Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  She checked the roast in the hot oven, and the vegetables in the slow oven. The soup was simmering, and the fruit pie was ready to go into the hot oven as soon as the chicken was out of it. She watched Betty lay the table in the kitchen — another treat, to eat off the plain wooden table, with no ceremony and no need to change her gown. She sighed with pleasure. She loved her father dearly, of course she did, but he did like everything just so. ‘We must maintain standards, daughter,’ he always said. ‘Your mother would wish it.’ And of course he was absolutely right — Father was always right — but just occasionally, it was lovely not to worry about doing things properly.

  She had just closed the door of the oven when she thought she heard a noise, an odd sort of tapping sound.

  “What was that? Did you hear something?”

  “I didn’t hear nothing, Miss Genista. Most likely it’s the wind catching the—”

  “Hush! There it is again. Did you hear it?”

  “No, Miss.”

  “You don’t need to be so formal, Betty. You can call me Genista when Father isn’t here. Everyone else does, after all.”

  “That seems disrespectful— Oh! I heard it! It’s at the door, Miss Genista.”

  “This door? Why would anyone come to the kitchen door? Oh, the light, of course. The front of the house is dark.”

  She went through to the scullery, where a lamp hung on a hook over the sink, shining out through the uncurtained window. There it was again, a definite tapping sound, but faint. Perhaps Betty was right, and it was just a tree or a broken branch knocking against the door. But there was no harm in checking. She slid open the bolts and opened the door.

  On the doorstep, half covered in snow and just visible in the thin light of the lamp, lay a dark shape. It groaned.

  “It’s a man,” she said. “Quick, Betty, help me get him inside. Heavens, look how wet he is, and cold! His face is frozen. Quick, we must take him through to the kitchen. Can you carry his feet? That’s it. One… two… three… lift.”

  The man screamed, and then silence fell.

  “To the rug… in front of… the range…” Genista puffed.

  Half carrying and half dragging the unconscious man, they set him down as gently as they could on the rug. Genista began to unfasten his snow-covered greatcoat and loosen his cravat.

  “His clothes are soaked through. We must get him out of them at once. Blankets, Betty, and towels — as many as you can carry.”

  Cautiously, remembering the scream when they had lifted him, she began divesting him of his sodden garments, the greatcoat first, then the top boots, then his coat. He was heavy in her arms as she raised him up, but not unmanageably so.

  Betty came back in at a run, her arms full. “How did he get here, Miss Genista? There’s little enough traffic on this lane, for it goes from nowhere to nowhere.”

  “That’s a good point. He can’t have walked from Elversham, for his boots aren’t muddy enough. There must have been a carriage… or a horse! It will die in this weather if we can’t get it into the stable. Betty, will you go and look? But don’t go too far, just down the path to the lane.”

  With a quick nod, Betty disappeared, and Genista turned back to her unexpected guest. He lay motionless on the rug, eyes closed, his long lashes resting on his pale cheeks, his breathing rapid. He was young, very young, perhaps three or four and twenty. Tendrils of dark hair clung damply to his forehead. He was beautiful, like an angel fallen to earth, his symmetry unmarred, his nose aquiline, his lips curved. Who was he, this vision of perfection?

  She touched his forehead again… cold, so cold. He was chilled to the bone. There was heat enough from the range, but the stranger’s wet clothes would leach all the warmth from his body if they were not removed. Waistcoat, shirt, breeches. Then whatever lay beneath. Waistcoat, shirt, breeches. Oh Lord. If only Father were there! He would carry the man into the surgery and deal with… whatever lay beneath. But Father was not there, and if Genista did not do what was needful, then this fallen angel might well die and it would be her fault. She unfastened the waistcoat, and lifted him to slide it off. Then the shirt and undershirt, pulled off all in one movement. She paused, her eyes drawn to his bare skin, so pale in the lamplight. He’d looked so slender when they’d carried him in, but he was neither thin like a boy, nor soft like a woman. There was strength in his arms, and his chest…

  A deep breath. How foolishly missish to allow herself to be distracted. She was acting as his physician now, so she must be impassive, and do what she needed to do, and quickly. Another deep breath, and then she unbuttoned the breeches, and began to wriggle them down his legs. And before she could think about it, the under trousers.

