by Allison Lane
Ten minutes later, the carriage rocked to a sudden stop. One of the horses screamed in protest.
“What is the matter?” demanded Norwood, opening the window that was away from the wind.
“Accident, your grace. Looks like someone went off the bridge.”
Norwood realized that they had passed the estate gates while he was lost in thought. The main drive crossed a stream on an arched stone bridge a mile from the house.
“Who is it?” he asked, shocking his driver by jumping down from the coach.
“Dunno..” Carson shrugged.
It was raining heavily, with a high wind screaming through the trees. Wheels had plowed deep tracks through the mire that disappeared upon reaching the wood planking, but part of a broken wheel lay against the parapet. He could see the confused hoofprints of wildly plunging horses in the roadway. Lightning had struck the ancient willow that stood sentinel at the far end of the bridge, splitting it in half.
Norwood slogged through the mud until he could see over the edge of the drive. Within seconds, his sodden coat was plastered against his back. A carriage lay on its side in the raging water, wedged almost out of sight against the center bridge support. There was no sign of either coachman or horses. Had they been swept away? More likely, everyone had escaped, leaving the empty coach abandoned until the weather improved. But it had been less than an hour since he had passed this point on his way to town and only fifteen minutes since the weather had worsened. He could not take any chances.
“Here..” He thrust his jacket and waistcoat into Carson’s arms and slithered down to the river bank, the rising wind whipping hair and water into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” shouted Carson.
“I must see if anyone is inside,” called Norwood, testing the current and finding it even stronger than it appeared.
“Let me do it, your grace,” begged Carson. He was already looking for a place where he might descend more easily.
“Stay there,” ordered the duke sharply.
The carriage was half-submerged, wedged under the bridge about eight feet out from the bank. Norwood tossed a stick into the water, watching as it swirled dizzily away, whipping between the wreckage and the bank. He tossed another, farther out, then another and another. Within a minute he had a good idea of where he must go.
Taking a deep breath, he moved a few feet upstream, then flung himself into the water. Its speed terrified him. Almost before he could surface, the carriage loomed ahead. He was slightly off course, he realized, kicking strongly as his arms stretched to grasp his target. He should have removed his boots – they were dragging him down. One hand managed to grab a wheel, but he had not counted on the current slamming his body into the perch. The blow drove the air from his lungs, though he managed to hang on.
Gasping, he pulled himself up until he could crawl out on top. But there was not enough room to open the door more than a few inches. Twisting his head around, he finally managed to peer through the crack. The first thing he saw was an arm.
A shout raised no response, but the arm was caught in the loop of the strap, so it was possible that its owner still lived. There was no time to go for help. If there was any chance of saving the victim, he must work quickly, for the water was very cold.
Scrabbling about in the confined space, he detached a metal bar from the remains of the driver’s box. Several minutes of work broke the door from its hinges, and he flung it into the raging river.
Afraid of what he would find, Norwood lowered himself gingerly inside. Mr. Stevens appeared to be the only occupant. He was unconscious, but his head remained above the water, his trapped wrist supporting him only inches from death.
Norwood poked his head out the door. “Have we any rope, Carson?”
“I have it here, your grace,” shouted the coachman.
“Can you pull Stevens up to the bridge with it?”
“I doubt it is that strong,” he admitted.
“Then you will have to come down to the bank. There is only an eight-foot gap. We should be able to cross that with your help.”
Ten minutes later, he was ready to try it. He had hauled Stevens up through the opening and laid him out on top, sorry now that he had abandoned the door, which could have floated Stevens to safety. With the rope about the lad’s chest and an end fastened to his own waist, he was ready to go. The trickiest part would be keeping Stevens’s head above water. Though the river was not deep – no more than four feet – the current would make it impossible to stay on his feet.
But they managed it. Carson pulled them to shore as rapidly as he could, helped by the river that swung them toward the bank like a pendulum. Norwood kept Stevens’s head on his own shoulder and even gained purchase on the streambed with one foot when halfway across.
