“Nicholas can’t go,” Leah said, “but he’ll want specifics. Who was the widow, Kirsten?”
Nita was fairly certain who the widow was. She did not, however, recognize this band of angels intent on protecting her from the very bad news that might have resulted from the duel.
“You needn’t accompany me,” Nita said. “If I’m to be ruined, the less you’re seen in my company, the better.”
“You’re not ruined,” Addy said fiercely.
“I agree with Addy,” Leah said, and as the countess and highest title in the shire, she could speak with authority. “Nicholas will dissuade anybody from discussing today’s events. Men must be allowed their silly crotchets, after all. Ladies, we’ll need our boots and cloaks.”
“Nita should bring her medical bag,” Della said. “Duels can get messy.”
“Surely not—” Nita began, because that bag was an item of loathing among her family members and had figuratively cost her a future with Tremaine.
“Horton will be there,” Kirsten added. “And Edward thinks of himself as a great rural sportsman. I don’t doubt Mr. St. Michael is an excellent shot.”
Good God, Horton, with his dirty instruments and complete disregard for the patient’s pain. Terror for Tremaine threatened to choke Nita where she stood.
“Fetch your bag,” Susannah said.
“Get your cloak,” Leah said, “and I’ll fetch the medical bag for you.”
* * *
George Haddonfield was apparently a connoisseur of good whiskey, for Tremaine had nearly drained that worthy fellow’s flask before William shuffled to a halt. The horse stood placidly outside the Belle Maison kitchen door while Tremaine enjoyed another dram. Excellent stuff. Slowed down the cold creeping over a man from within.
“I’ll find a footman,” George said, swinging off his gelding. “Don’t, for God’s sake, fall out of your saddle, St. Michael. Nicholas might even be about, and if he can help, that’s one less source of gossip—”
The kitchen door opened and a half-dozen women in cloaks and scarves emerged.
“The jury has assembled,” Tremaine murmured. “Ladies, I apologize for my condition. Bit messy, you see. Mourning the end of a fine boot and a finer engagement.”
“He’s tipsy,” George muttered. “Nash fired early and St. Michael got the worst of it, but you lot aren’t to know any of that.”
“Stone sober,” Tremaine retorted cheerily. “But, alas, not in any condition to dismount unaided.”
“I’ll lead the horses to the stable,” Susannah said. “Leah, let Nicholas know Mr. St. Michael has survived his ordeal. If I’m not back by noon, I’ve gone to kill Edward Nash.”
“You can’t kill him,” Addy Chalmers said—what was she doing among the assemblage? “He’s Mary’s uncle. I’ll go with you.”
“Get Mr. St. Michael into the kitchen.” Nita spoke with the crisp dispatch of a field marshal confident of victory. Pain hadn’t robbed Tremaine of consciousness, but the relief of knowing Nita would tend him nearly put him into a swoon.
“I’m sorry to bother you, my lady,” Tremaine said as George more or less pulled him off his horse. “Hadn’t meant to impose, but Horton was there with his dirty knife. Paracelsus would disapprove.”
“I would disapprove,” Nita said. The damned woman was smiling, also crying, as she slipped an arm around Tremaine’s waist. “Slowly, George, and once we get Mr. St. Michael out of the cold, his bleeding might become profuse.”
Tremaine’s heartache was already profuse. “You may remove my leg if you like,” he said as he was half carried into the kitchen. “You are already in possession of my heart.”
“A tipsy shepherd poet,” George murmured. “Where do you want him?”
“On the table. I’ll need blankets, more whiskey, quantities of sugar, bandages, and as much prayer as you can muster.”
“What about my heart?” Tremaine asked as he was propped against the kitchen worktable. “Do you need that as well?”
Nita held a flask up to his mouth, more of George Haddonfield’s lovely brew. Tremaine dutifully gulped but fought off a growing mental fog, because he needed an answer to his question.
“Shall you hold on to my heart, Lady Nita?”
“You’re tipsy, Mr. St. Michael, and weak from loss of blood. Right now, I’ll hold on to your leg while George cuts your boot off.”
