praised’? Why? For being discarded into a ditch? Providence? He was headed to Russel Manor to do the right thing, only to be set upon and left for dead. Who was Miss Southwood? Apparently, the person who found him. He had no clear recollection of her.
He needed to get home—enough of this sickbed.
Lying back, marshaling his energy, he mulled over Miss Cleaver’s words. She expected him to explain what happened. That would be impossible. Even forcing his mind to attempt recall brought no memory of the incident. Everything beyond leaving the inn Tuesday morning for the last leg of his journey remained blank.
A mere two weeks since he received a summons to a meeting with his family’s solicitors. He came away from the brief conference informed of a great change in his worldly status. Due to the death of his brother in a carriage accident, Mark now held the position of head of the Russell family and the title that went along with a fine manor and estate outside of Russelton.
Upon hearing the news, disbelief hit. His brother James had been healthy and strong, both physically and morally. How could he be gone? Mark’s gut churned even thinking about it.
The need to prove himself worthy enough to take his brother’s place weighed him down. He’d never accomplished much in his life, and suddenly, many people depended on him and expected him to be competent with his duties. Landing in a ditch was a mere detour. He needed to get to Russell Manor.
He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the pillow, turning his face to the wall. Perhaps that’s what he deserved. Being left for dead in the mud. Foreboding clenched his chest, and anxiety squeezed until he could barely breathe. Was it possible to step into his brother’s shoes when he’d failed to manage his simple, selfish responsibilities well? Regardless, he needed to make the attempt.
~*~
Melissa’s fitful sleep alternated between nightmares and repetitive thoughts about the tumultuous
events of the day. But morning dawned, and her eyes flew open. She threw back the covers. Motivated by the idea of seeing the patient, she rushed into her clothes, swept a comb through her hair, and jammed her feet into shoes.
Rounding the corner to the dining room, she almost crashed into Miss Cleaver.
Melissa grabbed her former governess by the arms to steady her. “Well, how is he? Any news?”
Miss Cleaver’s face bore resemblance to a cat in the cream pot. “You’ll not credit this—when I tell you.”
Melissa let go of Miss Cleaver and went into the dining room before rounding on her. “Tell me what? I want to hear everything.”
Miss Cleaver closed the door before responding. “Everything? Let me think. He woke up, praise God. Or should I say he opened his eyes after coming to?”
Melissa bounced on her toes in her eagerness. “Whatever he did—asleep, awake—what happened then?”
“He requested water. My, his voice was raspy. The poor man had no idea where he was. I told him.”
“And?”
Miss Cleaver’s tone held a teasing twist. “I inquired as to his name.”
“I am curious. Please tell me.”
“This is the biggest surprise of all, Melissa.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “He’s none other than the new lord of the manor. Lord Russell!”
“Of Russell Manor? He’s the heir.” She breathed the words, quieted by wonderment. Melissa’s hand flew to her brow. “How scandalous. Attacked returning to his estate.”
“I agree it’s a terribly shocking event. But enough of that. Now I must get him some broth. I’m on my way to the kitchen.”
Cheeks warm, Melissa asked, “May I check on him? Determine if he’s comfortable?”
“I suppose that would be acceptable, but leave the door open.”
“I will most certainly do so. I shall observe all rules of propriety.” Relieved at the assent, Melissa selected a piece of toast from the buffet and left the room.
~*~
A slight shuffle of tiptoeing feet intruded upon his thoughts. Miss Cleaver back with broth? That was too quick. He’d rather be alone.
A whisper sounded. “My lord? Are you awake?”
The voice was kind. “Yes.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder in a gentle, comforting pat.
Mark opened his eyes and turned away from the wall, toward the room. Who was this lovely creature?
“How do you do, Lord Russell?” She curtsied. “I’m Miss Southwood—the one who found you. Yesterday. In the ditch.”
“Pleased to meet you. You’ll need to excuse me for not rising. I’m not—”
She waved him off. “Think nothing of it. I’m here to help take care of you. How are you?” She wrung her hands.
“How am I?” He paused to consider. “My head and ankle have seen better days. It’s nothing, though.”
She moved toward the door. “I can go get willow bark tea for the pain.”
Her pleasant voice didn’t grate on his ears. But urgent goals nagged at his peace. “No, stay. Tea can wait. Has anyone found my horse? Estate matters await my attention.”
He struggled to rise, but fatigue left him weak as a kitten. His head throbbed, and he collapsed on the pillow with a groan.
Melissa drew near and touched his shoulder again, fingers light and soothing. “No news about anyone finding a horse, but perhaps Miss Cleaver will have word. She’ll soon be bringing broth.”
His attempt to smile in response achieved only a weak quirk of the lips. He tried hard to inject nonchalance and courage into his response. “I can’t remember what happened on the road.” He averted his face again, anxiety lancing through him.
“I’ll get a cool cloth for your brow.”
She disrupted his brooding, and at the sound of her sweet voice, courage strengthened within him.
Her slender figure moved to the water pitcher, and with delicacy, she moistened a folded linen towel. Returning, she wiped his face, refolded the towel, and laid it on his forehead. “There, now. No worrying about the estate for a time.”
