A half hour later, she still had not yet had an opportunity to check on the injured horse. Instead, she found herself perched on the sofa in the drawing room, attempting to busy herself with needlework as they waited for the gentlemen to join them.
“Oh, Lucy, the invitation! You were out riding this afternoon when the post came and we forgot to tell you. What an exciting day it has been. I was just saying to Mama—”
“Do not keep me in suspense,” Lucy interrupted. She knew Susanna would prattle on endlessly without ever getting to the point if allowed. “What invitation?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Warburton,” Jane supplied as she took up her own needlework. “She is giving a party in three days’ time. She thought to get everyone from the district together before we return to Town. I wonder if Lord Mandeville will be in attendance...”
Lucy shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. Didn’t he say he avoids social functions? ‘I do not enjoy the social aspects of the Season,’” she mocked in a deep timbre.
Jane laughed and looked to her sister with raised brows. “We shall have to wait and see if he has suddenly changed his mind on the matter, will we not?”
Susanna nodded in agreement.
Lucy set aside her untouched needlework. “Lady Rosemoor, I must excuse myself to check on the horse.”
“Really, dear, must you?” her hostess asked.
“Yes, Lucy. Can it not wait until after the Rosemoors’ guest has left?” Aunt Agatha looked at her pointedly. “The gentlemen should be joining us presently.”
That was exactly why she wanted to get out to the stables as quickly as possible. “I shall hurry back, I promise,” Lucy lied, then scurried out before she was met with more protests.
“There ye are, miss.” Lucy looked up in surprise as Simmons stepped out of Phantom’s stall, rubbing his shin. “Our patient is not taking kindly to my attentions. I hope ye’ll be having better luck with the cantankerous beast.”
“Phantom, you naughty boy,” Lucy scolded with a chuckle as she went to the horse and knelt to feel its leg. Still warm. She stood and stroked the horse’s mane several times before the animal lowered its chin to rest on her shoulder with a contented whinny.
Simmons shook his head in wonderment. “I’ll leave ye to his care, miss. I’ve just got fresh ice over on the shelf ‘ere. Cook’s gettin’ angry, though. Don’t appreciate you wastin’ her precious ice, she says.”
“Thank you, Simmons,” she called to his back as he shuffled out, shaking his head.
“Simmons, how is Phantom... Oh, Miss Abbington.” Lord Mandeville strode briskly into the stables then stopped short. “I beg your pardon. I was just coming to check on my horse.”
“The tendon is still warm and swollen,” she said. “The ice does seem to be helping somewhat, and I shall make a better poultice tomorrow. But again, I’m afraid he must remain here with us for a few days.”
“I suppose you’re right, although I shall miss my favorite mount.” Lord Mandeville folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the frame of the stall, eyeing Lucy appraisingly as she went to the shelf the groom had indicated. She took the small chunk of ice that was wrapped in cheesecloth, and returned to the horse’s side. “However did you learn of such injuries? If you don’t mind my inquiring?”
Lucy arranged herself on a stool and gingerly pressed the ice to the horse’s foreleg. “I’ve learned to treat many equine illnesses and injuries I’ve come across, to some success.” She paused for a breath. “I know this”—she waved a hand to indicate herself tending the horse—“must seem most unusual to a gentleman such as yourself.”
“Unusual? More like revolutionary,” he said with a chuckle. “But however did you learn the proper treatments?”
“Simple trial and error, for the most part.” She shrugged. “I simply cannot bear to see any creature in pain and leave it to suffer.”
“So, it’s not just horses, then?”
“Oh, no. I’ve set a bird’s broken wing, tended stray dogs and cats, treated infected wounds on sheep. I know it must sound silly.” She eyed him cautiously.
“No, I believe it sounds sensible, Miss Abbington.” He reached for a curry comb and began stroking the horse’s flanks. “I’ve often felt much the same, but I’m afraid I don’t possess the skills that you so obviously do.”