Tremaine might have importuned Lady Nita further, but she kissed him, a sweet, nighty-night kiss that boded well for his heart. She’d also called him Mr. St. Michael in the brisk tones that had ever been a cause for good cheer.
When George started peeling off the abused boot, an agony of fire shot through Tremaine that did not bode at all well for his leg.
He let the darkness take him, because if anybody could restore him to adequate health, it was Nita Haddonfield. Though—alas for true love—that admission rather shot the other boot off of Tremaine’s objections to her medical calling.
* * *
Tremaine St. Michael had been lucky. Edward’s shot had apparently hit a rock and scraped a deep furrow in the victim’s flesh, though the bullet had spent most of its force before striking Tremaine.
The scar would be substantial, and the blood loss had been as well, but if infection didn’t set in, the patient would recover.
Nita was a ferocious opponent of infection. No ammunition, not Cook’s hoard of white sugar, not her stores of honey, not George’s last bottle of what he called “winter whiskey,” was too precious to spare in the fight against infection.
“I’ve seen an infected toenail carry a man off,” Nita said, speaking around a lump of fear that was her constant affliction of late. “It wasn’t a peaceful death either. Not for the patient, not for his family.”
“And not for you,” Nicholas replied. He’d accosted Nita outside Tremaine’s room, and all Nita wanted was to get back to her patient’s side.
“Nicholas, if you lecture me now on the inappropriateness of my medical endeavors, I will kick you where it hurts.” Though Nita was too tired and heartsick to kick anybody very hard, and in fairness, Nicholas himself had shown her that maneuver when she’d turned twelve.
“What if we have a civil discussion?” Nick countered, taking the tea tray from Nita and setting it on the sideboard across the corridor. “What if you allow the head of your family and your dearest, sweetest brother a moment of your time? St. Michael won’t be dancing down the lane anytime soon, Nita, and you haven’t shown up at a meal for three days.”
“You are my nosiest and most bothersome brother.”
Nick was also the largest, strongest Haddonfield, and when he settled his arms around Nita, she could do nothing but accept his embrace.
“How is the patient?” he asked.
Nicholas always smelled good, though since his marriage, his scent bore an undernote of lily of the valley. Leah’s influence, no doubt.
“Resting quietly.” Nita gave Nick the medical euphemism for “as well as can be expected,” but it was also the truth. Tremaine seemed to realize that rest was an ally, or perhaps years of racketing about in pursuit of trade had worn him out in ways that didn’t show.
Nick steered Nita to a window seat at the end of the corridor. The chill of a winter afternoon rolled off the glass at her back, while Nick wedged his warmth against her side.
“What does resting quietly mean, Nita?”
“It means, so far, infection hasn’t set in, though a bullet wound can fester slowly, depending on its depth and where it strikes. If the bone is shattered, then significant damage is done to the surrounding tissue, and—”
Nick kissed her forehead. “Have a care for my luncheon, Sister. Will St. Michael come right?”
“I don’t know,” Nita said. The fear was in her belly too, like a wasting disease. Mostly, the fear was in her heart. “I never know. I think the patient is fading, and then for no reason, they’re up and about, begging for a strong cup of tea and wishing me to perdition. I thi
nk surely, surely, another patient is mending well, and they slip away in the middle of a morning.”
Nick’s arm settled around Nita’s shoulders, a comforting weight. “Shall I ask Fairly to have a look at him?”
Nick was asking, not ordering, demanding, fussing, or complaining. He’d charged into the kitchen as Nita had examined the wound to Tremaine’s leg, turned white as new-fallen snow, and abruptly quit the room. Since then, he’d been quiet, his expression considering rather than put-upon.
And Nick had made an excellent suggestion.
David, Viscount Fairly, was a neighbor who lived two hours’ ride across the shire. Fairly was also a physician trained in Scotland, where the best and most forward-thinking practices were taught. Nobody had dared suggest consulting with Horton—Nita would soundly kick any who mentioned that name—but Fairly was a different resource entirely.