“I need to be at Russell Manor to manage things. I cannot stay any longer.”
“Be that as it may, you must wait for the doctor, and the broth.”
“That’s reasonable but not much beyond that.” The only benefit to lingering was this charming lass. Oh, to have met her in other circumstances. Her loveliness stirred his senses, and her kindness warmed his heart.
“As for remembering the attack, God may have a reason for your forgetfulness. Maybe the truth would add to your suffering.”
Mark recoiled at her words, not liking the sound of the word suffering. He let it pass, however, because quibbling with her gained him naught.
“Doctor Swithins has recommended bed rest, sir, for up to two weeks if necessary. The Cleavers will send a message to Russell Manor as to your whereabouts, but you are not to be moved. Estate matters shall wait.”
“Preposterous. That is not going to happen. I vow to be up and gone, today.”
Miss Cleaver returned. “Here’s the broth I promised. Hot and full of restorative qualities.” She set the tray down on the bedside table and wiped her hands down her apron’s skirt.
Melissa arched her brows. “Miss Cleaver, Lord Russell can’t help being worried about his horse—any news?”
“Word just arrived that a fine animal appeared without a rider near the village green. One of the grooms at the manor recognized the stallion as one your brother took up to town last year.”
“James brought it to me as a birthday present. He liked any excuse to buy a horse.” Mark flung his forearm over his eyes, not wanting these ladies to see his grief. “That news eases one concern.”
“Miss Cleaver? Could you arrange a cup of willow bark tea? And, may I feed the patient?”
“Yes. I’ll send up tea, and I suppose it would be fine for you to spoon feed him.” The older woman bustled around tucking and clucking, and then departed after checking the position of the doorstop. “I’ll be back to check on his progress after a while.”
The young beauty moved a chair next to the bed and sat down. “Are you ready for your broth, Lord Russell?”
“I am.” Any effort to talk hurt his ribs and sapped his strength, what little he possessed. He lapsed into silence.
“My lord?” Melissa murmured, indicating the spoonful of broth.
Mark complied, and she brought the spoon to his mouth. While feeding him, she kept up a stream of quiet conversation. “You have a severe sprain, bruised ribs, and a head injury. You cannot walk or be moved for some time. Stillness and a dark room will help your head heal. Can you tell me anything about what happened to you? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Leaving the inn.” He waved away the next spoonful of broth and closed his eyes while she dabbed his lips with a napkin. He noted she relished her role as nurse. There were worse things than being taken care of by a pretty girl, but the estate needed him more. No time for any indulgence of weakness. He’d wasted too much of his life on idle pleasures.
With a rattle of china, Miss Cleaver re-entered the sick room with a tea tray. His eyes flew open.
“Miss Southwood, please go to the kitchen now, dear. There are bandages to be rolled.”
“Good-bye, Lord Russell.”
“I must thank you for finding me and going for help. Without you, I may have caught the fever or even died.”
“You’re welcome, my lord. I’ll return to care for you again later.” The young lady meekly left the room without a backward glance.
“Good-bye.” He spoke to her retreating back, wanting to say more. The moment passed, and he turned to Miss Cleaver. “You and Miss Southwood are so caring.”
“Miss Southwood’s a dear young lady.” The woman covered her lips as if to forestall more she would say.
“Yes, she’s quite astute.” Mark closed his eyes for a moment. How odd to meet a lovely girl now when he was flat on his back. No
rmally, he’d be very interested. He hoped to see her again. His first priority, however, was to get to the manor.
4
“How did the broth sit with you?” The older woman asked.
“Fine, I don’t have much appetite, though.” Mark reached up and touched his head. Her voice wasn’t as soothing as Miss Southwood’s.
Miss Cleaver came over and propped him up on a stack of pillows. The movements made him wince, but he’d experienced worse pain in his life.
“Drink this willow bark tea, please. If that doesn’t help with your soreness, I can offer you some laudanum. I’d rather avoid that, with its unpleasant side effects. I’ve found prayer to be an excellent antidote for one’s ills. May I pray for you?”
He downed the medicinal tea before speaking words to put her off. “I’m tired.” He clattered the empty tea cup into the saucer, and she took it out of his hands.
She removed the extra pillows and set them aside. “I’ll do all the praying. You rest.”
Mark looked over at Miss Cleaver, noticing her eyes downcast, giving him privacy. A lump formed in his throat. To be prayed for sounded appealing, considering his state, but unworthiness and embarrassment crashed over him in waves. Where did this excess emotion come from? He opened his mouth and words emerged, almost of their own accord. “Please pray. By all accounts, I need it.”
He turned his face away and clasped his hands over his chest.
“All right.” Miss Cleaver paused before speaking in a soft voice. “Dear Lord, this gentleman’s in a bad state. Please heal his injuries and set him on a straight path. We thank Thee for the deliverance provided to him. We give Thee all the praise. Amen.” She cleared her throat and patted his shoulder. “There, now.”
“I don’t feel anything.” He didn’t like the sense of helplessness.
“Emotions are unreliable. We can find peace only when we look to the Father.”
Willing or not, calm washed over him in the wake of the prayer. Exhaustion warred with the urge to get on home.
A Match for Melissa Page 2
