“Shh, George!” Patience waved her hands in an attempt to keep the manservant quiet. She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder to the dark house. The last thing she needed was for Rosemere’s twenty-nine impressionable young students to wake and see a half-dead man being carried from the stable.
Hysteria would ensue for months.
“We mustn’t wake the girls.” Patience stood and tightened her thin shawl around her. “Take him in through the kitchen, and we will figure out what to do there.”
Leaving George and Charlie to carry their visitor, Patience scurried from the stable and took the path to the kitchen entrance at the back of the house, the harsh wind nearly pinching the breath from her lungs.
Patience burst through the door. Mary, the aging housekeeper, looked up expectantly, her face already flushed from tending the fire. “Well? What is it?”
Patience hung her shawl on a hook, her pulse still racing from the morning’s disruption. “It’s Mr. Sterling from Eastmore Hall. He’s unconscious. Must have been thrown from his horse.” She glanced at the blaze flickering in the grate. “We are going to need hot water and linens.”
Patience did not wait for Mary’s response. She went to the shelf next to the wide stone fireplace where they kept her father’s wooden medicine chest. Reaching up with both hands, she slid the oblong box off the shelf and tucked it beneath her arm.
Mary grabbed an armful of linen strips from a chest. “Where are you going to put him?”
Patience bit her lip as she struggled to balance a jar of ointment on top of the teak chest. She hesitated. It was imperative that none of the girls be aware of the man’s presence, and George, strong as he was, would never be able to carry a man up the stairs to a proper bedchamber. She nodded toward a narrow hallway that led to the manservant’s small quarters. “In George’s room.”
Just then, Charlie flung open the door and rushed in, prancing eagerly from foot to foot as he held the door open. George was carrying the limp William Sterling over one broad shoulder. “Where do you want ’im?”
Patience pointed toward the corridor. “Put him in your room until we can figure out a better arrangement.”
Patience grabbed one of Mary’s candles with her free hand and followed Charlie and George to the small bedchamber. The candlelight flickered odd shapes on the walls and slanted ceiling. Patience’s heart thumped in an erratic cadence as George sat Mr. Sterling’s unresponsive body on the straw mattress and peeled the soggy coat from his broad shoulders.
She set the medicine chest on the bureau. “Has he woken yet?”
George’s response was none too quiet. “Hasn’t made a peep.”
Patience pushed her long braid over her shoulder and knelt down, positioning her candle to illuminate the man’s face. Years had passed since she last encountered Mr. Sterling, but now, in the candlelight, she recognized his straight nose. The cleft in his chin. And yet, the sight before her made her cringe, for he was almost unrecognizable. His left eye was bruised and swollen shut. Dried blood and dirt crusted his lips and whiskered chin. A thick lock of dirty light brown hair swept over his forehead, and his head drooped forward in complete unresponsiveness.
Patience stood and reached for a blanket at the foot of the bed. “We must get him warm. Mary, fetch water and a compress.”
George let Mr. Sterling roll back against the pillow and lifted his legs onto the bed. Patience draped the blankets over him, noting how his boots hung off the bed’s end. She could not recall the last time she had seen Mr. Sterling. He may very well be the school’s landlord, but he never called—his steward had attended to all matters related to the property and buildings. He never attended church. She did not doubt he paid calls to town, but she rarely had cause to leave Rosemere. Indeed, she would have had difficulty recognizing him even by the light of day when he was well, let alone in his current state.
She felt Mary at her elbow, leaning in to look. “Merciful heavens. Master Sterling looks dead.”
Patience drew a shaky breath, then pressed her lips together. This man, whether he was their landlord or a common vagabond, needed their help. And as the woman in charge of the school, she would see that he received it.
“Mary, where is that compress? And get the hartshorn from Father’s medicine box, will you?”
Patience sat down on the bed as gently as if it had been a bed of nails and leaned closer to study the marks on his face. “What do you suppose happened? Do you think he was thrown from his horse?”