Lucy swelled with pride and continued, emboldened by his approval. “A friend of Papa’s is studying at the Veterinary College in London, and when he is home he indulges me in sharing much of what he learns. I’m not as educated as Mr. Wilton, to be sure, but in his absence I do try to be helpful. There are those who find my pursuits unseemly, of course, and I fear I’m a bit of a bluestocking.” She decided it was better to say aloud what he must be thinking. “But I do enjoy a great deal of latitude in the countryside, as we’re quite removed from the constraints of Town.”
“I’m a great deal peculiar in my belief that the idleness and lack of academic pursuits generally enjoyed by today’s young ladies produces weak character.” He stopped currying the horse and turned to face her. “I admit it is taking some getting used to, but it seems you’ve found your passion. I cannot help but admire that.”
She flustered at his compliment. Her father had indulged her pursuits and many had come to accept what she did, albeit reluctantly, but never before had anyone expressed admiration. She swallowed a lump in her throat and rose to her feet awkwardly. Her shawl dropped to the ground in a heap of lace, and Lord Mandeville bent to retrieve it, brushing off bits of straw as he handed it to her. She shivered involuntarily as their fingers met and then lingered, perhaps a moment too long. Stumbling back, she felt her slipper catch on the stool, and Lord Mandeville reached out to steady her. Finding her balance, Lucy looked up and her eyes met his. Time seemed momentarily suspended as she returned his gaze with her own questioning one, not daring to breathe.
Her eyes widened as he reached up and tenderly brushed her burning cheek with his knuckles. His touch, unexpectedly gentle, sent chills down her spine and made gooseflesh rise on her skin.
And then he released her. He stepped back, a puzzled expression darkening his face, and studied his hands with a scowl.
Lucy stood transfixed, unable to speak.
“Ah, yer lordship,” the groom said, interrupting the charged silence with his return. “No need to check on yer horse. As you can see, the miss is taking fine care of ‘im.”
“Yes, Simmons, I see that she is.” Lord Mandeville’s voice was cold and his eyes had lost their previous warmth, as if a curtain had been drawn over them. “I should return to my hosts,” he said gruffly. “Miss Abbington, good night.” With a curt bow, he turned and stalked out.
Lucy stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on his retreating form. Her heart beat wildly and her breath came fast, as if she’d run a distance. He’d only touched his hand to her face, nothing more, she reminded herself. Her own reaction, so physical, frightened her. Yes, he was handsome, uncommonly so, but that was no excuse.
With a start, she realized Simmons was speaking to her. She turned to the groom in confusion.
“Everything okay, miss?” he was asking.
“Oh, yes, everything is fine.” She sank inelegantly back down upon the stool. “I suppose I was dizzy for a moment there.”
“Should I go and fetch a vinaigrette for ye?” The groom’s brow knitted in concern.
Lucy shook her head. She’d never in all her life fainted, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now. She’d been gone from the house far too long. Her aunt would be cross for certain. She took a deep, fortifying breath. “That’s not necessary. Thank you, Simmons, but I should return to the house at once.”
Chapter 3
Lucy’s restless slumber was interrupted by an insistent pounding upon her door. She sat up, disoriented. Was it morning? She blinked and saw the first light of day casting hazy shadows across the coverlet. “Yes?” she called out sleepily. “Come in.” Susanna’s lady�
�s maid rushed in, looking as if she, too, had just been awakened.
“Miss Abbington, Lord Mandeville has sent for you at Covington Hall. His valet is downstairs in the front hall with the housekeeper.”
“Lord Mandeville? Whatever for?” For a moment Lucy thought she was dreaming. She blinked a few times. With a blush she foggily remembered her encounter with the marquess the night before. Thank goodness he had unexpectedly departed before she had returned to the house.
“His valet says the marquess’ horse is due to foal and he fears complications. I told him it is impossible for you—”
“Mary, please help me dress, and quickly.” Lucy sprang from the bed and began shrugging off her nightclothes in earnest.
“But, miss, this is quite irregular. You cannot go—”
“Of course I can, and I must.” Lucy slipped into a shift, and hastily pulled on serviceable stockings. “Just find my old yellow morning gown and pelisse and help me fasten this corset. There, thank you, Mary. And please tell Lady Rosemoor where I have gone when she awakens.” It would not be for several hours yet. Lady Rosemoor and her daughters were notoriously late risers.
