Miss Tolerance thought dizzily, Either he does not know I am a woman or this fellow is no gentleman.
As if to confirm her judgment the man kicked viciously at Miss Tolerance’s side. The Gunnard coat took the worst of the first kick, but the second one landed squarely upon her ribs with such force that it rolled her over onto her knees. He tried a third kick, but Miss Tolerance, kneeling, grabbed for his boot. She did not catch it, but the man lost his balance avoiding her hand and fell back several steps. Aching for breath, Miss Tolerance rose to her feet and wheeled around to face the man.
She could see nothing of his face: a scarf was wrapped around the lower half, and his hat obscured the eyes and brow. He regained his balance and jammed one hand into his pocket urgently. Seeking a weapon, Miss Tolerance guessed, and reached into her pocket for her own pocketknife, which she kept for fighting close in. Her hand was briefly fouled in the folds of her coat, and her assailant lunged at her, blade in hand. Miss Tolerance sidestepped the thrust and brought her left arm down so strongly that his knife arm was thrown off and the knife flew into the shadows. Both she and her attacker followed the trajectory of the knife; she recovered first and swept a kick at the man’s shins which, in a stroke of luck, caught him just behind the knee, taking his legs out from under him altogether. The man fell backward, hit his head with an audible thud, and rolled until he lay, face down, half in the gutter. Miss Tolerance, her knife finally in her hand, looked down at her fallen opponent.
Miss Tolerance inspected him gingerly; his hat was still jammed onto his head, hiding his face, and she could not tell if he was conscious or not. After a moment she decided he must be stunned; lying in a puddle of icy water with rain rolling down his neck was too uncomfortable a position for imposture. She reached down, gasping at the pain along her ribs and in her head as she did so, and attempted the roll the fellow over to get a glimpse of his face.
A shout came from the far end of the street. “Oy, you fellow! What are you doing?” The shouter raised a lantern as if its thin light could illuminate Miss Tolerance and her opponent. The watch.
Miss Tolerance assessed her alternatives quickly. Stay, and perhaps be believed when she explained that the man had attacked her, but more likely be taken in by the watch and spend the evening showing off her bruises and hoping she would be believed—particularly if her attacker were brought along to tell his side of the story. Or run, and hope to sort out the trouble another day.
She turned and ran, vanishing into the shadows as quickly as the icy street and her bruises allowed.
Keefe’s face, when he opened the door, told Miss Tolerance a good deal about her own appearance.
“Holy God, Miss Sarah! What happened?”
“Footpad,” she said tersely. “For God’s sake, Keefe, don’t make a fuss. I’ll be right enough shortly.” But she knew her shudders of cold and shock could be seen even through her greatcoat. “How is my aunt?”
“Ill call Marianne,” he said. Not quite an answer. “You go into the blue salon, miss. There’s a good fire there, and no one about right now. I’ll have Cook send up some soup and wine.”
Miss Tolerance permitted herself to be steered from the hallway to the first floor and the blue salon which had, as promised, a fine fire. She took off her Gunnard coat, gasping as she did so. Keefe took the sodden greatcoat and said nothing. Miss Tolerance’s thanks were as much for his tact as his service. She sat gingerly in a chair by the fire and gratefully felt the warmth seep into her. She was aware of stickiness along one side of her face, but application of her kerchief to the most painful site slowed the bleeding, and she was able to sit, relaxed enough, waiting for her soup.
An uncertain number of minutes later, Keefe returned with Marianne.
“What’s happened to you, then?” Marianne asked calmly.
Miss Tolerance tried to smile. The effort was not particularly successful. “Footpad,” she said again. “Like a stupid flat, I was caught unawares with my hands in my pockets. It’s nothing. It will pass.”
Marianne rolled her eyes and asked Keefe to leave the tray he had brought. Miss Tolerance realized it bore, not food as she had hoped, but a basin, bandages, and several jars of ointment.
“Marianne really, there is no need—how is my aunt?”
