For him, any conversation was hopeless because his teeth were clenched to keep his groans from leaking out. The children were scared of him, and he did not want to frighten them more.
Raymond turned him toward the front door. His red-haired wife, Elisabeth, held it open. Dismay lengthened her face as she stepped aside to let them enter.
Arthur propped one hand against the doorjamb, but did not enter when he heard a loud rattle and the pounding of hooves. He saw Miss Oliver pulling the children onto the grass as an open cart slowed in front of the parsonage. The driver jumped down and handed out Carrie, who, for once, was not holding the baby.
That did not halt the littlest boy from running to her as he called, “My baby!”
She bent and said something to him before taking his hand. As fast as the child’s legs could move, she rushed toward the door.
“How badly are you hurt, Arthur?” she asked.
“Not bad,” he replied.
Miss Oliver quickly contradicted him. “He cannot stand on his right leg. He twisted his knee or his ankle or both.”
Carrie shot him a frown before turning to the nurse. “Twisted? Not broken?”
“I cannot say for sure, my lady. Without removing his boot, it is impossible to tell, and he wisely has kept it on.”
“Raymond, help me get him into the cart. I have alerted Mr. Hockbridge. He should be at Cothaire by the time we arrive.”
Arthur was not given a chance to protest that if he had a chance to sit quietly, he would be fine. His brother led him to the cart and, with the driver’s help, lifted him in the rear. Everything went black, and his head spun. He would not faint like a simpering girl! He fought until he could see again, and discovered he was lying on his back. He almost cried out when the cart bounced. Had someone climbed in?
“Fine. I am fine,” he muttered when Carrie asked how he fared.
“So I see! If you had any less color, you would be dead.”
He opened his eyes and then closed them when he saw the alarm on his sister’s face as she leaned over the side of the cart. She might tease him, but she could not hide how worried she was. He wanted to reassure her that he would be as good as new in no time, but she would not believe him. He was unsure if he believed it himself. He had not felt such pain since he fell off a stone wall when he was seven and broke his arm.
“Thank you,” he heard Carrie say, a moment before something damp and warm covered his brow. “Keep it there.”
Keep it there? To whom was she talking? A breeze brushed across his face, bringing a hint of jasmine. Miss Oliver! He wanted to ask why she was with him instead of Carrie. Where were the children? He tried to open his eyes, but it was worthless. The damp cloth covered them.
“We will be leaving as soon as the driver assists your sister up,” Miss Oliver whispered.
Many words rushed through his head. Apologies for ruining her outing with the children, gratitude for how she had helped him to the parsonage, questions about how he could repair the damage he had caused by scaring the children. None of them formed on his tongue.
He sank into the darkness as the cart began moving. When he opened his eyes again, light struck them. The cloth had been removed.
“Stay still.” Miss Oliver’s voice was so soft he could barely hear her.
She must have guessed how much his head ached. Had he struck it when he fell?
“Can you sit up, my lord?” He recognized that voice, as well. It belonged to his valet, Goodwin. The young man knelt beside him in the cart. When had Miss Oliver left? Time seemed to be jumping about like a frightened rabbit.
“Yes.” Not needing his valet’s help, Arthur sat. His head spun, and the pain swelled, but he was able to climb down on his own. His valet assisted him through the curious crowd gathered by the front door. Goodwin guided him to the small drawing room where he had talked to Carrie… Could it have been just yesterday afternoon?
Mr. Hockbridge was waiting. His hair was almost white, but the doctor was close to Arthur’s age. He had a placid aura about him as he pointed to the settee. “Place him there.”
Biting back a moan, Arthur lowered himself to the cushions. He was relieved the gawkers had not followed him into the drawing room. His sister stood near the door, her arms folded in front of her and that same worried look in her eyes.
“What happened?” the doctor asked.
“I fell,” Arthur replied. Even those two words rang through his skull as if someone struck it with a sledgehammer. He put his hand to his brow and leaned his head against the settee.
