Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  A miner climbed nimbly up the ladder. “They’re preparing to bring him up.”

  “Which man?”

  “Neddy Crowe.”

  A helmet bobbed up. John Sail’s eyes squinted from the daylight, then searched for Dare. “Mainshtyr, the boy fell. Ta aggie orrym dy vel eh er ve er ny varroo.”

  “What’s he saying?” Melton asked impatiently.

  “He fears Ned has been killed,” Dare translated numbly, as the miner backed his way down the ladder into the blackness.

  An hour ago, Ned had laughed at John Saile’s doleful complaint about the dangers of their work.

  Let him live, Dare bargained with the heavens, and I’ll make sure he never goes into the mine again.

  “If they can’t get him up the ladder,” said the smith, “they can put him in the big kibble bucket. We’ll pull him up the shaft like a load of rocks.”

  “No need for that,” said the carpenter, peering into the gap. “Tom Lace is already bringing him—on his back. Fear not, Mainshtyr, I made this ladder sturdy as can be.”

  He could see Lace’s head now, his hair wet and matted. The miner came up the ladder slowly, a rung at a time, with one muscled arm clamped around Ned’s slender frame. Below them, a man supported the dangling, useless legs.

  Half a dozen arms reached down, offering assistance as Lace heaved himself and his burden out of the hole. When they laid Ned flat on the grassy slope, his head lolled. Crimson scratches marred the pallid cheek, and the snub-nosed face was vacant, devoid of its habitual grin.

  Dare reached beneath the wet shirt. Shallow breathing—a heartbeat. Cause for hope.

  “Ta, he’s with us still,” panted Lace. “Missed his footing—fell. Arm’s broke. Prob’ly his legs, too.”

  “He’ll never wake up again,” John Saile said dolefully. “He’s on his way to meet his poor mother.”

  “Be silent, Saile,” Melton snapped, “or you’ll lose your day’s wages. Get the master’s pony and gig—be quick now!”

  “The road is rough,” Dare said, while the strongest men bore the unconscious youth to the vehicle.

  “Taking him all the way to Ramsey could do more harm than good. Glencroft is closer, and Mrs. Stowell is there.”

  “Shall I ride for Dr. Curphey?” the manager asked.

  “I’ll go myself. You stay here to restore order. Business as usual. I don’t give a damn whether or not we bring up any lead today, but it will be better for our men to get back to work. And tell the carpenter to check that scaffold.”

  “Mainshtyr.” Tom Lace stepped forward. “I’m staying with Neddy. He’s my mate.”

  “We need you here, to point out exactly where Ned fell.” He looked into the miner’s sad and weary face, and said, “Gura mie ayd, Tom. Ned will thank you, too, when he’s able. Later, if Mr. Melton gives you leave, you may come to Glencroft. But make sure you change into dry clothes first. You mustn’t take a chill.” He climbed into the gig and, with a command to Fedjag, put it in motion.

  He held the reins in one hand and drove as slowly as he could. He used one arm to support the inert body and was careful not to jostle the injured arm. And even though the lad couldn’t hear, he maintained a steady flow of speech.

  “Your mother’s life would’ve been easier if she’d followed her head rather than her heart. Once she ran off with the Duke of Devonshire’s head footman—his livery won her affections. ‘When he undressed,’ she told me on her return, ‘he wasn’t near so fine.’ She was proud of you, Ned, that I know. She felt no shame at your birth, nor her lack of a marriage ring.”

  His promise to Dorrity pressed painfully upon his conscience.

  Glencroft, ignored and avoided for so many days, was a welcome haven now. Dare drove straight up to the door, crushing the wildflowers his tenant admired. A goose strutted out of the barnyard, honking incessantly.

  “Mrs. Stowell! Donny!” he shouted over the noise.

  The first to respond to his summons was the person he didn’t want—Oriana Julian.

  She emerged from the overgrown thicket clambering up the south wall of the cottage, clutching a pair of secateurs. “Sir Darius!” She noticed the slumped body in his gig, and her surprise was replaced by consternation. “What happened?”

  “One of my miners is injured. Where’s Mrs. Stowell?”