Marianne shook her head. “First things first. We must see to you. Thank you, Keefe. If you would bring the food up in a quarter hour? Now”—she turned back to Miss Tolerance—“let’s have a look at the damage. No, don’t bother to push me off. Do you think because you were caught off your guard you cannot ask for help? A broken head needs attention no matter how you come by it.” She ran careful hands along the crown of Miss Tolerance’s head, discovering several considerable lumps but no bleeding.
“Well, your brains got a rattling, I don’t doubt, but they’re all in a piece.”
Miss Tolerance inclined her head in acknowledgment, or would have done had the gesture not caused such pain. Seeing this, Marianne insisted she shed coat, waistcoat and shirt so that the state of her ribs might be ascertained. She made clucking noises at the bruises on her friend’s left side.
“It’s a good thing your breasts were bound. You’d likely have broken ribs otherwise. Nasty fellow that was.” She took up a pot of salve from the tray.
“He was,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “But about my aunt?”
“In good time, Sarah. You look like you was run down by the stagecoach.” Marianne wrapped a bandage several times around Miss Tolerance’s chest, tied it off, and handed her a dressing gown. “Mrs. B ain’t going to change while you get yourself patched up. And patched,” she said judiciously, examining her friend’s face, “is just about the right word for it. Didn’t care what he did to your face, did he?”
“I don’t think care for my looks was his first objective, no. How bad is it?”
Marianne had wet a rag and begun to sponge carefully at Miss Tolerance’s brow and cheek. “Black eye for sure on the right, maybe two,” she said. “I don’t think the nose is broken—no, still straight, there’s luck. A good lot of blood, though. Ahhh, there we are.” She pressed upon the spot to which Miss Tolerance had lately applied her gore-soaked handkerchief. “Nasty deep gash, that. Looks as though it was torn—did your bruiser wear a ring? We’d best to have the surgeon sew it up for you.”
Marianne’s matter-of-fact pressure on the cut had hurt enough to cause Miss Tolerance to see sparks. She waited until her dizziness passed, then attempted to assure her friend that the surgeon would not be necessary.
“Don’t be an idiot, Sarah. He’s upstairs with your aunt. It won’t take a moment to have him down to see to you. And here is your soup.” Marianne took the tray from Keefe and dispatched him to summon the surgeon.
“Now will you tell me how my aunt is?” The fire had at last warmed her through, the soup smelled comfortably of chicken and barley, and she was aware of a pleasant drowsiness to which she could not yet succumb. “Why is the surgeon here?”
“Doctor suggested she should be bled tonight and tomorrow morning. The fever’s almost gone now, and she’s sleeping—”
“Has she roused at all?”
Marianne shook her head. “Not yet. She began to stir a bit this afternoon, murmured a little, but with no words I could make head or tails of. The doctor—he shakes his head. He won’t say he’s worried, but he did say the fever alone wouldn’t be enough to knock her to pieces this way.”
Miss Tolerance frowned at her soup. “So the doctor knows nothing except she should be bled. What do you think?”
Marianne shrugged. “I do not know what to make of it. A feverish cold, which is certainly what it appeared she had, ought not to—but here is Mr. Pynt.” She rose and curtsied to the surgeon. Miss Tolerance, tired enough to feel that her disabilities ought to be catered to, did not rise.
Pynt was a man of middle years and middle size with highly starched collar points which required him to turn his whole body in order to view Miss Tolerance’s wounds.
He took the seat which Marianne had vacated, wiped his hands upon his kerchief and gingerly touched the gash on Miss Tolerance’s forehead.
“How came this to happen?” he asked. He clearly disapproved of ladies with wounds that smacked of the prize ring.
“I mistook the cellar steps for a door. Does it require the needle?” Annoyance worked against warmth and exhaustion. Miss Tolerance felt suddenly more awake.
“I would say so, madam. Although ’twill leave a scar no matter how it is treated.”
“Then perhaps it ought not be sewn?” Marianne suggested.
“I did not say that. I merely did not want to give rise to expectations in the young woman that her looks would not be affected by the surgery.”
“If that is your only concern, sir, then pray get on with the business. I do not live by my looks.” Miss Tolerance turned away long enough to finish drinking her soup. Pynt observed that a medicinal dose of spirituous liquor was likely to be more helpful to his patient.
