“I believe they are out in the woods by Whitecroft Abbey. Nora has returned to them to oversee matters,” Emmy replied, thinking fast on her feet.
Her father nodded, a perplexed expression on his face. “I wonder what he was doing out there, so far from the hermitage,” he muttered to himself as Emmy’s chest tightened with anxiety. “Francis, will you join me? We ought to see how they are getting on. I’ll leave word of where we are,” he added, prompting Francis to stand and join him.
“Shall I come with you, Papa?” Emmy asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.
Lord Nightingale frowned. “I think not, Emmy. You ought to stay here and inform the physician of where we have gone, should he need clearer directions,” he replied firmly.
“Of course, Papa,” said Emmy obediently, though she longed to run back outside to check on Mr Smith. Alas, propriety kept her in the drawing room.
She paced the floor as her father and brother departed, unable to stay in one spot for long. Her eyes glanced from the clock to the window, her ears listening out for the sound of hooves returning.
Doctor Edwards did not live too far, but there was always the risk that he would not be at home to answer the call.
All possible scenarios ran through Emmy’s mind, her pulse racing, her thoughts drifting to the slumped, bare-chested figure of Mr Smith. If something awful happened before help could reach him, she did not know what she would do. More than ever, she felt it was all her fault. She had put him in harm’s way with the very real possibility that he might die.
Eventually, she gave up, sitting in a chair by the window instead of walking the drawing room in a nervous daze. Before long, the sound of hooves echoed, heralding the return of the valet. There was another rider behind him, but it wasn’t until they drew nearer that Emmy could be sure it was Doctor Edwards.
They jumped down from the backs of their steeds just before Emmy rose from her seat and hurried out to the entrance hall to meet them.
Doctor Edwards was a tall man in his early thirties, with a stern face and jet-black hair. He was wiry in frame and towered over most people, though he was known to be one of the finest physicians in the region. He turned to Emmy as she ran toward where he stood.
“Where is the patient, Miss Nightingale?” he asked.
“They are in the woods behind Whitecroft Abbey, Doctor Edwards. Please, allow me to direct you,” she replied, not waiting for a response.
There was no way she was going to stay a moment longer in the house, not whilst Mr Smith was out there bleeding to death.
Doctor Edwards tried to call her back in, insisting he could find the way, but she ignored the sound of his voice. Pressing on, she turned every so often to ensure that the physician was following before continuing on her swift path back to the secluded glade.
When they arrived, Emmy could see that Mr Smith’s state had worsened. He was lying out on the damp grass, the rudimentary bandages removed. Ambrose was crouched beside him, pressing his palms to the wound, seemingly forcing his hands down with all the strength he could muster.
In the moonlight that had risen over the woods, Emmy could see that Mr Smith’s bare skin was glistening wetly, though there was a sinister, dark quality to the substance.
It was blood, and there was a lot of it.
Surely he could not survive such an injury?
Without thinking, Emmy rushed toward the prostrate figure, picking up his limp hand and squeezing it tightly. For a moment, the coarse fingers squeezed back, giving her hope that not all was lost.
“Mr Smith, you must stay with us. Please do not die,” she whispered as close to his ear as she could. Ambrose flashed her a concerned look but said nothing on the matter.
“Emmy, I told you to remain at the house!” she heard the sharp voice of her father say, but she did not turn to respond. Indeed, she had almost forgotten they were there. All of her worldly focus stayed upon Mr Smith’s face.
“Emmy, you should return to the house. This is no place for a young lady,” Francis said softly, his hand reaching down to touch her shoulder.
“This man is evidently in pain, Lord Nightingale. I believe Miss Emmeline’s presence is bringing him a little comfort,” Ambrose spoke up, raising his eyes to meet those of Lord Nightingale.
It was true. At the sound of Emmy’s voice, Mr Smith’s striking blue eyes had blinked slowly open. They were foggy, but it was clear he was trying to focus on her face. A small smile played upon his lips as he gave Emmy’s hand a tighter squeeze. She smiled back, gripping his hand as firmly as she could, knowing she would not leave him even if a militia dragged her away.
“Be that as it may, Mr Wyndham, I do not like the idea of my daughters witnessing such a harrowing sight,” Lord Nightingale insisted, as Francis’ hand grew more persistent upon her shoulder, urging her upwards.
“And I am afraid I must have full access to the patient,” Doctor Edwards cut in as he emerged from the shadowed trees.
At those words, Emmy relented, allowing Francis to help her to her feet. She held onto Mr Smith’s hand for as long as she could, but eventually she was made to release it, watching as it fell back to his side. Turning, she permitted Francis to lead her away, comforted by the fact that Nora was following close after. She would know more about what was going on, Emmy was sure.
She could hear Mr Smith murmuring something as she departed, the word ‘angel’ drifting toward her on the cool evening breeze. It made her smile for the briefest moment before her fears took over once more.
There were no guarantees she would ever see Mr Smith again; there was not even a guarantee that he would make it through the night.