“You cannot suggest you are going to Covington Hall unchaperoned?” the maid gasped, her voice rising a full pitch.
“Mary, this is not a social call.” This was business, of course. She did not drag along a chaperone at home when her services were needed. Lucy buttoned her pelisse and pulled on her half-boots, lacing them with quick precision. She stood and studied her reflection in the looking glass. “Oh, dear. My hair.” She reached up and pushed back the unruly waves spilling across her cheeks. “Can you plait it? There, that will do. Thank you, Mary.” On her way out the door, she remembered her bonnet and gloves. She ran back to retrieve them, and hurried out again.
Lucy closed her eyes and leaned her head against the smooth leather squabs, hoping to catch a moment’s more rest as the stylish barouche rolled toward Covington Hall. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she had eaten nothing in her haste to depart.
She dozed for a moment, awakening with a start as the carriage slowed. She rubbed her eyes and sat forward in her seat, peering anxiously out the glass as they turned down a narrow, shady lane. At last Covington Hall appeared around the bend. It was a graceful structure of aged yellow stone, its corners traced by wisteria. Lucy sucked in her breath. It was immense, imposing—yet utterly enchanting. The carriage proceeded through iron gates, which opened to a wide drive flanked by tall, manicured shrubs.
The house’s grand façade was reflected in the shimmering water of long, rectangular fountains set at either side of the sweeping front stairs. She could only shake her head in amazement. Why, Covington Hall was perhaps three times the size of Glenfield. In comparison, her own home back in Nottinghamshire seemed almost... No, there was no means for comparison. After the carriage rolled to a stop, she took the footman’s proffered hand and alighted with a concerned frown.
The marquess’ valet, who introduced himself as Philbin, clambered down. “This way, miss, to the stables,” he said as he hastily led her away from the house. As Lucy followed him, she couldn’t help but glance one last time over her shoulder. She’d never seen such a magnificent house in all her life. She shook her head once more, a knot of anticipation forming in her stomach.
“Yer lordship, I do not know why you felt the need to summon ‘er here. There’s nothing here that I cannot handle.” The groom was obviously insulted. His face was mottled, his rheumy eyes bulging. “And besides,” he sputtered, “yer tellin’ me that a lass—”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, MacLaren.” Henry was distractedly peering over the man’s shoulder, anticipating the carriage’s arrival with Miss Abbington. “I know it’s odd—I could hardly believe it myself at first. But Lord Rosemoor assures me she is well informed and quite competent. Besides, if what her aunt tells me is true, then her skills are exceptional.”
“If ye say so, milord.” The groom made no attempt to mask his skepticism.
The heaving mare got to her feet and began pacing a circuit in her stall. Both Henry and MacLaren turned their attention to her, anxious looks upon their faces. Abruptly, the horse lay down upon the ground and began to roll on her back from side to side.
“Lord Mandeville, how long has she been rolling like that?”
Henry turned and saw Miss Abbington there, unfastening her pelisse and pulling off her bonnet as she hurried into the laboring mare’s stall.
“Only a few minutes,” Henry said with relief. “Miss Abbington, I apologize for summoning you here at such an hour, but I wanted you here for the foaling. I’m afraid something isn’t right.”
MacLaren shuffled his feet and offered a “harrumph.”
“A few minutes, you say? Oh, if only I had gotten here sooner. Has her sac of waters broken?”
“Aye, no more’n a quarter hour ago.” MacLaren took off his hat and scratched his head. “Last night she seemed a bit colicky, so I was surprised there warn’t a foal by daybreak. Still don’t know why he summoned ye’ here.” He looked to his master with narrowed eyes. “Name’s MacLaren, by the way.”
“Well, MacLaren, the rolling is usually an attempt to reposition the foal.” Miss Abbington shook her head. “I think your instincts were correct, Lord Mandeville. Something is indeed not right.”
Three pairs of worried eyes turned toward the mare as she became more agitated and violent in her behavior.
