by Alec, Joyce
“I…” Charlotte trailed off, feeling his fingers go limp in her own. He had fallen back into unconsciousness, it seemed, leaving her both uncertain and frightened in equal measure. Uncertain that she could really do as he had asked her and sew up the wound, having never done such a thing before, and frightened that if she did not, then he would draw his last breaths here in this very room.
“What should we do, Miss James?”
The footman’s voice held a slight quaver, giving Charlotte the impression that he, too, felt the growing tension that seemed to creep into every corner of the room.
Closing her eyes, Charlotte drew in a long breath and tried to steady herself. She had read a good deal recently about caring for wounds, but had not paid any particular attention to the art of sewing up wounds or bandaging limbs or the like, not thinking that she would ever be required to do so. The brandy, she knew, was to clean the wound in some way, although how it worked, she had never really understood.
“I shall need a needle and strong thread,” she said, determination surging through her as she let the man’s hand go and turned to face the footman. “And brandy.”
“His lordship’s brandy?”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied, not allowing herself to roll her eyes at what she thought to be a ridiculous question given that there was no other brandy in the house. “From the library, I think, since Lord Wickton is in the study at present.” She gave a little wave of her hand towards the footman, seeing that he had gone a little pale and thinking it best that he quit the room just as quickly as possible. “Go. Now.”
The footman started, as though she had surprised him with the sharpness of her tone, before hurrying out of the room and practically knocking into the first footman who had returned with the bowl of hot water, rags and some bandages.
Charlotte set to her task diligently. She took care to unbutton the gentleman’s shirt instead of ripping it open and then carefully pushed it aside, seeing the blood oozing from a wound to his side. It was a long wound, but as she inspected it, Charlotte realized—with some relief—that it was not particularly deep. Refusing to allow the sudden nausea she felt to take hold, Charlotte began to clean the wound as best she could, the rags going a deep shade of red as they wiped the blood away. It took a few minutes before she could see the edges of the wound clearly, aware of how the middle still bled. She was not particularly keen on sewing up both sides of the wound, but given that it seemed to be the only way to stop the bleeding, Charlotte knew she had very little choice.
It was a blessing that the fellow was still in the depths of unconsciousness, for when Charlotte began to push the needle through his skin, she felt so ill that she had to pause for a long moment, which was sure to bring him a good deal of pain had he been awake. As it stood, she was able to regain her composure and, taking a mouthful of brandy for herself, forced her unsteady hand to continue with its task.
The brandy, having been poured on the wound before she began to sew, was subsequently poured onto what was a rather jagged effort at sewing the wound together, with Charlotte then ordering a poultice to be made below stairs. Herbs and the like were pressed together before being placed on the wound, which Charlotte bound up herself with clean bandages.
All in all, she was fairly satisfied with her work, although, as she sat back in her chair, Charlotte realized that her hands were trembling.
“Fetch a few of the staff and have this man changed out of his bloody shirt and then put him into this bed,” she said, aware that her voice wavered as she gave the footman his instructions. “Have one of the maids wipe and clean his injured face with a fresh bowl of hot water and these unused rags. I shall sit here for the present.”
It was not as though she would have the strength to move about the room even if she wished too, Charlotte realized, given just how weak she felt. She did nothing but look at the fellow on the bed, whilst the maids began to tidy up about her. A bowl of hot water was placed at her elbow as a gentle voice encouraged her to wash her hands so that there would be no trace of blood left on her fingers. Charlotte did as she was bade silently, never once lifting her eyes from the unconscious gentleman. Now that her ordeal was at an end, she found her mind beginning to fill with questions, although none of them found an immediate answer.
She would not easily forget the faces of the two gentlemen who had been beating this poor man as he lay on the ground. Regardless of what he had done, there was never any justifiable reason for treating another human being with such disregard. If he had done something terrible, something deserving of punishment, then there were procedures to ensure that he faced the consequences of such a thing. However, it was not for those two men to take matters into their own hands. Charlotte shuddered violently as she wiped her wet hands on the cloth, drying them thoroughly. She could still hear the sound of their feet meeting flesh, could hear the groan that had ripped from the man’s lips.
Her eyes strayed to the blood-stained shirt that one of the footmen now held delicately out in front of him.
“Burn it,” she heard herself say, no longer watching the fellow in the bed as her staff hurried to change him into something clean. “There is no need to try to salvage it.”
The footman nodded and left the room with the shirt in his hand, making Charlotte pray that her brother would not spot him as he made his way below stairs.
What will Wickton say?
“A tea tray, miss.”