  “In the kitchen. Oh, the poor man.” She murmured something about the spare bedchamber and fresh linens, and scurried inside.

  Relief washed over Dare when Mrs. Stowell appeared. He didn’t care that her face was worn and creased by time, or that she had a hooked nose and wore spectacles. He wanted no hysterical, fainting female, for he was too heart sore to be civil.

  She laid a wrinkled hand on Ned’s forehead, praying in Manx, then said, “We must dry him off and make him warm. Carry him inside, Mainshtyr—Donny will help you get him up the stair.”

  With the stable boy’s assistance, Dare delivered his charge to an upper room and laid him on the bed.

  Mrs. Stowell used her sewing scissors to cut away the soiled coat and damp shirt.

  Mrs. Julian had stacked blocks of dried turf in the hearth. After she kindled them, she asked, “Is there a medical man in the neighborhood?”

  “Dr. Curphey,” said Mrs. Stowell, stripping away Ned’s stockings. “At Ballakilligan, on the road to Sulby.”

  Dare didn’t realize the Englishwoman’s intention until he heard her rushing down the stairs. He caught up with her as she retrieved her gloves and bonnet from a table near the door. “You don’t know the road, or which house is Ballakilligan.”

  “Describe it to me,” she responded calmly.

  “I’m going. Stay here and make yourself useful—as best you can.”

  When he stepped outside, her goose darted after him menacingly, producing its infernal noise. He hoisted himself into the gig and gathered up the reins. Before departing, he glanced back at the cottage.

  The spectacle of the supremely elegant Oriana Julian flapping her filmy overskirt at the creature in an attempt to drive it away made him smile, despite his aching heart.

  Dr. Curphey was at home, weeding rows of lettuces. “Has Ned spoken yet?” he inquired. “Opened his eyes at all?”

  “Neither. He’s breathing—feebly. He lies at Glencroft.”

  The doctor brushed the dirt from his palms. “I’ll collect my instruments.”

  By the time they reached the cottage, Fedjag’s mouth foamed, and her sides glistened from exertion.

  Mrs. Julian came out to meet them. “Ned wakened-for an instant,” she announced. “Hurry upstairs, Sir Darius. I’ll tend your pony.”

  During the doctor’s protracted examination, Dare went to the window and saw her vigorously rubbing Fedjag with a cloth. He couldn’t fathom how this Londoner had acquired her knowledge of equine care.

  But what did he really know about her history? Only that she’d wed and lost a husband. And might have had another, if she’d wanted.

  A pained murmur drew him back to the bedside.

  Manipulating the upper portion of Ned’s left arm, Dr.

  Curphey said, “I must bind the fracture before he’s fully sensible. Mrs. Stowell, strips of linen, if you please. I want you to mix some vinegar and water, so I can soak the bandages before applying them. I’ll show you how to wrap the arm—just here, between shoulder and elbow.”

  “When will he return to consciousness?” Dare asked.

  ” ‘Tis a case of watching and waiting, perhaps well into the night. If there’s a swelling near the brain—”

  The doctor declared in a heartier tone, “But I don’t despair yet, and neither should you, Sir Darius.”

  In order to watch and wait, he must remain at Glencroft.

  When Mrs. Julian joined the sickroom vigil, he spied the water stains on one of her sleeves and similar splotches marking her skirt. Her cheeks were attractively flushed from activity. On hearing the doctor’s report, her face sobered, and she nodded her understanding.

>   “I’m not certain when he can be moved,” Dr. Curphey cautioned.

  “He may stay here as long as necessary. Sir Darius, if you prefer that I vacate the cottage, I shall do so without delay.”

  Her graciousness shamed him.

  “I would not inconvenience you to that extent.” Avoiding her hazel eyes, he reached down to take Ned’s limp hand.

  The fingers trembled, then curled around his.

  “Head hurts,” Ned whispered.

  “Well, well,” the doctor said brightly, “this is promising.” He placed his hand on his patient’s forehead.

  “Neddy, my boy, lie still. You had a fall and injured your arm. It’s broken— t’eh brisht.”

  Ned opened his eyes and studied the faces around his bed. “Mummig?”