The doctor sighed, then added, “You were with him?”
Arthur raised his head, astounded to see Miss Oliver beside his sister. She looked as uncomfortable as a kitten in a kennel.
She stepped into the room, holding her bonnet in front of her. “Yes, sir, I was with him.”
“What happened?”
With quiet dignity, she explained what had taken place in the cove. He appreciated that she did not embellish the tale in any way. Yes, he had saved the little boy, but he felt more like a clumsy oaf than a hero.
“Thank you, Miss Oliver,” the doctor said when she finished.
She curtsied gracefully and took her leave.
Arthur almost told his sister to call Miss Oliver back, but how could he explain such a request? He did not understand himself why having Miss Oliver near helped. Something about her kind smile offered him comfort, but he could not say how or why. Perhaps it was as simple a thing as when he thought about her, he was not worrying about how an injury would complicate his work as a courier.
Thoughts of the nurse vanished when the doctor ran his hands along Arthur’s right leg. The pain was excruciating by his knee, and he could not silence his yelp when the doctor’s fingers touched his ankle.
With a sigh, Hockbridge straightened. “There is no choice but to cut away the boot, my lord.”
“Do what you must.” His jaw worked as he surrendered himself to the doctor’s ministrations, determined he would not allow pain to halt him from his duties. Too many depended on him, and he refused to let them down.
*
Maris opened a cupboard door and peered inside. It was empty. Where was Bertie? It was not like him to sneak away. When the children first arrived, they often had slipped out of the nursery to sleep in Lady Susanna’s room. But it was not the middle of the night.
So where was the little boy?
She glanced at the other children, glad the baby was with Lady Caroline. If Maris asked Lulu and Molly and Gil, she might upset them further. They were on edge after what they had witnessed on the shore. Even Lulu, who usually was the leader in any mischief, was clingy and too quiet.
Bertie had been crying earlier about the loss of his little ship and the scratch he had on his left hand, his sole injury from when Lord Trelawney saved him. He had fallen asleep in a corner about a half hour ago.
Where was the little boy now?
While she searched the day nursery, Maris had sent a maid to do the same upstairs in the night nursery where the children slept. The maid had returned minutes ago without finding the missing child.
“Rachel,” she said to the maid, who usually worked in the kitchen, “I need you to stay here with the children.”
“Yes, Miss Oliver.”
“Do not let them out of your sight.”
“Yes, Miss Oliver.”
“If I am not back before their tea arrives, pour their milk and make sure they eat their meat and cheese before any cakes.”
“Yes, Miss Oliver.” Rachel waved her hands toward the door. “Go. I raised five younger sisters and brothers. I can take care of these three.”
Maris ran out of the nursery. She glanced in both directions along the upper hallway. The day’s last sunshine poured along it, highlighting everything. Even a little boy could not hide there.
She recruited each servant she passed to help in her search. If the Trelawneys learned that Bertie was missing, she might be dismis
sed, but she could not worry about that. Not when Bertie had vanished.
Horrible thoughts filled her mind. What if the person who had set the children adrift had come to Cothaire and snatched Bertie? She could not imagine a reason why someone would do that, but she also could not guess why anyone had abandoned them in an unstable boat.
She faltered when she reached the wing where the family’s private rooms were. She hesitated, not sure she should venture in that direction. But Bertie could be anywhere. If the family saw her, she would be honest about what she was doing there. However, she would rather not have them learn about Bertie’s disappearance until he was safely in the nursery.
Even so, Maris tiptoed along the corridor, barely noticing the plaster friezes and the portraits on the light yellow walls that seemed to glow in the day’s last light. Most of the doors were closed, and she would have to obtain permission from the butler to knock on them. She needed to find Baricoat straightaway, because she was wasting time wandering the hallways.
