A Suitable Husband

by Fenella Miller

  Sarah believed the oblique reference to her lack of manners was uncalled for. ‘Of course, Captain. I will see you tomorrow; will ten o’clock be convenient?’

  He nodded and without further speech, stepped around her and, taking the stairs two at a time, disappeared towards the schoolroom. He left Sarah in no doubt he was as eager as she to finish the encounter. Unexpectedly exhausted she retraced her steps and returned to her room where Beth was waiting with a restorative bath and change of raiment.

  It was her custom to oversee Edward’s night time preparations herself but she was reluctant to go up to his rooms, not sure exactly when his tutor would consider his duties completed. She wished she had studied his timetable more carefully. She decided to send Beth to fetch her son.

  Her abigail returned immediately. ‘Master Edward is asleep, madam. Only Sally is up there straightening the schoolroom. Do you wish me to wake him?’

  Sarah glanced at the large clock ticking loudly in the corner of the drawing-room. ‘Good heavens, it is scarcely seven o’clock! I can never persuade Edward into bed much before nine. I hope he is not unwell.’ Worried her son had retired without waiting to see her she determined to go to the nursery. If he was running a fever she should have been informed. Not sure whether she was angry or concerned Sarah flew up the narrow nursery stairs.

  Sally paused in her duties, a pile of books in her ample arms. ‘Madam, is there something amiss?’

  ‘Indeed, I hope not. I wish to know why Master Edward is asleep so early. Is he ailing?’ His father had succumbed to congestion of the lungs which had started, innocently enough, as a slight fever and an aching in the bones. She would not let the same thing happen to his son.

  The nurse-maid grinned. ‘No, madam, Master Edward’s as fit as a flea, bless him. But he was that tired after his morning at the fair, and an afternoon of lessons, Captain Mayhew said he should go straight to bed after tea.’

  Sarah bristled. How dare he interfere with her son’s routine? Had she not made it clear where his boundaries were? However it was not poor Sally’s fault. She forced herself to smile. ‘And he went without a protest?’ The girl nodded. ‘Captain Mayhew’s obviously going to be a good influence on Master Edward.’

  ‘Yes, madam; the little lad did not stop talking about the captain all through his tea and bath.’

  Sarah’s smile became even more fixed. ‘Excellent. It is good that they have taken a liking to each other so soon. I am going to look in on Edward before I depart. Goodnight, Sally.’

  She slipped quietly into her son’s room; the evening sun filtered through the drawn curtains making it easy for her to see Edward’s sleeping form. She bent down and kissed his forehead and he mumbled in his sleep and rolled over on his side.

  It was then she noticed his favourite toy, a dilapidated stuffed animal that vaguely resembled a dog, was missing from its customary place upon his pillow. He resolutely refused to sleep without it, but here he was, resting peacefully, no toy in view. Angrily she straightened. It was no doubt Captain Mayhew who had interfered again and confiscated her son’s precious bedtime comforter.

  Had her beloved child cried himself silently to sleep lonely and too scared to ask for its return? The miserable man had only been here a day and already her son was being taken from her. The curate, from the village, was a well-educated and harmless young man; she should have arranged for Edward to attend lessons with him. It was small comfort to her that the captain’s appointment was for only three months.

  Thoughtfully she headed for the drawing-room. Tears prickled behind her eyelids and her throat constricted. By the time the probationary period was over, and she could dismiss him, her son would be so attached to his tutor the departure would break his heart. Edward did not remember his father — he had been too young — but he was now at an age when such a loss could cause irreparable harm.

  Tortured by indecision and conflicting emotions Sarah was too fraught to sit at her embroidery frame or read a novel. She had ordered supper to be served at nine, so had more than an hour to spare. She would go out for a walk, the light was still good, and with a thick cloak she would be warm enough.

  The grass was damp underfoot and she was glad she had taken the time to change into stout half-boots. The grooms were settling the horses in the stables so she decided not to visit there. Instead, she turned towards the artificial lake constructed by the previous owners from the damning of two small brooks that ran across the park. Its surface rippled invitingly, pink and gold, as the sun sunk slowly behind the bordering trees. She stepped out briskly, knowing she could easily complete the walk before full darkness overtook the park.