  His upper left leg was an angry purple colour, the jagged scar raised and torn. Green matter oozed from one corner. With an exclamation of shock, she quickly wrapped him in blankets, then lit a candle and ran through to the mixing room for the necessary materials. Her expert hands had soon made a poultice.

  Betty was in the kitchen when she returned. “No sign of horse nor carriage,” she said. “I can just make out hoof marks heading towards Elversham. I guess he fell off and the beast went on by itself.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now,” Genista said briskly. “Hold the bowl, Betty, while I apply the poultice.” Lifting a small amount of blanket to reveal the injured part of the leg, she set to work.

  “Shouldn’t be doing that,” Betty said, with a sniff of disapproval. “He’s a man.”

  “He’s a very sick man, who will likely die if we do nothing,” she said sharply.

  Betty pointed to the discarded pile of clothes, the undergarments clearly visible. “But he’s nekkid, Miss Genista. And you a lady an’ all.”

  “I am a physician’s daughter, and my conscience won’t permit me to refuse to help. Father would wish me to,” she said, hoping that was true. Father could be such a stickler for propriety sometimes. Yet he had taught her everything he knew and why else but to help people, just as he did? But she felt uneasily that helping people didn’t quite mean stripping handsome young men naked.

  2: Lavender Cottage

  With the poultice in place, and the man wrapped in several blankets and with a pillow beneath his head, the two women left him lying in front of the fire and sat down in silence to their dinner. From time to time, Genista rose to check her patient. His breathing was still ragged, but he felt warmer and the flickering flames of the fire gave his face the illusory glow of health.

  When Betty went through to the scullery to wash the dishes, Genista sat herself in her mother’s rocking chair. It was too dark to work without light, and she dared not waste candles on herself, so she contented herself with watching her sleeping guest. Sleeping or unconscious, it was hard to tell. From time to time he gave a low moan, then his lips moved as if he were trying to speak, but no sound emerged. Then he would thrash a little before settling again. Once a bare foot emerged from the blankets, and she carefully wrapped it up again.

  “You want me to stay up with him?” Betty said when she returned. “I can call you if you’re needed.”

  “No, I’ll stay with him.”

  “What if he wakes up? It’s not fitting, Miss Genista. Dr Hamilton wouldn’t like it.”

  “My father is not here,” she said sharply. “There’s only us, and I’m the one who has helped Father over the years. I can do whatever needs to be done. Go to bed, Betty.”

  “You’ll not get much sleep on that chair. How about we bring that sofa from the parlour?”

  “Oh, the chaise longue. Good idea.”

  It was light enough for the two women to carry without difficulty. They set it down to one side of the fire, and Betty arranged cushions and blankets to make a bed.

  “Call me if he wakes,” she said, then, with a final sniff of disapproval, she took a candle and went up to bed.

  On another such evening, with her father away, Genista would have gone early to bed too. Tonight she tended the fire, trimmed t
he lamp and wrapped herself in a blanket, then lay on her side watching this intriguing young man who sprawled uncomfortably on the rug before the range. Who was he? His clothes were of excellent quality, that much was obvious even to her untutored eye. His cravat had been intricately tied, in the manner she had seen worn by some of the gentlemen in Canterbury. And his boots! Never had she seen such fine boots, clearly polished to the highest degree before the snow had got to them.

  She had torn off his clothes without much thought, but now it occurred to her that there might be some means of identification in them. Betty had rinsed out his linens and hung everything in the scullery to dry, so Genista took the lamp and went through to examine his belongings. His shirt and undergarments bore only the initials ‘GM’, and his greatcoat pockets were empty of all but a partially-eaten bun, half disintegrated by the wet snow that had seeped through it. The coat, however, yielded a pocket knife and a purse holding an astonishing number of coins. In the waistcoat pockets were a watch, stopped, and several cards, too sodden to be readable. And a locket, a tiny thing of filigree silver. A lady’s locket. There was nothing else.