A faint click came from farther along the corridor. A door opening? A shadow shifted. A short shadow! Was that Bertie slipping into a room? If so, she must collect him before he could disrupt anyone in it.
She ran down the hallway to the door where the shadow had been. It was slightly ajar. She raised her hand to knock, then halted. If she startled Bertie and he was examining the possessions inside, something could get broken, and he could be hurt.
Slowly she edged the door back, holding her breath when the latch made that soft sound again. She expected a demand for her to explain why she was entering the room without announcing herself or to have Bertie run into her as he rushed out.
Neither happened.
She swung the door wider. Beyond it, a large room was draped in shadows. Furniture was arranged in front of an ornately carved hearth and near a window that rose almost fifteen feet to the coffered ceiling. No light but the fading sunshine challenged the shadows concealing the subjects of the paintings hanging in neat precision.
Scanning the room, she saw no one. Perhaps she had picked the wrong door, or her ears had misled her. She began to draw the door closed, then froze, her hand clasped over her mouth to halt her gasp.
Bertie!
The little boy was on the far side of the room next to a chair beside the window. And he was not alone. Lord Trelawney sat in the chair, his right foot propped on a low stool. A blanket over his lap hid any bandages Mr. Hockbridge might have used. His head tilted to one side, and she wondered if he was asleep.
Bertie poked Lord Trelawney’s arm. “Are you really a bear?”
The viscount’s head snapped up. When he shifted, he moaned.
The little boy jumped. “No eat Bertie, bear!”
Maris rushed forward and grabbed Bertie’s hand. She kept her eyes averted as she said, “I am sorry he disturbed you, my lord. Bertie, we need to let Lord Trelawney rest.”
“Is he a bear?” the little boy asked, planting his feet firmly against the floor. He looked at the viscount, then at her. “Is he really a bear?”
“Bertie—”
She was shocked when Lord Trelawney laughed and said, “The boy deserves an answer. Yes, Bertie, I am a bear.”
“Oh!” His eyes nearly popped from his face as he scurried to hide behind her.
Maris tried to suppress her exasperation. How could the viscount say such a thing? Didn’t he know how terrified the children had been…how terrified they still were after seeing him and Bertie fall on the rocks?
“Miss Oliver,” the viscount said, “stop looking daggers at me and let me explain.” He added to the little boy who pressed his face to her skirt, “Bertie, did you know my name is Arthur?”
Bertie shook his head, but did not look up.
“Arthur is my name, like Bertie is yours. Every name has a meaning, and Arthur comes from a very old word that means bear.”
Maris said nothing as Bertie raised his head. He did not release her skirt.
“You are a bear!” With a cry, he hid his face again.
Kneeling beside the little boy, she put her hands on either side of his face and tipped it up so she could smile at him. “But Lord Trelawney is not the kind of bear who is dangerous to you. Remember? He kept you from tumbling into the water. He is the kind of bear who protects others.”
“A good bear?”
She looked over Bertie’s head to the viscount. His eyes were bright. Had Mr. Hockbridge prescribed laudanum to ease his pain? A dose of that might account for his prattling like a chatterbox.
“Yes,” Maris answered. “He is a good bear, and good bears need to rest, as good boys do.” Standing, she held out her hand. “We must let Lord Trelawney rest.”
“Arthur,” insisted the boy. “His name is Arthur.”
“That is so.” Lord Trelawney chuckled again. “Do you know how I know that Arthur means bear, Bertie?”
The little boy shook his head, his eyes focused on the viscount’s face. “How?”
“Because a long, long, long time ago, there was a brave king.” Lord Trelawney leaned his elbow on the chair’s arm and slanted toward Bertie. “Maybe the bravest king who ever ruled our country, and he was called King Arthur because his name meant bear.”
“King bear!” Bertie clapped his hands with glee.
The viscount nodded. “Exactly.”
“What does my name mean?”