  She stood entranced at the lake side watching the sun vanish, rolling up its fiery skirts as it disappeared behind the trees. The water rippled metal-grey in the twilight and the strange colour reminded her of eyes she would much prefer to forget.

  A chill breeze blew from the water and Sarah gathered up her cloak, glad she had had the foresight to put it on. A flicker of movement in a bank of rhododendrons, their cheerful blaze of blossom dulled in the fading light, attracted her attention.

  Had she imagined it? She blinked and stared into them but could see nothing untoward. Only partially reassured, she shivered and reached behind her head to pull up the voluminous hood of her cloak. As she did so a sound, somewhere between a cough and a bang echoed across the park. A stinging pain gripped the back of her head. Thinking that she had been stung by an early bee, trapped unwittingly in the folds of material, she flung it back and the cold air burned her scalp unpleasantly.

  She was beginning to feel rather sick; was she experiencing an unexpected reaction to the bee venom? She turned to retrace her steps but the outline of the house flickered and wavered in front of her. She was looking at it through the wrong end of a spyglass. A roaring noise filled her ears and she knew nothing more.

  Softly, full darkness enveloped the park and Sarah lay, almost invisible, in her dark cloak, spread –eagled on the ground.

  ***

  Oliver was aroused from his perusal of the next day’s lessons by a furious knocking. Not waiting for his man to appear, he surged out into the flagged hallway and unbolted the door. Jack did not wait for him to inquire the reason for his visit.

  ‘Captain, sir, madam is missing. She went out for a stroll before supper, two hours since, and she hasn’t returned. The house is in an uproar. Can you come and organise a proper search?’

  ‘Wait there, lad; I will be with you in a moment.’ He turned and ran down the passage. ‘Jenkins, Peters, here, now, and bring lanterns with you.’ He shrugged into his coat, for once careless of his appearance. Mrs Haverstock had obviously suffered some mishap and needed his assistance. His two men, who had once served with him, appeared carrying lanterns ablaze with light.

  ‘Something up then, Captain?’ Jenkins asked.

  ‘Mrs Haverstock is missing somewhere in the park. We are going to find her.’ He strode off, no stranger to the dark, his eyes adjusting instantly; he had no need to rely on lanterns to light his path. The faint shimmer supplied by the new moon was enough. Jack trotted along beside him.

  Oliver barked questions as they travelled. ‘Where was your mistress going?’

  ‘She did not say, sir.’

  ‘Where have they searched so far?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. They are running about in all directions in a panic.’

  Oliver’s face was grim. A lake side stroll, in the gathering dark, was the height of foolishness.

  It should surely have been completed in an hour? He ground his teeth, pushing aside the image that filled his head, of a shapeless female form floating, face down, in the water of the lake.

  He broke into a rapid jog, his men keeping pace, their lanterns bobbing merrily, but Jack fell back, unable to keep up.

  The Court appeared to be
surrounded by a small swarm of angry yellow bees, as the grooms and gardeners, routed out by Thomas, searched haphazardly amongst the flowerbeds and shrubberies. Within moments of his arrival he marshalled his troops and turned chaos into calm.

  ‘Jenkins, take those three men and walk abreast, west, towards the gate. Peters, do the same, but walk north; you, Tom Coachman, take your men east. I will go south, towards the lake.’ Belatedly he remembered Edward’s dog. “Jack, fetch Rags; he has a better chance of finding his mistress than we do.’

  The dog arrived before Jack, his whole body alive with the joy of meeting his new friend again. Oliver dropped to his haunches and took the dog’s head between his hands. ‘Your mistress is missing, Rags. Can you find her for us?’ The dog licked his face and yelped. ‘I do believe the animal understands.’

  ‘That he does, sir, every word. A very intelligent dog is that,’ Jack told him proudly.