  She returned to her post thoughtful. A rich young man, with a wife or sweetheart, perhaps. But why was he passing Lavender Cottage, alone, on horseback and in such dire weather? What crisis drove him there, far from the main roads or any town? And how did he come by that injury to his leg? She could not be sure, but it looked like it had been caused originally by a bullet.

  For an hour or two she lay wakeful, her mind full of her mysterious guest. Besides, she was too used to long evenings of cribbage with her father to be tired yet. But just as sleep began to creep over her, her patient became restless. He muttered to himself, twisting this way and that, pushing away the blankets, and twice he cried out, although she could not make out the words. When she felt his forehead, he was hot, burning up with fever.

  She knew what to do. Fetching water from the scullery in a basin, she began to peel away the blankets so that she might sponge him down and cool him. But then she stopped. Was it wrong of her, to look on this young man’s nakedness? Yet how could it be? Surely God had directed his steps here, to the very cottage where might be found the skills to heal him, and at the precise time that her father was from home. Therefore it fell to her to do whatever she might for the poor unfortunate, thrashing restlessly in his fever.

  Resolutely, she pulled back the blankets to expose his skin and began to sponge his sweating body.

  ~~~~~

  The night passed slowly. Whether cooling his fever, or wrapping him in layers of blankets to alleviate his chills, she was kept busy. In between times, she rested on the chaise longue, watching her patient toss and turn.

  But by the time Betty rose, and the first pale hints of dawn could be discerned, he was easier and, to Genista’s eyes, seemed to be sleeping more peacefully. With Betty’s help, she changed his poultice, dressed him in an old nightgown of her father’s and lifted him onto the chaise longue.

  “Before you make the chocolate, Betty, will you light a fire in Mama’s room, and make up the bed. After breakfast we’ll move our nameless gentleman to more comfortable quarters.”

  “Your mama’s room, Miss Genista?” Her face registered shock.

  “Yes. Be sure to build up a good fire, for the room will be very cold. Really, Betty, where else are we to put him? He can’t stay in here, the surgery examination couch is too high, and we can’t possibly get him up the stairs.”

  Betty grunted and went away to do as she was bid, but when she returned and began to heat the chocolate, the banging of pans suggested that she was displeased with the proposed scheme. Genista understood why. When her mother had been ill, the small downstairs room had been made into a bedroom for her, and had been her home for five years. After she had died, the room had been closed up and never again used, according to her father’s wishes. Twice a year, she and Betty were permitted to go in to clean it, and otherwise it was untouched, much as it had been left. Occasionally, when her father was away, she went in to look about her and remember and play her mother’s spinet, which she preferred to the pianoforte in the drawing room. She saw no need to mention that to her father. He expected the room to be left unused. Yet she had to be practical, and it was the obvious place to place her patient.

  Genista spent an hour tending to the leeches, returning at regular intervals to check the young man, but he slept quietly now. His breathing was steadier, and she thought his colour was better, although that might just be her fancy. When she felt her mama’s room was sufficiently warm, she and Betty rolled him onto a blanket and dragged him through, and, with some difficulty, into the bed. He stirred and mumbled a few words, but nothing intelligible. Then Genista pulled a chair nearer the bed and settled down for a long day, as the snow fell steadily outside.

  ~~~~~

  Gil woke to the sound of harps. No, one harp, perhaps. Not a heavenly choir, exactly, but perhaps the rest of the angels were otherwise engaged today. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the harp, wondering why he was so tired and his leg ached so abominably when he was dead, until the angel missed a note and exclaimed in vexation, in a most unangelic way. He opened his eyes in surprise.