Charlotte looked up, her gaze jerking away from the man for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy, a tray in her hand as a slow flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “I said to the cook that you was looking like you needed one, Miss James. I am sorry if I did wrong.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, realizing that she had spoken more sharply than she had first intended. “No, of course you did not,” she said quickly, trying to smile but finding that her lips refused to do such a thing. “That is most kind of you. I thank you. Set it here.”
The maid, looking vastly relieved, did as she was told and Charlotte found herself truly appreciative for the tea and the small lemon buns that the cook knew she liked. Sustenance would stop the shaking in her limbs, surely. After all, she could not go to speak to her brother when she was still trembling so.
“Where is Lord Wickton?” she asked as the maid made to take her leave. “Is he at home still?”
“I am not sure, miss,” the maid replied, lowering her head. “I can find out.”
One of the footmen came near. “He is still within his study, Miss James,” he said, clearing his throat. “I do not believe he is aware of… anything.” His eyes roved towards the unconscious man, who was being carefully rolled onto his side by two footmen whilst the maids pulled at the dust sheet so that he might be placed carefully into the bed.
“I understand,” Charlotte replied quickly, not wanting to make any of her brother’s staff ill at ease. “Once this fellow is settled, I shall go to him directly and speak to him about what has occurred.” She saw the footman’s shoulders relax a little, as though he was glad that the staff would not be obliged to keep a secret from their master for any length of time.
“He is abed, Miss James.”
Her attention was drawn to the man in the bed, seeing the maid who had spoken bob a quick curtsy, although her expression was one of concern.
“He is rather gray, Miss James, if it is not too bold to say.”
“No, indeed,” Charlotte replied, still holding her tea cup in her hands as she studied the man. “It is not at all bold. It is the truth. This man has endured a great deal and he will need time to recover.”
As will I.
A small, wry smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head to herself. The tea and the lemon buns were doing what they were required to do and bringing a good deal of strength back into her bones. She felt almost foolish over her weakness, rising to her feet a trifle unsteadily as she took a few steps closer to the fellow.
“Who are you?” she said aloud, looking at him carefully as fresh questions poured into her mind. “Whatever were you doing in St James’ Park? And why were they beating you so?”
There was no answer from the man. His eyes remained closed, his breathing steady and even. Charlotte sighed heavily and got to her feet, aware that she would have to go and speak to her brother, just as she had promised. Wickton would, of course, think she had gone completely mad and would, most likely, demand that this fellow be thrown from the house almost at once. Of course, she would not permit this. He would have to be allowed to rant and rail at her for some time before sense would take a hold of his mind and he would be calm enough to listen to what she had to say.
Suddenly, something grasped at her fingers, making her jerk in surprise as a gasp ripped from her mouth. She turned at once, astonished to see his hazel eyes, deep with a fierce intensity, linger on her own. His swollen eye looked terribly painful but still, he continued to watch her intently, as though assessing whether or not she could be trusted.
“I must leave.”
The man’s voice was low and hoarse, each word coming out of his mouth with what appeared to be a great amount of effort.
“Now, you must be sensible,” Charlotte replied at once, aware of just how quickly her heart was hammering. “You have been gravely injured. You must recover.”
The man closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, his fingers tightening on hers.
“N0 one knows you are here,” Charlotte found herself saying, as though this improved matters in some way. “You have been well taken care of, and I have done my best with the wound in your side.”
The man’s eyes flickered open again and he stared at her, as though trying to recall what had gone before.
“You fell into unconsciousness,” she told him, wondering if this was why he appeared so confused. “Your wound has been cleaned and sewn. Your face has been washed and your bruises wiped with liniment. Now you only need rest. You will be well taken care of here, I swear to you.”
The man seemed to accept this, although a frown immediately began to knot his brow. “They might pursue me. I cannot—”
“As I have said, no one is aware of your presence here, not even my own brother,” Charlotte stated firmly, seeing the deep furrows in his brow begin to smooth. “I will do all I can to aid you, sir, in whatever way you require, but you must rest. That is the only way you shall recover your strength. I believe the cook is making a broth of some sort and some will be brought up to you the moment it is ready.” She glanced towards the door, finding that she did not want to leave this fellow, but knowing that she had to talk to her brother before any more time passed. “I must speak to my brother.”
“Brother?” The man’s fingers grew tight on hers. “Who is he?”
Charlotte smiled at him, trying to reassure him with the gentleness of her gaze. “He is Viscount Wickton,” she said calmly. “A good man, I assure you.”
This, for whatever reason, appeared to relax the fellow completely. He let his head sink back into his pillows, his hand loosening in hers. “Lord Wickton,” he said softly, his eyes closing as Charlotte watched him carefully. “Very good.”