  ‘Off you go, boy, find her — find her!’ Oliver released his hold and sprung to his feet. The dog vanished into the darkness, nose to the ground as though already following a scent.

  The men, lanterns aloft, ran behind, but stayed a yard apart, as instructed. Oliver pounded after Rags. He had a bad feeling about this and his instincts rarely let him down.

  He had the lake in sight when the dog started howling, and as one, the line swung sideways and ran towards the noise. Oliver reached Sarah’s unconscious form first. He flung himself down and, pushing the excited dog aside, expertly placed his fingers under her jawbone, searching for a pulse.

  A sigh whistled through his teeth. It was strong and even. Whatever ill had befallen her, she was not, at that moment, in mortal danger.

  ‘Bring the light closer,’ he ordered. The lanterns obediently appeared above his head. He reached out and unhooked one from its pole. Starting at her feet he moved the light along, searching for any injury.

  The light halted over Sarah’s head and illuminated her ghastly pallor. Jack swallowed a sob of distress. Oliver glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the boy. ‘Steady, lad; your mistress is not dying. She has a steady pulse.’

  ‘But she is so white, sir, and still.’

  ‘I know, Jack, but I promise it’s not as bad as it looks.’ He handed the lantern back to its owner. He needed his hands free to continue the examination. ‘Keep the light still, and hold it behind my head.’ The lanterns ceased bobbing and the golden glow pooled over Sarah’s unconscious form. He carefully ran his fingers under her head and his stomach lurched as he felt a tell-tale, sticky wetness.

  For a moment he remained still, realising when he withdrew his hands, his audience would see the evidence. ‘Untie my stock, Jack.’ The boy fumbled, and then the cloth was free. ‘I need it folded into a pad, if you can; then hand it to me.’ By now all had guessed that the injury was to Mrs Haverstock’s head.

  Oliver removed one hand, still cradling her head in the other, and Jack placed the makeshift bandage in it. Then, with the efficiency of long practice, he slipped the wad of folded cloth behind her head and pressed it over the wound he could feel under his fingers.

  ‘Good; that will suffice for the moment. Peters and Jenkins, are you with me?’ The men stepped forward. ‘Peters, here, hold this light above Mrs Haverstock’s head.’ When he was sure the bandage was held securely in place Oliver slid one arm under her shoulders, the other behind her knees. ‘Jenkins, steady me as I stand.’ He swayed back and, in one sure move, regained his feet, holding his burden safely to his chest.

  ‘Jack, ran back and alert the house. I will require boiled water and clean cloths ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy raced away as directed, leaving the other searchers to encircle him and escort them back across the park.

  Without giving the appearance of haste, Oliver walked fast. The longer the woman, who lay limp and cold within his arms, was outside in the chill dark, the higher the risk of her succumbing to infection and fever

  Thomas, the housekeeper, was waiting anxiously at the open door. ‘Bring the mistress straight up, sir; her maid has everything prepared.’

  Oliver mounted the stairs, Peters still holding the makeshift bandage, and followed the housekeeper into a bedchamber. He was glad to see a log fire blazing in the hearth. The maids were waiting ready to minister as required. Bowls of steaming water and clean linen strips lay on a small side table.

  The bed covers had been folded back so he placed her there. He snatched up a strip of cloth and tied it tightly around her head, then stood back. He had done all he could for the moment. The women must do the next part. ‘Get your mistress out of these wet garments and into something warm. Are there hot bricks in the bed?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and more heating in the dressing room next door,’ Beth, Mrs Haverstock’s abigail, replied.

  ‘Good; I will leave you. Call me when your mistress is ready for me to tend her wound.’

  ‘Mrs Thomas has taken the liberty of sending for Dr Witherspoon, sir. He should be here directly.’

  Oliver frowned. He had had dealings with village sawbones before— he was better qualified to dress a head injury than most country quacks. He ignored the girl’s apologetic statement. ‘I will wait outside; call me when you are done.’ He turned the door. ‘Do not, on any account, move the bandage. Is that clear?’