  Above him was a plain plastered ceiling, cracked and yellowed with age. Warm blankets covered him from the chin downwards, and now that the harpist had ceased playing, he could hear a fire crackling and see flickers of light on the wall from the flames. The wall itself bore a pale paper — no, not pale, faded. A pattern of roses was just distinguishable.

  The harp began again… or was it a spinet? Now a voice rose in quiet song, a hymn, he thought, although she sang so low he could not quite tell. Intrigued, he turned his head.

  At once the music stopped, and after a moment a face bent over him.

  “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

  She was not an angel, that much was certain. Her simple gown of deep green worsted and the hair severely drawn back were too prosaic for any celestial being. She was just a girl, no older than he was. But her face, leaning over him with concern, was pretty enough.

  “Are you thirsty? A sip of water?”

  His mouth was dry as dust, he now realised. He nodded, and she lifted his head and held a beaker to his lips while he drank.

  “There now, not too much just at first. Are you in pain?”

  A hesitation before he shook his head. Not pain, exactly, but he was not comfortable.

  “Your wound is troubling you, I daresay. Do you need to make water?”

  Yes! Now that the idea was in his head, his urgency was great. He tried to raise himself from the bed, but she laughed.

  “No, no! Don’t move! You can use this. Do you understand what to do?”

  She loosened the bedclothes and pushed an oddly-shaped receptacle into his hands. He got the point. She turned her back while he relieved himself, and then slid the device under the bed.

  “Better now?”

  He nodded, feeling no embarrassment. She was so matter-of-fact, feeling his forehead, checking the beat of his heart, then tucking the covers tightly around him again. He was warm, he was safe, he was so, so tired. He closed his eyes.

  ~~~~~

  When he woke again, it was dark, a single lamp shedding a pool of light on the girl as she sat on a hard chair beside the bed, her head bent over some stitchery. The lamp lit her hair with a fiery glow. She wore no cap, so she was a maid, not a matron, and her clothes proclaimed her a gentlewoman, not a servant. Yet she was no simpering miss. He thought of the society ladies he knew and wondered how many of them could have dealt with him so calmly, as she had done.

  A twinge of pain in his leg made him stir restlessly. She looked up at once.

  “How are you feeling now? Better?”

  “A little.” His voice was so croaky, it hardly sounded like him at all. But she smiled, pleased.

  “Ah, you’ve found your voice again. Excellent. Some water? Or a little broth?”

  Broth sound
ed good. She bustled out of the room, returning moments later with another woman, a sour-faced servant of fifty or so, who carried a small bowl.

  “Just a little of this will do you the world of good,” she said. “It’s chicken. Everything is chicken just now, for the fox got into the hen house a few days ago. There now, up you come.”

  Effortlessly she lifted him up, supporting him as she spooned broth into his mouth. It was good, warm and thick and surprisingly tasty. He drank everything she gave him, only dribbling a little down his chin. She mopped him up without comment, and then laid him down on the pillows.

  “You may have a little more later, if you wish. Does your wound bother you?”

  “A little.”

  “The inflammation is lessening, so I believe it will heal well if you stay in bed for a few days.” He smiled, unable to imagine at that moment ever leaving his warm bed. “I am Genista, and the servant is Betty. What may I call you?”

  He hesitated, knowing he should give her his full name, but then he would have to explain all about his family and he had no energy for it. Besides, if she knew who he was, she would call him ‘my lord’ and there would be a constraint between them. He liked being anonymous, being treated as her friend, on Christian name terms. She had offered hers, after all.

  “Gil.”

  “Is that short for anything? Gilead? Gillespie?”

  “Gilbert.”

  “We had a pig called Gilbert once. He made very good bacon.”

  “You name your pigs?”

  “Of course. How else might one enquire of its health? How are you today, Gilbert? Should you like some more mash, Gilbert? That sort of thing. The current pig is Marmaduke.”

  He laughed at the absurdity of it. “Where is this place?”

  “Lavender Cottage, near the village of Elversham in the county of Kent.”

  “I have never heard of it.”