For now, she would have to wait.
Upon her return to Davenham Park, Emmy strove with all her might to stay awake to hear the news of Mr Smith’s fate, but sleep took her around midnight. With heavy eyelids, she could fight it no longer. Oblivion gripped her, sending her into a fitful slumber. She had a vague memory of Francis carrying her up to bed as though she were a little girl again, with Nora following at his side, murmuring soothing words to her as they mounted the stairs.
Francis left shortly after she had been tucked beneath the covers, but Nora stayed a while longer, holding Emmy’s hand.
“Mr Smith?” Emmy asked, barely holding onto her last scrap of consciousness.
“It is too early to tell, Emmy,” Nora replied gently. “It is much too early to tell.”
A tear rolled down Emmy’s face as sleep finally stole away her last connection to the waking world.
In her dreams, she pictured the cold, lifeless body of Mr Smith laid out on the grass in the centre of the glade. There was no blood this time, but there was a blankness in the eyes of the handsome young man that terrified her. She did not wish to see those blue eyes so vacant and empty.
No, she wanted to see them turning to her with that wary curiosity she had come to expect from him.
There was still so much more she wanted to know about him.
Chapter Twelve
Tender touch
Chapter 12
A tense few days followed, with limited information finding its way to Emmy’s ears.
She listened across the dinner table and loitered outside the library or the drawing room, keen to hear a snippet of something, but Francis and Lord Nightingale were sparing with their gossip.
After the dramatic events that had taken place, they seemed eager to forget all about it so that order might be restored to Davenham Park.
Emmy, however, could not forget about it.
When dawn had risen the morning after the duel, the hazy glow rousing her from her slumber, she could not believe she had fallen asleep. For a moment she had allowed herself to believe it had all been a bad dream. Had it not been for the sight of Nora, asleep in the armchair beside the window, she could have believed it wasn’t real. Flecks of blood still stained the dress that Nora wore—flecks of Mr Smith’s blood.
And yet she could n
ot garner much from the chatter of her father and brother.
She had hoped Jasper or Lady Nightingale might ask a question or two, but they did not seem particularly perturbed by the strange disruption to their daily life.
Perhaps, Emmy wondered, her father had instructed them not to, fearing further discussion on the matter. It was clear Lord Nightingale disapproved of the incident and how it had come to pass with his two daughters present; it only seemed right that he should attempt to cover it up with sheer disregard.
She could not begin to describe the frustration and panic that ignorance of Mr Smith’s fate brought her. All she wanted to know was whether he was alive or dead, but nobody seemed to want to say. And, not wanting to incite her father’s condemning tongue, she did not feel as though she could ask outright, either.
On the morning of the third day, with Emmy desperate for news, she managed to corner Nora on the landing. Since waking in the armchair of Emmy’s room, Nora had been somewhat elusive, always out to town or unavailable to talk. Emmy knew it was deliberate—Nora was keeping a secret. Ever since they were little girls, Nora had behaved in that manner. If there was a secret to be kept, Nora would run and hide for fear of letting it slip.
“Sister, do you know how Mr Smith is faring?” Emmy asked, blocking her sister’s path down the stairs.
Nora side-stepped, but Emmy mirrored her. “Emmy, please let me pass. We are much too old for these childish games,” she chastised, unable to meet Emmy’s gaze.
“Where is he, Nora?” Emmy pressed, unwilling to back down. She did not think she could last another day without knowing even the tiniest fragment of information.
“Nobody is telling me anything about what happened, and I do not believe I can continue on in silence without bursting at the seams!”
Nora sighed heavily. “It is for your own welfare, sister. These things should not trouble a young, innocent mind such as yours,” she replied, though there was a strangeness in her voice.
“Nora, if you are truly my sister and you truly love me, you will put me out of my misery,” Emmy implored, tears springing to her eyes. Was it bad news, after all?
Nora paused before taking Emmy by the wrist and pulling her into her chambers. Once they were inside, away from prying eyes and ears, Nora set Emmy down in the window cubby and began to tell her of what had happened.
“Papa has asked me not to speak with you on this matter, but I can see that knowing nothing is taking its toll on you. I will not leave you in the dark, if it is bringing you pain,” she began. “As such, I shall tell you of the evening’s events, though you are never to breathe a word of it to anyone. I will be in unspeakable trouble if word returns to Papa that I have broken my promise to him. Do you understand, sister?” she whispered anxiously, as though the walls themselves were listening.
Emmy nodded, her heart beginning to pound, though she held onto her tears for now. “I will not tell a soul,” she promised.
“Very well, then I shall offer you the briefest version I can,” said Nora, visibly bracing herself. “Mr Smith had lost a great deal of blood, and there was nothing Ambrose could do to stem the bleeding. He did all he could, but there was simply too much. When Doctor Edwards arrived and we returned to the house, he worked quickly, binding the wound tightly in a way that Ambrose had not done. Then he patched him up as best as he could, out on the field, before Papa offered up the use of the carriage. The men carried Mr Smith away. I watched the carriage leave from the window, though you were already asleep. Mr Smith was still breathing when it departed for the hospital,” she explained, keeping a cautious eye on Emmy’s face.