“A fine notion,” Nita said, the fear easing marginally. “Please have the viscount pay a call. I know he doesn’t practice, but we’ve had a few discussions, and he doesn’t reject my ideas simply because of my gender.”
“A man of sense, is our David. I am a man of sense too.”
Nick was a man of heart.
“Whatever you’re about to say, Nicholas, just say it. I’m too tired to shout at you and too worried to indulge in verbal fisticuffs.”
“Glad to know it, because my countess has gone several rounds with me lately, and I did not emerge victorious. Here is what I need to say: I am proud of you, Nita Haddonfield, for the convictions you put ahead of your own comfort and convenience, for your courage, for your ferocious appetite for knowledge. St. Michael will soon be back on his mettle, hatching schemes regarding my sheep and speaking in that execrable poetic dialect for the amusement of all. His good health is exclusively your accomplishment.”
“The good Lord alone—” Nita said, trying to rise.
Nick gently pulled her back to his side. “The good Lord and my dear sister. You think I strut about here, dandling my heir and plaguing my sisters, but I’ve also done some listening and some nosing about the village. Horton is a disgrace, and nobody uses him if they can help it. They all turn to you, the wealthy, the poor, the hopeless, and you never turn them down. Do you know what we call this behavior?”
“Stupid,” Nita said. “You’ve called it dangerous, mutton-headed, headstrong—”
Nick had shouted those words and more at her, and while Nita needed to return to Tremaine’s side, Nick would not let her go until he’d said his fraternal piece.
“All very true,” Nick said, “but it’s also honorable, Bernita mine. To look after those who can’t look after themselves, to attend to duty rather than convenience. You have reminded me of what honor requires, and I’m grateful.”
That last word—grateful—wasn’t one Nita heard very often. “Is that an apology?”
Nick removed his arm. “Not quite, and this is where my countess and I differ. Shall we look in on your patient?”
Nita shot to her feet, then grasped Nick’s arm to steady herself.
“You need to eat something,” Nick groused. “Something more than tea and ginger biscuits.”
“I do, but about this apology?”
“I’m not apologizing for worrying over your safety and health, Nita. I can’t help myself. I worry about those whom I love, and you are among that number. You always will be. If that’s a kicking offense, then have at me. Where I do apologize is for failing to respect your abilities and the passion with which you share them. For that, I apologize heartily.”
This conversation—a conversation, not an argument—was important. The part of Nita that loved Nicholas knew that. The rest of her dreaded what she’d find when they entered Tremaine’s room. He had been resting quietly when she’d left him only moments earlier, and yet he might be fevered or worse upon her return.
She worried for Tremaine, despite all sense to the contrary, as Nick worried about her—as her entire family had worried about her for years.
“I worry,” Nita said, hand on the latch. “God knows I worry. I cannot blame you for the same trait.” Nita could, rather, commiserate with Nick for the helplessness and anxiety that caring produced.
“He’ll be fine,” Nick said, opening the door. “Bothersome, scheming, and he talks funny, but St. Michael will be fine.”
Eighteen
Nita had brought reinforcements in the form of her brother the earl, though she was thankfully without the damned tea tray. A man who needed assistance getting to the chamber pot had reason to view the tea tray askance.
“St. Michael, you’re awake.”
“Astute as always, Bellefonte.”
“If you want to continue to make free with my nightshirts, you’d best wake up your manners,” the earl retorted, taking a seat on the bed. The jostling produced only discomfort, not the agony it might have a few days ago.
“I forgot the tea tray,” Nita said.
Bother the damned tray.
“I wouldn’t mind a ginger biscuit or two,” Bellefonte commented, apparently getting comfortable on Tremaine’s bed.
Nita scurried out, though to Tremaine, she looked increasingly worn and worried.
Also dear. Inexpressibly dear.
“I sent Nash off to his uncle,” Bellefonte said, the pretense of genial bonhomie disappearing as Nita left the room. “I’m the magistrate, and I’ve become creative when the need to lay information is upon me—public drunkenness, attempted manslaughter, slander, assault…care to add any more?”