Charlotte nodded, although she did not know why this man seemed so relieved to discover that he was staying in the house of Lord Wickton. Did he know who her brother was? Was there some connection between them that she did not know?
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly, realizing that she did not even know whether or not this man was titled. “You appear to be wearing the clothes of a gentleman so I must surmise—”
“It is best you do not know.”
The man’s voice was hard although his eyes remained closed. He lifted one hand and waved it in her direction, as though urging her to quit the room. Charlotte felt herself stiffen.
“I do not think that it is very fair of you to refuse to even tell me your name, sir,” she stated, finding a flare of anger settling in her chest. “After all, I have done my best to aid you.”
His eyes opened and held hers, even though the swollen eye was now barely more than a slit. “I did not ask for your help,” he told her, making her shoulders rise and her back stiffen with a sharp burst of anger and frustration. “It is not that I am ungrateful, but rather that I have no obligation towards you for your kindness. That was given to me out of your own compassion, was it not?”
The words burned on her lips. “Yes,” Charlotte retorted, knowing that she could not pretend otherwise. “I could not leave you there on the ground in such agony.”
His eyes closed again, his chest falling as he let out a long sigh. “Then do not expect me to give you whatever you demand, simply because you have chosen to be kind to me,” he said, his voice growing thinner with every word he spoke. “Otherwise that is not true compassion.”
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. She wanted to argue with him, wanted to tell him that he ought to do as she wished, but found that she could not argue with his logic. She had shown him kindness simply because she could not leave him there alone, because of the sympathy and sorrow over his bruised body, and she had no right to force him to return such compassion with any answers she demanded of him.
“I shall leave you now,” she said stiffly, walking towards the door. “The broth will be here soon. Do try to take some of it.”
The man did not respond and Charlotte forced herself to walk out of the room without saying another word. Anger was still burning within her, even though she knew she had no right to feel such a way. Everything the man said had been correct. She had no right to demand anything of him.
“Wickton,” she murmured aloud, trying to set her mind to what was to come next. Her brother would not be at all pleased to hear what she had done and even less delighted to know that she had not so much as managed to garner a name from the fellow, but he needed to be informed regardless. Setting her shoulders and pushing aside her irritation at what she felt, Charlotte lifted her chin and proceeded down the hallway in search of her brother.
3
Michael was growing tired of broth.
It had been three days since he had awoken to find a young lady looking down at him, her eyes wide with dismay. Three days since he had accepted her help and wallowed in his own weakness. Three days since he had been beaten black and blue at the hands of two supposed ‘gentlemen’.
Not that they had been anything of the sort, of course. A man might dress as a gentleman, might speak as a gentleman and might even have the wealth and the title to declare himself a gentleman, but that did not mean that he behaved as a gentlemen. Those two men did not deserve such an accolade.
“Good afternoon.”
Michael turned his head to see the young lady known as Miss James walk into the room, a bright smile on her face that did not quite meet her eyes. He knew that he was frustrating her terribly with his unwillingness to speak openly about himself, but it was best for her that he not do so. In fact, it would be best if he quit this househol
d just as soon as he was able, for to remain here might bring a good deal of trouble onto her head and he did not want that to occur.
“Good afternoon, Miss James,” he said with a quick smile as she came to sit down in the same chair that she had sat in the last three afternoons. “I have had my wound checked, cleaned and rebandaged, so all is well.”
She nodded but did not smile. Her blue eyes were sharp, her oval face giving no hint of gentleness or affection. Instead, there was a hardness there that Michael knew came from a deep sense of frustration over his refusal to do as she asked. Not that she had said such a thing to him. It was obvious that she was doing her level best to keep such feelings to herself. Michael permitted himself a small, wry smile as he watched her, aware that he had done all he could to ensure that she had no easy way to insist that he give her all the information she wanted. He had used her own kindness against her, which was not something he was particularly proud of, but it had been necessary for her safety.
“You have your hair arranged differently today,” he commented, seeing that instead of the usual tight chignon that made for very little softness about her face, she had her hair pulled back into gentle ringlets with a few wisping about her forehead. “Do you have something to attend this evening?”
“I do,” she replied, not looking away from him. “A ball, in fact.”
“A ball?”
She rolled her eyes at him and Michael grinned.
“Yes, a ball,” she stated wearily. “I am sure that you know it is the height of the summer season, for even if you do not want to tell me your name, I can well ascertain that you are a gentleman of some sort.”
“Oh?” He arched an eyebrow and pushed himself back against his pillows a little more so that he could see her better. “And how have you managed to decipher that?” he asked, wincing as the pain in his side burnt up through him.