George gave a coarse huff. “Not with that lip.”
Patience’s stomach churned as the meaning of his words sank in. George needn’t expand on his thoughts for her to understand. The thought of a man being beaten in such a manner in such close proximity to their school! To her girls!
Mary returned, carrying a pan of water, and handed her the vial.
“Thank you. Hold that candle close, will you?”
Mary positioned herself behind Patience’s shoulder.
Forcing her hands to stay steady, Patience uncorked the bottle and held it under the man’s nose, giving him the full effect of its vapors.
With his next inhale, William Sterling only grimaced. Hardly the response she had hoped for. Patience exchanged the small bottle for Mary’s compress.
The damp linen felt warm and heavy in her hand. She brushed Mr. Sterling’s hair from his forehead, but at the sight of more blood, pulled her hand away.
The gash on his forehead appeared more serious than she had thought. Much more serious than any injury she could recall on school grounds. “Do you think you should call after the surgeon?”
George leaned in close to get a better look, squinting to see in the faint light. “And leave you and the young ladies alone with a man in the house?”
Patience shook her head. “Mr. Sterling is hardly a threat, George, not in this condition. I think we are quite safe.”
George shifted hesitantly. “As you wish, Miss.” The thud of his boots signaled his departure.
Patience returned her attention to Mr. Sterling. She was close to him—closer than she had been to any man in years, with the exception of her brother or father. She wiped her hands on the flannel folds of her robe, as if doing so would give her any more right to be tending to such a task. She had a great deal of experience tending to the accidental bumps and bruises of her girls, but never on a man—and never wounds of such magnitude. Cold still clung to his form, the scent of frost and earth lacing every breath she took. Her hands suddenly felt clumsy, Mary’s compress felt more like a stone than a damp cloth. She bit her lip and bent over the man, unsure of where—of how—to start.
With cautious movements she touched the compress to his wind-burned cheek and wiped spots of dirt away. She moved upward to his temple, then to his forehead, near the gash, and at the touch, icy blue eyes flew open. Mr. Sterling sat up in bed, the force nearly knocking Patience to the floor.
She gasped and jumped up, pitching back as if he were a snake preparing to strike.
Mr. Sterling frowned, and his eyes darted about the room. He was as an animal, stuck between fight and flight. His light hair clung to his damp face, and his eyes narrowed on her. Cold. Unwavering.
He blurted out a single, breathless word: “Isabelle!”
Heart pounding, Patience approached the bed, forcing her voice to be quiet. Low. Soothing, as if she were talking to one of her students who had awoken from a nightmare. “You’ve been injured, Mr. Sterling. Please, lie back down.”
He stared at her, his glare boring into her as if he were either reading her thoughts or spying on her soul. Then, as quickly as he had awoken, the expression in his eyes went absent. Hollow. His wild gaze darted from her to Mary and then back to her before he slumped back down on the bed, his head against the pillow.
She released the breath she’d been holding and cast a hesitant glance at Mary, whose complexion had grown ashen at the dramatic display. As timid as a lamb, Patience sat back down, lifted the co
mpress, and pressed it to his face. This time his black eyelashes fluttered but remained closed. He merely groaned.
“Well,” Patience whispered, “’tis no doubt. Whatever happened was significant indeed.”
Mary, who was never short of opinions, drew a chair closer and continued to hold the candle high. “Tsk. You know what they say about ’im. Roguish man.”
Patience flung Mary a warning glance. She would not tolerate such open judgment from her staff. But had she not shared the same thought? She’d heard the stories. The rumors.
Sitting on the side of the bed, she turned her attention back to her patient. He carried with him a scent of moorland and horse, and as she leaned closer still, the scent of ale clung to him. Patience pressed her lips together. Perhaps the stories were true.
But rumors or not, this man needed tending. With a gentle touch she pressed the cloth to the damaged skin, softly whisking away traces of dirt and blood.
