Opening the door, she saw Bob Willson, the groom who had accompanied Lord Kingsley on his trip north. He was mud-stained and weary, apparently just arrived home. Speaking softly so as not to wake her mistress, Christa asked urgently, “Is there a problem, Bob?”
He nodded, his face tight. “It’s his lordship. A cliff crumbled under Fiske and Lord Kingsley dived in to rescue him. He got smashed into a rock pulling the boy out, and I think one of his old wounds broke open. He’s hurt bad, Christa. I thought I should tell Miss Annabelle, but Morrison says she’s been ill. Would it be better to keep it from her?”
Christa pondered briefly, then said, “No, she is on the mend, and she has the right to know.”
From behind her Annabelle’s voice called, “Is that Alex come home?”
Christa stepped aside to let Willson in, and he swiftly told his story, adding more detail. Annabelle sat up in bed, her eyes round with shock. When the groom stopped, she gasped, “Where are they now? Has a doctor seen them?”
“They’re at Stornaway. I was able to carry them up the cliff, then put them across the backs of their horses and get them to the house. It was a rare piece of fortune the tide was down—it’s a lonely stretch of coast, and nary another house for miles. The master had the keys because he’d planned to stop by if possible, and there was fuel and blankets and some food in the house. Fiske just had a knock on the head, and as soon as he warmed up he started taking care of his lordship.”
Willson stopped to drag a tired hand across his forehead before continuing. “I stopped at the nearest town and left word with the doctor’s housekeeper, but the man was away and she had no idea when he might be able to go to the island.”
At this point the group was enlarged by Sybil and her mother, who were passing in the hall and had been attracted by the sounds of worried voices. The story had to be repeated once more, and at the end, Willson said, “I’m going to go back now, but I thought you should know. I’d hoped Miss Annabelle might go with me, but …” His voice trailed off.
Sliding from the bed, Annabelle said, “I am going with you.” She took a few shaky steps, then would have fallen if Christa hadn’t caught her. She was weeping with frustration when Christa and Willson put her back to bed. Looking at Sybil, she cried, “Please, can you go to him? You love him, and he needs you.”
Sybil was shocked and frightened by the news. From the groom’s voice, she knew that her fiancé’s condition must be very grave. She certainly didn’t want anything to happen to Kingsley, at least not before they were safely wed. But to go on a journey in such weather? “Are you mad?” she said sharply. “There’s a blizzard coming. We’d never make it. He has his man there, and the doctor will be with him now. What could I do?”
Everyone present looked at her. Sybil was wearing an elaborate sapphire blue and silver striped morning gown, her hair in a complicated arrangement of ringlets and twists. It was hard to imagine her being of use anywhere, much less in a sickroom.
Annabelle was shaking, her face distraught and tears running down her cheeks. Christa put an arm around her shoulders and said clearly, “I will go. I have had a great deal of nursing experience. Miss Debenham has not. There is no point in her risking her life to no purpose.” She looked at the two Debenhams. “If you do not mind leaving the room? Miss Annabelle is not well.”
Sybil was delighted to make her escape, and satisfied with Christa’s recognition that a lady of quality was unsuited to squalid nursing jobs. The French girl had a way with hair, too; as she followed her mother to the morning room, Sybil considered hiring the maid away from Miss Kingsley.
In Annabelle’s bedchamber, Christa was organizing the expedition. She studied Willson carefully. For all his weariness, he was a burly man of oxlike strength. To be sure, she asked, “Bob, will you be able to make the return journey? You must have traveled most of the night. Would it be better if one of the other men went?”
He shook his head. “There aren’t any that know that country as well as I do. With the storm that’s brewing, that will be essential. Give me some hot food and an hour’s rest and I’ll be right as rain. But we must leave as soon as possible—if we get there after midevening, we’ll miss the tide. If the storm is really hard, the causeway may be impassable for days. And the roads too.”
Christa nodded. “Go eat and get the horses ready. I’ll pack some food and medical supplies and be ready to leave within the hour.”