“How do you know all of this?” Emmy asked, having moved far beyond the realms of desperation.
“Ambrose came to the house the morning after the duel and informed me of it all,” she replied sheepishly, a flush rising in her pale cheeks. “He is my authority on the subject, given that Papa has chosen to pretend it never happened.”
“And now? Is Mr Smith still breathing now?” Emmy pressed.
Nora nodded slowly. “He is on the mend. Doctor Edwards ensured that Mr Smith was taken to the village hospital, where he has been receiving the finest care. The bullet that had lodged itself in his shoulder has been removed, and he looks less pallid by the day,” she assured, though a look of instant remorse passed across her face the moment she spoke.
Emmy narrowed her eyes. “How do you know this?”
“I have paid a visit to him myself,” she admitted, dropping her gaze. “The truth is, I could not proceed in my day-to-day business without knowing he was going to live. If Ambrose had taken the life of that poor man… well, never mind that now. Mr Smith is in excellent spirits and should be returning to the hermitage within a few days.”
Emmy’s eyes went wide with surprise. “He is returning so soon? Papa has permitted him to remain on the Davenham grounds?”
Nora nodded, a worried expression on her beautiful face. “Indeed, he has permitted it; he saw no reason to prevent Mr Smith’s return to a position of solitude. Ambrose has kept to our fictional narrative, as have I, so Papa is none-the-wiser,” she explained. “As for his actual return, there is little left for him to do but rest and recuperate. He has asked that he be allowed to return to the hermitage for such a thing, given that it brings him peace and calm—the perfect setting for a recovery of such magnitude,” she added, flashing Emmy a wary glance.
“I will not promise that I will not go to the hermitage to visit with him, so do not ask that of me,” Emmy remarked, seeing the look in her sister’s eyes. Now that she knew he was alive and well, there was no way she was not going to see it for herself.
“I know it would be fruitless to try, Emmy,” Nora sighed, though there was a kindness in the sound of her sweet voice. “All I would ask is that you be careful and that you come in search of me before you visit with him, so that I might act as chaperone. It is unseemly for a young woman such as yourself to be alone with any man, let alone a man like that.”
Emmy frowned. “What do you mean, ‘a man like that’?”
“He is not the type of man a woman like you should fraternise with,” she explained. “He is not a gentleman.”
“But he is a man of God,” Emmy retorted. “He is a hermit. He prays and seeks penance—that is what hermits do, do they not?”
“Even so, I should ask that you come and seek me out before you make any calls to the hermitage,” Nora insisted. “Please, Emmy, let us not quarrel over this. I wish only to assist you and keep you out of harm’s way.”
Emmy looked at her elder sister and realised there was true, honest worry upon her pretty brow. It was kindly meant, she could tell, and she could never stay irritated with Nora for long. Not that she really had anything to be irritated by. Her sister had given her the information she longed for and eased her qualms about the fate of Mr Smith.
“I suppose I have not behaved in a particularly gracious manner of late, have I?” Emmy admitted guiltily, knowing she had been a little unkind to her sister, who had only sought to keep her safe. That was all she ever wanted for Emmy, to see her happy and well, and she had not responded in kind. “I shall call upon you when Mr Smith is back where he ought to be, so we may visit him together. In the meantime, should you visit him again, at the hospital, please pass on my well wishes,” she said softly, taking her sister’s hand in hers and holding it tightly.
Nora smiled, though some anxiety remained. “Of course, sister,” she promised, giving Emmy’s fingers a loving squeeze.
Life was so much better when the two of them were not in a dispute. Indeed, Emmy knew she had to make the most of Nora’s charming presence before Hugh returned to draw the colour from his wife’s cheeks once more and strike dread into the heart of a most-beloved sister.
And yet, Emmy was not certain she could keep her promise.
There was something about the way she had held him that night and the visions it drew up in her fevered imagination that compelled her to want to
visit him alone. He would undoubtedly turn her away under the same pretences that Nora had stated, but she knew she had to try.
All she longed for was a moment alone where she could look into his eyes and see the mystery behind them, cracking open the secrets within, bit by tiny bit—not only his secrets, but her own, too.
It happened quite by chance, two days later, that Emmy saw a glimpse of a curious figure standing beside the entrance to the woods.
It was early in the morning, far too early for anyone else to be up, but Emmy had been unable to sleep and had found herself drawn to the window, her eyes longing to see the beautiful sight of a late spring dawn rising up through the skies.
Though he was far away, Emmy could see that the figure was dressed in a loose-flowing shirt and trousers, the white cotton billowing in the cool breeze that swept across the grounds of Davenham Park, stirring the plump heads of the velvety roses in the summer gardens and slipping mischievously in through the partially opened pane.
Lady of a Recluse Earl Page 10