  “His wits are addled, and may be for some time,” said the doctor in an undervoice.

  “Your mummig is away,” Mrs. Stowell replied. “Sir Darius is here, and I’ll be staying with you.

  Bounced you on my bended knee, I did, when Dorrity was busy about her work. But you won’t remember that.”

  “Gingerbread. Gave me gingerbread.”

  “That I did. And if you do exactly as the doctor says, and lie quiet while he tends your arm, I’ll make as much gingerbread as you can eat.”

  ” Ta,” he said. “And I’ll play my fiddle for you and Mainshtyr Dare.”

  No one cared to point out that this wouldn’t be possible for a very long time.

  Ned Crowe’s arrival enlivened Oriana’s quiet retreat, and provided her with a variety of tasks. Like Sir Darius and Mrs. Stowell, she did all in her power to relieve the young miner’s discomfort and followed Dr. Curphey’s explicit instructions. She needed an occupation, for she was unused to leisurely days and idle evenings. In London, she dined with friends at her home or theirs, and when she didn’t have a performance herself she attended some other theater. When she was at the races, her social round was still more hectic.

  While the baronet spooned broth down Ned’s throat, and Mrs. Stowell was busy in the kitchen, Oriana cut a sheet into strips for fresh bandages. Later the housekeeper carried a tray of food and a bottle of wine into Ned’s bedchamber, for Sir Darius. As usual, Oriana dined alone, watching the darkness blot out Skyhill’s bulge. She passed a quiet hour on the uncomfortable parlor settle, reading Ben Jonson’s sonnets. She’d sent her only upholstered chair upstairs—the baronet needed it more than she.

  On her way to her bedchamber, Oriana peeped into the sickroom. Sir Darius, coatless, was seated, propping his booted feet on a blanket chest. He stared at the motionless, sheet-draped figure stretched out upon the narrow bed.

  When stepping away, she trod on a squeaky floorboard.

  The dark head jerked around. “Come in.”

  She chose not to be offended by his commanding tone.

  “I’ve no rum or brandy to offer you, but there’s more wine here.” Picking up his empty glass, she refilled it for him. “I’ll send Donny to your house in the morning, to bring you a change of clothing and any other necessities.”

  “What’s the book?”

  “My favorite poet. Would you like to borrow him?”

  “I doubt I could concentrate enough to read.”

  Leaning down, she tapped on his boot. “These should come off. If you tramp about on this wooden floor, you might wake Ned.”

  “You think of everything,” he murmured.

  “My mother was an invalid in her final years. Raise your foot.” She curled one hand under the sole of his boot and with the other grasped the heel. Gently she tugged, sliding it down his calf. “Now the other one.”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “For my father. For Henry, too.”

  “Your husband?”

  Oriana nodded. On a few occasions, she’d performed the service for someone else.

  Her untrustworthy mind carried her back to one particular night, when Thomas Teversal had insisted that she undress him from head to toe. First she had removed his boots, then his cravat, and next the shirt and breeches and stockings. He’d carried her over to the bed … Afterward, she’d asked if lovemaking would be as wonderful after they were wed. Most definitely, he had assured her, smothering her questions with his kisses.

  The gentleman’s quiet voice interrupted her aching reminiscence. “Is your father living?”

  “He died when I was eleven,” she replied. “At his house in the Rue Ducale.”

  “In Paris?”

  “Brussels. His death came suddenly, unexpectedly. Mother was not so fortunate.”

  The sympathy that softened his brown-black eyes unsettled her. Confiding in him, she chided herself, was a mistake.

  Not that she expected the Manxman to have heard about her father’s demise. Outside the Beauclerk family, no one was aware that the duke’s mistress and bastard daughter had accompanied his body to England. He’d been entombed in Westminster Abbey, near his similarly scandalous great-grandfather, King Charles II.

  Gathering up her book, she said, “If there’s anything else I can provide, you must let me know.”

  “Your company.” He crossed to the bed on stocking feet. “Ned’s sleeping soundly—our conversation can’t disturb him.” When he returned, he invited her to take the armchair, and he sat down on the chest.

  Having endured many a lonely vigil at her mother’s bedside, she recognized his need. “Ned is fortunate to have such a considerate employer.”