  Beth bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yes, Captain, I understand.’ Satisfied, he left the ladies to their part. Outside, in the wide, carpeted passageway, all was quiet. The men had vanished, their job completed, and all signs of their muddy boots had already been removed.

  He looked down at his own; they were liberally covered with grass and dirt. He shrugged; dirty boots on a clean carpet was the least of this household’s problems.

  The longer Mrs Haverstock remained unconscious the more concerned he would be. Head injuries were the very devil. Too many times he had seen a soldier, apparently unhurt apart from a gash on the head, sink into a coma and die. He listened to the sounds of activity from the bedchamber and wished he remembered how to pray.

  Chapter Four

  The crunch of wheels on gravel alerted Thomas to Dr Witherspoon’s arrival. She was opening the door as he hurried up the stairs, his black bag swinging freely from one hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, doctor. I will take you up to Mrs Haverstock right away.’

  ‘The boy told me she had a head injury and was unconscious. Has there been any change?’

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not.’

  Oliver, who had been pacing up and down the passageway, like a guard on sentry go, also heard the visitor arrive. He halted, and leant, arms folded against Sarah’s closed door. If Witherspoon was half as ridiculous as his name he would not get into the room.

  He glared, eyes narrowed, at the approaching figure. He relaxed a little as he appraised the tall, fair young man approaching, a friendly open smile upon his face.

  The doctor extended his hand. ‘Captain Mayhew, I am David Witherspoon. How is Mrs Haverstock?’

  The man’s firm grip and intelligent blue eyes convinced Oliver he was shaking the hand of someone who knew what he was doing. He grinned. ‘Pleased to meet you, but, forgive me for saying so, you look hardly old enough to be a medical man.’

  ‘I passed by thirty-second birthday two months ago and I assure you I am properly qualified. Shall we go in?’

  Oliver stepped aside and the doctor tapped on the door. Hurrying footsteps crossed the room and it was opened by Beth, her eyes red. ‘Come in, Dr Witherspoon, sir. My mistress has not stirred at all, not once, even when we moved her. It was like dressing a rag doll, sir.’

  The young man smiled; his demeanour exuded confidence and expertise. ‘I will examine her now. I am going to need your assistance but the girls can go.’ With a rustle of starched aprons and blue calico the two maids vanished into the dres
sing-room and from there down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen.

  Oliver, reassured by the doctor’s professionalism, closed the door and followed him over to the bed. The young man spoke to Beth. ‘Will you hold Mrs Haverstock whilst I take a look?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Beth’s reply was subdued. Oliver recognised the signs and caught the girl as her knees began to buckle.

  ‘Come along, Beth, I think we will be able to manage without you. Go and sit by the screen, out of sight, but in the room.’ The girl recovered immediately she knew she was no longer required to assist the doctor in his examination and was able to walk, unaided, to the indicated position.

  Oliver took her place and held Sarah gently so she remained on her side, her injury fully visible for the first time. He was so shocked he swore under his breath. ‘God’s teeth, she has been shot. That’s a bullet groove. I have seen enough of them to know.’

  The doctor deftly cleaned the sticky mess on the back their patient’s head, exposing a long shallow wound. It had bled profusely, as such injuries do, and required several sutures. Throughout the stitching, and bandaging, Sarah remained unconscious. When he had completed his task Dr Witherspoon finally spoke.

  ‘I will arrange something to prevent Mrs Haverstock from rolling onto her back, and then you can release your hold Captain.’ He positioned a feather pillow to his satisfaction and stepped back.

  ‘There, you can lie her down now.’

  Oliver placed Sarah on the soft support and removed his hands. ‘Will she do, doctor?’

  ‘Yes, I believe she will. Her pulse is steady and her breathing regular. It is loss of blood, and shock, that have caused her stupor, not the injury itself.’

  ‘How long will it be before Mrs Haverstock recovers consciousness?’

  The doctor considered. He placed his hand on Sarah’s face and smiled. ‘She is asleep now, captain, not unconscious. She will wake in the morning with a headache but, hopefully, nothing worse. You can question her then.’