“Perhaps later,” Miss Tolerance said, and turned back to the doctor.
The procedure took no more than ten minutes, but it was more painful than Miss Tolerance had expected. Because she had taken the surgeon in dislike, she managed not to make a sound. At the end, when she inspected the inch of tidy stitches, she had to acknowledge that the surgeon knew his business. Mr. Pynt washed his hands and instructed Miss Tolerance to bathe the wound frequently and rub on a little of a salve he would send round, in hope of avoiding infection. He bowed to both women and took his leave, promising to return in the morning for Mrs. Brereton’s second bleeding.
Miss Tolerance sat by the fire for a while longer, feeling tired and weak. At last she went upstairs to look in on her aunt, whom she found deeply asleep. The rigidity which had characterized her earlier repose appeared to have passed off, and Miss Tolerance was hopeful that perhaps the doctor’s advice and the surgeon’s ministrations would prove correct. She stayed but a few minutes, then wrapped herself in a shawl pressed on her by Marianne, and went downstairs and through the garden to her own little cottage. Someone had gone across and laid and lit a fire, and the downstairs room was warm. She had been drowsy earlier; now Miss Tolerance was aching and wakeful. She poured a glass of the spirituous liquor earlier prescribed by the surgeon and drank it in thoughtful silence.
Among the other talents and qualities which had informed Miss Tolerance’s choice of occupation, she was a fast healer. Even so, she woke in the morning aching fiercely from head to toe, and resolved to beg some arnica from the cook, who kept a well-stocked shelf of household simples and salves. She had just put her kettle on the fire when the kitchen maid, Jess, arrived at her door with the mail and a message: Mrs. Brereton had awakened.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was dark, and a brisk wind set the branches of the trees dancing against her window.
Someone had cleaned her Gunnard greatcoat and the other clothes she had removed the night before; Jess had left them folded upon her table. Miss Tolerance felt no need for men’s dress today, and put on her blue wool gown and a warm shawl. She did not look in the mirror when she pinned up her hair; she knew her face was swollen, and could imagine the extent of the discoloration. Why wound her vanity with the sight? She pulled the shawl up tightly and stepped across the garden to visit her aunt.
She found Mrs. Brereton propped upon pillows, irritably instructing Frost to stop trying to feed her gruel and to bring her strong tea, toast, and eggs. Frost looked as though she was not certain whether to be cheered or chastened by this uncivil treatment.
“My God, Sarah, you look as though someone had taken a stick to you!”
Miss Tolerance bent carefully to kiss her aunt. “Someone did. I am happy to see you looking so much better, Aunt Thea.”
“You ought not to be. I sleep for a day and what happens? Doctors and surgeons given the run of the house and one of my whores authorizing an extra dozen of claret to be put out in the dining room! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking—as were Marianne and Frost, and everyone else in the house—of your health, ma’am. The doctor’s treatment does seem to have done you good.”
“Good? Bled twice in twelve hours and forced to drink gruel?” Mrs. Brereton frowned. “And about that other: I understand you gave Marianne free rein over the house.”
“Hardly that. I did ask the staff to go to her for instructions while you were ill. Now that you are awake, she will of course want to tell you all that has been done—”
“Sarah, I told you I didn’t want to involve one of the girls—”
“Yes, you did, but I could not manage your house and my own business, and I did what I thought was best. You may scold me later for all my faults, Aunt, but I am not up to a lecture just now, nor do I think you are up to delivering one. Again, I ask: how are you?”
Mrs. Brereton shrugged oddly. “I am awake, the fever has broken, and I do not understand what all the fuss was about.”
Before Miss Tolerance could attempt to explain to her aunt why her too-sound slumber had frightened the people around her, Cole announced Sir George Hammond. Miss Tolerance retreated to a chair by the window; she had no wish to explain her bruises to the doctor. Sir George entered, smiling at his patient.
“This is much more as I would see you, ma’am. How do you do this morning?”