Mary whispered, “Who do you suppose is Isabelle?”
Patience paused, the linen cloth hanging in midair. No doubt those stories of him were true as well. “I cannot say.”
As she touched her cloth to the area around the wound on his forehead, he recoiled. His eyes again opened, but this time he looked at her for but a moment before attempting to sit.
Alarmed, she stood and pressed her hand on his shoulder. Even in his weakened state, his corded muscles twitched beneath the fine linen of his billowy sleeve. “No, no. Please, lie down. You’ve been thrown from your horse.”
He shook off her hand and sat up, grimacing. He touched his face, then looked at the blood on his hand.
Patience cleared her throat. “You are at Rosemere, sir.”
He ignored her and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but at the movement, he grabbed his ribs protectively and swayed to the left.
Patience lunged forward to offer support if he should lose his balance. “Please be still. Our man has gone for the surgeon and—”
“No.” His voice, gritty as stone, stopped hers. “No surgeon.”
She wanted to argue. Surely he knew he was in no condition to leave, that he needed tending to. She noticed Mary had a dram of brandy in her hand. She took the glass and said, “Here, drink this. It will warm you.”
He did not protest, but when the glass touched his split lip, he flinched and handed the glass back to her. “Rosemere?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Where’s Edmund Creighton?”
Patience stiffened at the mention of her father’s name. “My father died six months ago.”
One eyebrow raised as far as the gash on his forehead would afford. “Rawdon Creighton, then?”
“My brother is in London.”
It was in that moment when Patience realized Mr. Sterling knew not who she was. And why should he? Why should a man of his position know the name of a headmaster’s daughter?
Feeling more confident, she ignored the sting of the slight and pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I am Patience Creighton, sir. Rawdon Creighton’s sister and current headmistress of Rosemere.”
His blank look betrayed him. “Of course. Miss Creighton.” He studied her face for a moment, making little effort to hide his confusion. A frown creased his face when he adjusted his position. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Do not apologize.” Patience placed the compress in his dirt-smudged hand and clasped her hands behind her back. “I am more concerned about your well-being than the earliness of the hour.”
Awkward silence pinned them for a time, but when Mr. Sterling attempted to stand, Patience moved closer. At first it was her intention to take his arm to steady him, but then she thought better of such an intimate action.
“Is my horse here?” he muttered.
“We found a saddled horse in the courtyard.”
“Good.”
She drew a sharp breath as he put both feet on the floor. “But you are injured, sir. And it is still too dark . . . at least wait for the sun to rise—”
But he was already standing, and his unstable steps swayed him closer to her. Then, as quickly as his arrival had interrupted the dawn’s peace, he stumbled through the door of the bedchamber and was gone.
Patience wondered if she had seen a spirit, a vapor perhaps, but one glance at Mary’s big eyes confirmed that she had just seen their landlord—in the flesh. She stared at the empty space where the man had been, shocked at both the surprise of the bloody visitor and the gruffness of his demeanor. She hurried to the window and watched him limp through the deepening snow toward the stable and disappear into the dark building.
Inside her, a battle raged. How she wanted to go back to the warmth of her bed. Forget that Mr. Sterling had been here. Forget the sight of blood. But the thought of the man—any man—who had moments ago been barely coherent and now was outside, preparing to leave, pecked at her conscience.
She gathered Mr. Sterling’s forgotten greatcoat, ignored Mary’s protest, and stepped out into the predawn’s gray light.
Patience raced through the courtyard toward the stable, stepping in the footprints left by Mr. Sterling’s much larger boots to prevent snow from getting in her thin slippers. Shivering, she arrived at the stable as Mr. Sterling was leaving, followed by Charlie, who looked every bit the boy he was.
Patience had to almost shout to be heard over the wind sweeping off the moors. “I must object, Mr. Sterling.”
He either didn’t hear her or he ignored her, fumbling to place the toe of his boot in the stirrup. She watched, helpless, as his first attempt to mount his horse failed.