Willson left the room and Christa turned to her mistress. “Try to keep calm, Miss Annabelle. We’ll make sure he is all right. Don’t worry yourself into a relapse, or Lord Kingsley will have my head for leaving you.”
Annabelle squeezed her maid’s hand. “I know I can trust you to do what is possible.” She added bitterly, “That stupid Sybil wouldn’t cross the street to save anyone’s life but her own.”
Christa shrugged. “She is a lily of the field, not a toiler in the vineyard. I must get ready now.”
In her own room, she had just started assembling her gear when she saw a vivid mental image of Alex, his face cold and gray as death. The vision was horribly real, and the wave of fear that swept over her caused her knees to buckle and her head to whirl. Christa folded onto the bed, her hands pressed into her face as the supernatural calm she had felt was drowned in terror. She struggled to control her desperate breathing. Panic will not help him—action will.
After several moments of desperate prayer, Christa was able to stand and return to what needed to be done. She forced herself to think of one task at a time, swiftly changing to her boy’s clothes, then topping the outfit with the heavy fisherman’s jersey Alex had given her for sailing. The oily scent of the wool took her sharply back to last summer’s happiness and threatened to destroy her fragile control, so she pinched her arm hard, the pain clearing her head. Then she packed a few basic clothes and a selection of herbal remedies and medicines such as laudanum and basilicum powder. After a moment’s thought she also included her sewing kit and a small case of metal instruments.
Downstairs Christa appropriated a heavy boy’s riding coat that had lived in the servants’ hall since Jonathan outgrew it years before, and a knit scarf and cap. After consulting Willson, she packed tea and other supplies the Stornaway house lacked. They were on the road shortly after noon.
Christa had made more than her share of desperate flights, but none worse than this one. The rigors of the journey at least had the slim virtue of keeping her fears for Alex at bay. The weather was cold and threatening when they left, and within two hours a full-scale blizzard was blowing, with tiny snowflakes cutting into exposed flesh like shards of ice. She was chilled to the bone, and could only marvel at Willson’s ability to find the route in snow that was blowing so heavily the very hedgerows were obscured. Occasionally he would stop and dismount, proceeding afoot until he found some landmark.
In spite of such stops and one wrong turn that carried them some distance out of their way, they were making excellent time. The tough, shaggy horses Willson had chosen would win no beauty prizes but they forced their way through the wind and drifts as easily as if they were in a meadow in May. The riders went single file, with Willson leading a third horse that carried supplies.
By four o’clock it was full dark. Christa called above the wind, “How are we doing?”
Willson looked worried. “We’re making good time, but we’ll have to slow down now it’s night. We’ve maybe three hours to go. I hope we catch the lowest point of tide. I’m afraid that in this storm, the causeway won’t be entirely above water even then.”
“Can we go faster?”
He looked at her determined face, then nodded. “Aye, lass. If you’re up to it.”
There was no conversation after that. When the drifting was heavy, Christa would get off and lead her horse, hoping the exercise would ward off frostbite. She plodded along in the trail Willson was breaking, content to trust his sense of direction on this flat, windy plain. Warmth was no more than a distant memory, and
her mind was as numbed as her body when Willson called a halt.
“There’s the causeway.” His voice was grim. They had descended to the shore, and in front of them she could discern a light-colored stone roadway thrusting out into the dark waters. At the limit of her vision, it disappeared into blackness. “The center is covered. I’m not sure how deep it is, but the water is rough now. There’s a danger it might carry away the horses.” He glanced doubtfully at his companion. The groom was willing to chance the causeway, but it seemed too hazardous for a mere slip of a girl.
“The tide is coming in, isn’t it?” At his assent, Christa said fiercely, “It will only get worse. What are we waiting for?”
Willson spared her one admiring glance before putting his horse to the causeway. He knew there were places where the stone footing was crumbling, and he preferred to take that risk himself. His horses went calmly enough until they reached the swirling waters; then they balked. It took all his forty-odd years of experience with equines to force them forward. Christa’s gelding tossed its head and flattened its ears, but was persuaded to follow its fellows into the chopping waves.