Mrs. Brereton might have liked to scold the doctor, but the habit of charming men kept her from doing so. She smiled. “I am very much better, sir. I understand I have you to thank for it, but I do not understand why everyone in my household was in such a terror. A feverish cold—”
Sir George took her wrist and counted her pulse before he answered. “The cold itself was nothing, ma’am. It was your stupor which was worrisome. I see that has passed off.” Again he smiled. Again Mrs. Brereton smiled in return.
Flirting, Miss Tolerance thought. My aunt is recovering.
She watched as Sir George went through a practiced routine, relating a bit of court gossip while he examined Mrs. Brereton. “You will not have heard, ma’am, that the Times reports that the Duke of Clarence has been to the Queen’s bedside …”
When he had finished his story Sir George gave his opinion that Mrs. Brereton was on the mend. “There is a little weakness in the muscle of your left hand and arm—you will perhaps have observed it?—but I expect that will pass off shortly. You need not be bled again—rest and good food will do the rest. I’m sure I can rely upon you for that,” he said to Frost, who pursed her lips and nodded. “Now, ma’am, I’ll call on you again in a day or two, just to see how you are going on. No excitement, no callers, no midnight galas. A week in bed and then we shall see how you do.” He bowed over her hand as though he might have kissed it, and left.
Mrs. Brereton sagged back into her pillows. “A week in bed! I cannot afford it!”
“Ma’am, we don’t want to fall sick again—”
“You can afford to die, Aunt?”
Frost and Miss Tolerance spoke at the same moment. Mrs. Brereton sniffed.
“What a fuss over nothing. Well, since you are in league against me I will stay in bed. But I want Marianne to come to me at once and tell me all that has happened since I was ill. And no more gruel! Tea and eggs. At once.”
Mrs. Brereton glared at both of them. Frost left to summon Marianne and eggs. Miss Tolerance was about to leave when her aunt called her back.
“You might have been more involved,” she said irritably.
“I was involved: I put Marianne in charge,” Miss Tolerance said reasonably. “I place the greatest reliance upon her good sense, and I had business of my own to attend to.”
“Yes, I can see that. For God’s sake, Sarah, ask Cook for some raw beef to put on your face. Look at yourself!”
Reluctantly, Miss Tolerance glanced in the glass. The swelling was, in fact, not quite so bad as she had imagined it. Her right cheekbone and eye were a rich plum color, but on the bridge of her nose and her temple the bruising was a
lready paling to a mot-tied yellow. Above her right eyebrow there was the neat arc of stitches in black silk, an inch long.
“Do you like this lace with my dress, Aunt?” she asked.
Mrs. Brereton was not amused. “Don’t play with me, Sarah. You may turn your nose up at whoredom, but at least no one beats my girls—”
“Not every whore is fortunate enough to be in your employ,” Miss Tolerance said, thinking of Etienne d’Aubigny.
“Even if you did not wish to … to practice, you could be a fine manageress. Look at the danger you face! Please consider—”
“But Aunt, I like my hazards,” Miss Tolerance said calmly. “Or at least, I don’t mind them too much. I enjoy what I do; I should not enjoy being the manageress of a brothel half so well.”
Mrs. Brereton snorted. “Enjoyment. What is enjoyment when—”
“Enjoyment, Aunt, is what is left after survival. Let us not quarrel; I am very glad to see you so much recovered.” She surprised herself with the catch in her voice. “I hope you will not see fit to scare us all this way again.” She bent and kissed her aunt again. “Now I must be about my own business. I’ll call in on you later.”
Her niece’s emotion seemed to move Mrs. Brereton. “Dear girl,” she said shakily, “get some steak for that eye, I implore you!”
Miss Tolerance meant to ask the cook for arnica and beefsteak, but was forestalled. Cole met her at the foot of the stairs to tell her she had a caller: Sir Walter Mandif was waiting in her cottage.
“As he’s called so often, I thought you would not mind,” Cole said apologetically. “Somehow one don’t like to put the law to wait in the parlor with the other guests.”
Miss Tolerance nodded, but privately wished her friend Sir Walter had chosen any other morning to call upon her. She was certain her appearance would bring another scolding upon the unsuitability of her work, and she was in no mood to hear it. She walked into her cottage set to do battle, and was disappointed.
Petty Treason Page 14