  “Dorrity, his mother, worked in my parents’ household—when not engaged in the sort of amorous adventure that brought Ned into the world. Mother despaired of her morals, yet never failed to take her back into service. We were all fond of her.” His broad shoulders lifted with a deep-drawn breath, and sank in a gusty sigh. “Ned wanted to work in the mine. He wasn’t interested in house building, or tending the bellows in my smelting house, or any of the alternative positions I offered. I couldn’t dissuade him. I’m supposed to take care of him—that’s the promise I made to Dorrity. But I’m responsible for this—this disaster.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “I do.” After a pause, he continued, “Each miner’s safety is important. They chose the work, and they need the money. I make no profit as yet, and don’t care if I ever do. Grandfather Corlett endowed charities and hospitals and workhouses all over Derbyshire to assist the destitute. I established a lead mine on the Isle of Man. Because of me, Ned lies there, broken and in pain.”

  “It was an accident,” Oriana insisted. Similarly burdened by guilt, she couldn’t think how else to comfort him, except to say, “He will recover. The doctor told you so.”

  “Parenthood, I imagine, must require great fortitude. I wonder if I’ll ever be ready for it.”

  “Are you planning to be married?” she asked in surprise.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know that I ever shall be.”

  How often had she spoken the same words to Harriot Mellon?

  He was leaning forward, and his black-lashed eyes devoured her. “I’ve been waiting for my true love to find me—a lady of beauty and charm and wit.”

  Oriana’s heart stilled as she stared back at his shadowed face. Was he going to kiss her again?

  Should she let him? Aware of the anticipatory thrum of her pulse, she couldn’t decide. She always rebuffed a declaration from a man she hardly knew, yet she was responding almost as though she desired him.

  “In addition,” he drawled, “my bride must possess an impeccable lineage, a spotless reputation, and a fortune that exceeds mine. I’m sorry to blight your hopes, Mrs. Julian, but until I meet this paragon, I shall remain a bachelor.”

  The implication of his silky speech was perfectly clear: She was not a candidate for the position of Lady Corlett. Conceited creature, he assumed that she wished to wed him!

  Her pride scalded, she bobbed up from the chair. “Your matrimonial requirements,” she snapped, “do not interest me in the least, Sir Darius.” Head
high, spine stiff, she moved to the door. Pausing, she spun around. “Here’s a piece of advice. When you do meet that fine lady of your dreams, place her needs above your own, and you’ll have a better chance of winning her heart. I bid you good night, sir.”

  She closed the door behind her with a bang, regretting it when she heard Ned Crowe’s sharp cry of alarm, followed by the baronet’s voice soothing him.

  My refuge is safe no longer, she mourned.

  When Sir Darius Corlett had hinted that he considered her beautiful, charming, and witty, her weakness had become all too apparent. She was barely acquainted with him, and she didn’t want him for her husband. Yet his decree that she was unmarriageable, by his standards, wounded her.

  Because, she thought unhappily, it was all too true. Not even as an incognita, her name and profession shrouded in secrecy, could she win the respect of a respectable gentleman. Disheartened, she retreated to a cold and empty bed.

  Chapter 4

  With feigned indifference, Oriana took her place at the dining table. The man she wished never to meet again was seated across from her, and she relied on years of stage training to overlay her enmity with an icy civility. His opinion of her was low enough already; she’d not lay herself open to a charge of bad manners. She should have felt at an advantage, for she’d slept on a proper mattress and was wearing a fresh gown. His rumpled garments were testament to the hardships he had suffered during the night. But his unshaven face heightened her awareness of his potent masculinity. Large, brash, broad-shouldered—this room seemed too small to contain him.

  He reached for an oatcake on the platter Mrs. Stowell had placed in the center of the table, then pulled his hand away. “I was very tactless last night, Mrs. Julian. My judgment was clouded by the day’s events, and the late hour.”

  His attempted apology for his rudeness failed to mollify her. The damage could not be undone by a few contrite phrases. He deemed her unworthy of a position she had not sought, and it disturbed her more than their first meeting, when he’d kissed her with a wild exuberance that she’d enjoyed far too much.