The water came to the horses’ fetlocks, then their knees, then up to their bellies. The waves crashed against them, splashing the riders and threatening to sweep their mounts off the stones. Christa prayed to every god she could think of, ancient and modern—if they were swept from the causeway, neither horses nor riders would last more than moments in the seas raging around them. As the pounding water reached her horse’s shoulders, it gave a terrified whinny and floundered, pawing for balance. She thought despairingly that it was all over—it was too late to turn back, and they were dead, and with them perhaps Alex’s only hope.
Then with a scrambling splash that saturated any parts of her not already soaked, Christa’s mount regained its footing. With a surge of relief that nearly paralyzed with its intensity, she saw that the water was not as deep, that they had passed the lowest point and were heading up the other side. In another minute they were clear of the waves, and had only to worry about the icy patches on the stones.
When they reached the island, Christa urged her horse up next to Willson’s and gasped, “Monsieur Bob, if I never do that again, it will be too soon!”
He laughed, his voice as relieved as her own. “You’re a game one, lass, that you are.”
Three minutes later they were snug in the small stable, away from a wind that reached gale-force here on the exposed island. Leaving Willson to feed, groom, and blanket the horses, a shivering Christa grabbed her supplies and ran into the farmhouse. It was built of flint like so many Suffolk buildings, and its sturdy walls held firm against the howling wind.
The back door led her into the farmhouse kitchen. It was simply furnished, with flagstone floors and plain wooden table and chairs. She shook violently with the chill of her saturated clothes and was desperately grateful for the warmth of the fire. She passed quickly through the kitchen, drawn by the flickering light of a candle in a room opening to her right. It was the bedchamber where they had taken Lord Kingsley, and another fire burned in the hearth. Fiske jumped from his chair at her entrance, his head bandaged and his face haggard from his ordeal in the water and long vigil. “Christa! Thank God you’ve come. Bob … ?”
She nodded. “He is taking care of the horses. Miss Annabelle was ill and couldn’t travel. How is Lord Kingsley?”
He gestured at the bed. “He’s been very feverish. The physician came and bound up his side and left a powder for the fever, but he couldn’t stay long or he’d miss the tide. He said there was a lying-in he had to attend, and he could do more good there than here.”
Christa walked slowly across the room, stripping off her wet coat and scarf, then stared down at the unconscious figure sprawled across the double bed. Alex’s breathing was harsh, his shoulders bare above the wide bandage that crossed his chest. His golden hair was dark with sweat and the fair skin flushed with fever. She was shocked by the number and variety of scars twisting along his left arm and upper body—his injuries the previous spring had been grave indeed.
She swallowed hard, then laid a hand on his forehead, keeping her voice clear and impersonal. “The fever is high. Has he been awake at all?”
“Yes, but …” The valet halted.
“Raving?” Christa supplied. At Fiske’s nod, she asked, “Has he had any awareness of where he is, or what happened?”
Fiske shook his head unhappily. “I don’t think so. He’s been thrashing about most of the time. I hope it is a good sign now that he’s sleeping.”
Christa’s voice was somber. “It is not a normal sleep.” She glanced at the valet and said, “You look almost as bad as he does, Jamie. Could you make us some tea from the supplies I brought? Then get some rest—you must be exhausted.”
He didn’t deny it. Moving slowly, he entered the kitchen, where a kettle simmered on the hob, and set the tea to steeping. Christa noticed a small room with a trundle bed off the bedchamber, so she appropriated it for her own use and changed to clothes that were blessedly dry and warm. When Willson came in, the three shared a meal of bread and cheese, with mugs of hot, sweet tea to warm the new arrivals.
After they finished, Christa suggested, “I’ll sit with Lord Kingsley while you two get some rest—you both look ready to fall asleep on the table.”
Willson said conscientiously, “You must be just as tired.”