“Can the two of you force her to stand and hold her steady? I’ll check her progress.” Miss Abbington glanced down at her clean, butter-colored frock. “Perhaps I should keep my pelisse on, after all,” she said, refastening her overcoat.
The next few moments were a blur of frenzied activity as Miss Abbington issued orders and requested supplies. Henry and the groom did as they were told in silence, as she ably took control of the situation. In light of her obvious competency, all of Henry’s remaining doubts vanished. He only wished he were as knowledgeable himself. Hell, that his head groom was as knowledgeable, for that matter.
He watched in fascination as she peeled off her gloves, pushed up her sleeves and... Good God, she actually reached inside the horse!
“The foal is breech. I feel its tail. Let’s get her against the wall—keep her standing. I need to tear the membrane. This foal must come out, and now!”
In stunned silence, Henry watched as she tugged and pulled, explaining as she worked that she was tearing a hole in the membrane and turning each of the foal’s hind legs. Soon both legs were visible. Errant locks of the girl’s hair fell in her face, and she looked at her own blood-covered hands with a helpless shrug.
“Here,” Henry said awkwardly, “let me try to, well...let me see if I can get this off your face.” He clumsily pushed her hair away from her eyes, tucking it back as best he could.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, barely acknowledging him. “MacLaren, I need your assistance.” A rivulet of perspiration ran down the side of her face, and her eyes appeared to glow with intensity.
“Miss Abbington, do you think I might...” Henry trailed off, embarrassed at his own eagerness.
She looked to the groom, who nodded his assent. “Of course, my lord. We must each grab a leg here, and when the mare next contracts, pull as forcefully as possible. It is imperative that we get the foal out in one contraction. Do you understand?”
Henry nodded dumbly.
After a brief pause, she called out, “Now!” Henry joined in pulling with all his might, the pair working in silent cooperation. In less than a minute’s time, the foal was entirely delivered with a gush of fluid. Henry stared in amazement at the new creature. Miss Abbington set to work immediately clearing the foal’s nose and cleaning it with towels supplied by MacLaren, who then set about disposing of the placenta. Medusa came over and nuzzled her offspring, who responded immediately by lifting its own small nose to hers.
“A filly, my lord,” Miss Abbington said, her voice full of pride
. “Is she not beautiful?”
Henry looked from the foal to the girl, whose bloodstained pelisse clung wetly to her frock. Her hair had again escaped its binding, and shimmering golden locks fell in disarray around her flushed face.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
An hour later, the foal finally stood on spindly legs and wobbled about, nosing its dam. At last it found the teat and began suckling noisily. She was a little beauty, Henry mused proudly. As dark as her sire but with a white blaze and stockings, where Phantom was solidly black as night.
Henry glanced at Miss Abbington, who was sitting by his side watching the pair of horses with a weary smile. She had cleaned up as best she could and restored her hair to an orderly fashion once MacLaren had fetched a washbasin and soap. Her ruined pelisse sat in a bloody heap beside her bonnet.
Yet she looked perfectly at ease. He tried to picture other young ladies of his acquaintance perched upon a square of hay as naturally as she was, clothing in soiled disarray. He shook his head—it was impossible. No, he’d never met anyone like her. And yet, with the sole exception of his sister, he had never felt as comfortable with a woman before. There were no games, no pretenses, and no false manners. He felt an inexplicable bond with her.
“I must say, Miss Abbington, I’ve never seen anyone so capable, man or woman. I’m duly impressed.”
The smile she rewarded him with set his heart thumping against his ribs.
“Thank you, Lord Mandeville. It’s just...” She shrugged. “What I do. As you said, it’s my passion.”
“Whatever made you take up such an odd pursuit? Have you much support from your family?”
“I thought I did, as my papa has always been indulgent. You see, I was only seven when my mother died and Aunt Agatha came to live with us, to care for my newborn brother. I was feeling sad and at loose ends, more often than not in the way, and I sought solace in the stables. Papa was relieved to find me so happily occupied, and he encouraged my interests. I’m grateful for the freedoms he’s allowed me.”
Unlaced (Undone by Love Book 1) Page 3