A weight lifted from Tremaine’s shoulders, for Nita should not have to tolerate a weasel living in the same neighborhood. Then too, Nash’s own safety probably required that he bide a distance from Lady Susannah.
“Elsie Nash might have some useful thoughts about the handling of her son’s inheritance,” Tremaine said. “My thanks, and Nash ought to thank you as well. Nita, Elsie Nash, and Addy Chalmers are out of charity with him.”
As was Tremaine. A decent pair of boots cost a pretty penny, but Nita Haddonfield’s good name was worth more than all the sheep in Britain.
“Nita cares for you,” Bellefonte said, scratching his back against the bedpost the way a horse might use a stout tree. “I care for Nita, therefore I’m having a competent physician come around to look you over.”
“Not Horton,” Tremaine said, visions of a dirty scalpel rising from his nightmares. “Nita won’t stand for the insult.”
“I’m not sure what to do about Horton, but he’ll not set a chubby foot on my property, lest Nita be out of charity with me. You’re managing?” Bellefonte inquired with the carefully casual commiseration of a man in blazingly good health for another fellow who hadn’t left his bed to speak of in days.
“I’m planning my apology,” Tremaine said. “Lady Nita saved my leg, if not my life.”
“Never easy, planning an apology. I’ll leave you to it.” Bellefonte patted Tremaine on the knee and rose.
“I could use a footman if you find one free.” Or Tremaine could hobble behind the privacy screen on his own, bashing about like a drunken bullock along the way.
“Nita spikes the tea with laudanum,” Bellefonte said. “That’s why you’re a bit unsteady. The leg will be fine or Nita would have relieved you of it.”
“Good to know.” Also awful to know, because Bellefonte was no longer teasing. Tremaine sank against the pillows, awaiting torture by ginger biscuit and spiked tea. He went back to work planning his apology but was distracted by the disturbing fact that Nita might well have taken a saw to him—a clean, sharp saw—had his injury been of a different nature.
She would have hated the entire ordeal but tended to Tremaine to the best of her ability anyway. When it was Tremaine’s life in jeopardy, he’d relied on Nita to use the very skills he’d expected her to deny others.
A lifetime of apologies might not suffice, though he’d start with one good one and hope for a miracle.
* * *
The fourth day
of Tremaine’s convalescence saw a change in Nita’s patient.
“What are you doing out of bed?” she asked.
“Hobbling slowly,” Tremaine retorted. “Impersonating my grandfather when his rheumatism acts up. No wonder wounded soldiers are eager to have at their enemies once more. Marching about is tedious, but a bullet wound is a damned inconvenience.”
A recovering patient was a damned inconvenience too, for as soon as he was hale, Tremaine might well be on his way.
“Please sit,” Nita said, when what she wanted to do was put an arm around Tremaine’s waist and wrestle him back to bed.
“I shall sit on the sofa,” he replied, wobbling off in that direction. George or some other traitorous brother had provided a pair of crutches. Tremaine’s skill with them suggested this treason had been committed at least a day ago.
“You may sit where you please, but you’ll prop your leg up.”
Tremaine looked like he wanted to argue, a sure sign of recovery. His hair was combed, and his dressing gown neatly belted, though his feet were bare.
“I hate being invalided,” he growled, “and hate more that I’ve prevailed on you to tend me.”
As if Nita would allow anybody else near him. “I won’t be tending you much longer. Lord Fairly says your wound is healing beautifully.”
“Nonsense. An unsightly rip in a man’s flesh cannot be beautiful. Would you please sit beside me?”
A rip in a man’s flesh could be gorgeous, when little heat or swelling accompanied it, the scent lacked any hint of putrefaction, and the edges were already beginning to knit.
Nita set a hassock before Tremaine and took a seat beside him rather than argue.
“Nicholas has sent Edward Nash to his uncle,” she said, because somebody ought to let Tremaine know. “I wanted to shoot Edward in the leg and leave him to Horton’s tender mercies.”
That sentiment was hardly to her credit as a healer, though Nita’s sisters, Leah, and Addy shared it with her. Susannah’s quotations were recently all drawn from the Bard’s bloodiest tragedies.
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