“I wouldn’t mind being relieved in a few hours,” she admitted. “But you traveled twice as far as I did, and Jamie had a blow on the head and a long watch alone.” The two men accepted her offer and retired to a bedchamber in the other wing of the house while Christa returned to Alex’s room.
She put more coal on the bedroom fire, then went to sit next to Alex, taking his hand in hers. She had sat like this when she was thirteen and her maternal grandmother was dying. They had been close, and Christa had prayed desperately for the old woman’s survival. Her grandmother had been drifting in and out of consciousness, very near death. At three in the morning, she opened her eyes and said very clearly, “Let me go, child. Your prayers are holding me back.”
Christa had cried, then prayed for her grandmother’s best interests rather than for her continued existence. The old woman was over eighty years old and had lived a full life, and she had been suffering these last weeks. Half an hour later she was gone, a smile of peace on her face.
From that Christa had learned that death in its proper time was a healing, not a loss, and if Alex’s time had truly come, she would try not to hold him back. But he was a young man in his prime, with a contagious enjoyment of life—it was hard to believe he had done all his living. She leaned over and kissed his lips very gently, feeling the fever heat. With tears in her eyes she whispered, “If you are not ready, I promise anything in my power to help you.” She thought perhaps his fingers tightened faintly on hers, but it might have been imagination.
Looking at his handsome face, racked by fever and pain, Christa knew that her vow included existence itself: if she could have exchanged her life for his, she would have done so. Many people loved and depended on Lord Kingsley, while her passing would make a very small ripple indeed. True, she also enjoyed life, but when she left this body she would be reunited with those she had lost. And who here would miss her more than briefly? She smiled faintly at her melodramatic imaginings—it was just as well no devil appeared for a Faustian bargain.
Alex’s breathing was ragged, but he was quiet. Periodically she sponged him with cool water to reduce the temperature. In the small hours, Bob Willson relieved her and she staggered to her pallet, collapsing into a sleep of utter exhaustion. She didn’t even stir when the groom laid a blanket over her.
The next morning dawned late and dark as the storm continued to rage. Alex was worse, tossing back and forth and sometimes rambling incoherently. Christa took charge of the kitchen. While cooking was not her forte, she managed some beef broth that Alex was induced to sip in small doses.
The day stretched endlessly, and it was obvious that Alex’s condition was deteriorating, the fever rising in spite of their efforts to lower it with sponge baths and the doctor’s powders. Late in the afternoon Christa managed to get her patient to take some willow-bark tea, hoping it would reduce some of the pain and fever.
She thought the crisis would come in the early hours of the morning, and she went to bed early so she could take the late shift. It was well past midnight when Fiske shook her awake. “Christa, come quickly—he’s much worse!”
She pulled her wrapper over her shift and darted into the bedroom. Willson was holding Alex onto the bed, and the injured man was shouting. Some of the words seemed to be ship’s commands, others were unintelligible. Once he gasped, “He’s got no head, it’s gone, he’s gone …” His eyes were open but unseeing, and with a powerful twist of his body the viscount wrenched away from Willson and fell onto the floor. When they got him back onto the bed, he was quiet again, but the bandage was colored with fresh blood.
Christa unwrapped the bandage. A long thin scar that ran halfway around his body near the bottom of the ribs had a sharp-edged slit in the middle, and blood oozed slowly out. She studied the wound. From the nature of this and other scars, he must have been torn up by metal fragments. She knew that shards not removed at the time of injury could migrate in the body. Might a fragment have been shaken loose when he smashed into the rock, and it was now cutting its way out?
She glanced up and said unhappily, “I think there may be a shell fragment in the wound, and it is making him feverish. If it becomes inflamed …” She couldn’t continue the sentence.
Willson’s gaze was steady on her. “Do you think you could get it out?”
Christa shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t know. The wound does not appear deep, and I have some metal instruments here that could be used, but this is surgery—I have never done anything more complicated than remove splinters and sew up gashes. What if I make it worse?”
Lady of Fortune Page 25