Lord Trelawney faltered, his eyes seeking Maris’s. She knew he wanted her help, but what could she say? She had no idea what Bertie’s real name might be. It could be Albert or Robert or Herbert or even Athelbert…or simply Bert. Or his real name might not be any of those. Even if she was sure of his name, she had no idea what its original meaning was.
The viscount continued to hold her gaze with his powerful one as he said, “It means friend of the bear.”
Bertie clapped his hands again and danced around. When she saw Lord Trelawney wince, she groped for the little boy’s hand. She caught it and drew him to her, unable to look away from the viscount. She should, because for once he wore his emotions openly, except for the places in his eyes that were as shadowed as the chamber where he sat. Secrets? About what? He was not hiding his worry and pain and sorrow and regret. She searched for happiness and found an iota when he smiled at Bertie’s reaction to his answer.
Why was he sad? From what she had heard from the other servants, he happily served as his father’s eyes and ears on the estate. The Trelawneys were a close and loving family. He was courting the woman named Gwendolyn. He should be joy-filled, but he was not.
And Maris found that sad.
She looked away, cutting the connection between them, which was growing too intimate. What might he have seen revealed on her face? That she was a liar because she had falsified a recommendation to get her position here? That she had been a fool to trust an unprincipled young lord? That she had believed—quite wrongly—that her friends would defend her against that young lord, even though she was not part of the ton? That she was lonely after her parents died, and she would be again when the children were no longer a part of her life?
She would not share those secrets with anyone.
Keeping her eyes focused on the floor, she said, “If you will excuse us, my lord, I need to get Bertie to the nursery and let the others know that he has been found.” She dipped in a curtsy and turned to lead the little boy out of the room.
“Wait…” Lord Trelawney’s voice snapped like a riding crop against the high ceiling.
She stopped, her heart thudding against her breastbone. She faced him because it would be rude to look over her shoulder. “Yes, my lord?”
“Wait, Miss Oliver.” This time, his voice was less sharp.
Though every instinct told her to run, she said, “Of course, my lord.”
“Ouch!” Bertie chirped. “Don’t squeeze my hand so hard. Ouch!”
She lessened her grip as the viscount’s eyes narrowed before he looked to his right.
“Goodwin!�
�� he shouted.
The short, muscular valet came through a door beside the fireplace. His hair was almost as dark as Lord Trelawney’s, but his eyes were a common brown. When she had seen him in the corridors, he always had offered her a friendly—but not too friendly—smile and a kind word. He did not even glance in her direction as he spoke to the viscount.
“Do you need something, my lord? Another pillow, perhaps? Some of the liquid Mr. Hockbridge left for the pain?” His voice was a warm tenor, surprising in a man of his solid build. “I wish you would take at least a single dose. He said it would help you sleep.”
Maris clamped her lips closed before she could reveal her astonishment. She had assumed Lord Trelawney was talking so much because he had taken laudanum. If that was not the cause, what was?
“Will you light some lamps?” the viscount asked. “It is getting dark in here.” Humor laced through his words as he added, “Unless I am about to swoon again.”
“I think not. Mr. Hockbridge says there is nothing more wrong with your head than usual.”
Maris was further amazed when Lord Trelawney guffawed as his valet lit a lamp on either side of the viscount’s chair. Goodwin had made a jest, a rather insulting jest, at the viscount’s expense, and Lord Trelawney found it amusing. Was the stern, almost silent man different in the privacy of his own rooms? She had seen his sadness and regret, but what other aspects of himself had he kept hidden from her…and the rest of the world?
“Goodwin,” the viscount continued, “Miss Oliver needs young Bertie returned to the nursery and the word to go out that he has been found none the worse for his adventures. Take the lad to the nursery and hand him over to…?”
“Rachel,” Maris supplied.
“Yes, hand him over to Rachel and let her know that Miss Oliver will be returning shortly.”
“Certainly, my lord. I will spread the word that Master Bertie is safe.”
Love Inspired Historical October 2015 Box Set Page 27