“At least don your coat,” Patience pleaded, extending the damp wool garment in his direction. “You are sure to catch your death.”
On his second attempt, Mr. Sterling succeeded to mount the skittish animal. She could not see his face as he circled the large animal around. Realizing he would not be swayed, she backed away from his horse, coat still in her arms, to avoid getting trampled.
“I will send George to see that you arrived home safely,” she called.
“Thank you, but no need.” And with that William Sterling gave his horse a kick. But instead of taking the lane to the main road, he whirled his horse and thundered down the path through the moors. She frowned. Why on earth would he elect to take the narrow rutted path instead of the wide main road, especially in this light?
The pounding of hooves faded as Patience and Charlie stood together looking out at the moors until the horse and rider had disappeared.
Charlie’s youthful voice broke the silence. “Miss Creighton, his coat!”
Patience, still not sure what to make of the early morning’s happenings, had all but forgotten about the soggy garment in her arms. She turned to the boy. “Well, it appears that the excitement for this morning has passed. Dear George will return with the surgeon to find no patient.” She offered Charlie a smile, adjusted the coat in one arm, and gave the stable boy a quick squeeze around his shoulders with the other. “We’ll sort this out later. Thank you for your help. Go get some rest before breakfast.”
He smiled at her and nodded before running back to the warmth of his quarters in the stable.
Patience looked over her shoulder, past the hedge, and out to where the early-morning mist still blanketed the moorland. She had never been frightened in Darbury, but then, never had she heard of anyone being attacked on the moors. Could such a thing have happened? In their tranquil village? A shiver shook her, and she scurried back to the warmth of the kitchen.
Inside, Mary waited with a pinched expression. “What, did he not take his coat?”
Patience hung the coat on a hook to dry near the now-blazing fire. “He was in a hurry to be free from Rosemere, it would seem.”
Mary huffed. “Likely he was up to no good. You know the Sterlings.”
“Actually, I do not.” Patience moved closer to the fire, rubbing the chill from her arms and soaking in the warmth. “
And may I remind you, neither do you. For all we know, he was indeed thrown from his horse.”
“Did you see that split lip? That’s not from—”
“Mary!” Patience found it easier to scold than to acknowledge that she might share a similar thought. “We shall give Mr. Sterling the benefit of the doubt and pray that his mount has the good sense not to throw his master.” Silence hung heavy in the wake of the rare rebuke, and Patience, tired after the unexpected crisis, pressed a hand to her forehead. At least none of the girls had wandered down to the kitchen and seen their guest, and if she could have her way, they never would find out about him.
“Let us not speak of this to the rest of the staff. Especially not to the girls.” Patience headed for her bedchamber.
“And your mother? Mrs. Creighton? Will we be telling her?”
Mary’s words froze Patience to the spot. She wanted to pretend that the words had never been uttered, but instead she forced confidence to her voice. “In light of my mother’s health, let us not tell her of this visit.”
“Very well, Miss. You go on. I’ll clean up and wait for George and Mr. Wilson to arrive.”
Normally Patience would stay and wait to greet the surgeon herself, but something else equally as important weighed on her mind. Rawdon. Her brother. As the school’s legal owner, he must be informed of this.
Not wanting to wake any of her sleeping students, Patience opted to take the servants’ staircase from the kitchen to the west wing. The stairs were old and uneven in this part of the house, so she lifted her candle high to illuminate all of the bows and gaps.
Her head throbbed. She could recall a time not so long ago when there was nothing more romantic than the idea of a handsome, injured stranger being brought to their doorstep in the midst of a snowy dawn. Especially when that stranger was as dashing and wealthy as Mr. William Sterling. Her days of impressionable youth were long behind, and yet, she could hardly deny that the sight of him, attractive despite his wounds, awoke a long-forgotten dream within her. She was curious about him, much more curious than she ought to be, considering her circumstances.
The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors) Page 2