“Let’s get him to the house as quickly as you can safely manage it,” ordered Norwood, tossing the unconscious boy over his shoulder to climb back up to the road. His teeth were already chattering with cold.
Their arrival caused a considerable stir. Norwood sent a footman racing for the doctor. Sir Harold Stevens was not available. He had gone riding with Thorne and the other male guests during a lull in the storm. None had returned. It was presumed that they were taking shelter until the rain slackened.
Oliver Stevens was still unconscious. Though no bones seemed to be broken, there was a large knot on his head and bruises were already forming in several places. The housekeeper fluttered around him while Norwood took himself off for a hot bath and dry clothing.
What a peculiar day, he thought as the warm water and newly kindled fire finally combined to thaw his half-frozen body. It might still be September, but the storm felt more like December, particularly when the wind cut through his dripping shirt and sodden pantaloons. He hoped young Stevens would escape contracting a chill, though submersion in an icy stream would certainly not help his constitution any. Winter poured more hot water over the duke, whose skin was beginning to resemble a boiled lobster. An hour later he had donned a dark blue jacket and fawn pantaloons and was adjusting his cravat.
Jameson met him outside Stevens’s door. The gentlemen had still not returned, but the footman had, with the unwelcome news that the doctor was unavailable, having been called out in quite another direction to attend Sir Reginald’s wife, who was experiencing a difficult and dangerous delivery.
“Get Mrs. Morrison, then,” he ordered.
“That is impossible, your grace,” said Jameson woodenly. “She is not allowed in the house.”
“What?”
“There are permanent instructions barring her from Thornridge Court, your grace. Both the house and the estate.”
Norwood recalled the icy stare she had received the day she brought him home after his own accident. He had known that there was no love lost between Thorne and Lady Amanda, but he had never dreamed that the situation included banishment. He had opened his mouth to protest such absurdity when Lady Emily appeared.
“What is this I hear about Mr. Stevens?” she demanded, though softly as they all stood just outside his room.
“His carriage went off the road at the bridge,” said Norwood. “He is seriously injured, still unconscious when I checked on him just now.”
“Surely the doctor has been summoned!”
“He is unavailable. I have been trying to call in Mrs. Morrison, who has considerable experience with the sick and injured, but Jameson informs me that she is forbidden the house.”
“That is true. Father disowned her nine years ago..” She frowned.
“I care nothing about your family disagreements, Lady Emily, but one of your guests is like to die without care, and the best person to provide that care is your sister.”
“Half-sister,” she corrected absently. “Is he that bad?”
“I have no way of judging, but he remains unconscious and was submerged in cold water for some time..” His voice was grim. “Are you trained to care for him?”
“No,” she
admitted, as he knew she must.
“Nor is Mrs. Hammond,” he reminded her, watching the emotions cross her face. It was the ultimate dilemma for a conformable miss – her father and her betrothed were making conflicting demands.
Emily made her decision and straightened her back. “Jameson, you will send a footman to summon Mrs. Morrison immediately.”
“I have my orders, my lady,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Who is in charge of the house?” she demanded.
Uncertainty flickered in the butler’s eyes. “You are, my lady.”
“Then you will follow instructions. I want her here as soon as possible. It will be on your head if Mr. Stevens dies unattended.”
“Yes, my lady.”
* * * *
Norwood was pacing the hallway outside Stevens’s room when Amanda finally arrived. She seemed surprised to see him there.
“Thank heaven you were able to come,” he said in relief. Just the sight of her was enough to lift his spirits. She would know what to do. And with her at hand, Oliver would not dare die.
“What happened? The footman was nearly incoherent and Jameson merely glared.”
Again he explained all he knew of the accident. “As near as I can tell, his head remained above water the whole time, but he is still unconscious from a sharp blow. Nothing appears broken, though he has been rather battered about.”
“What have you done for him so far?” she asked as they entered Oliver’s room. He removed her cloak, noting absently that her green gown set green glints glowing in her brown eyes.
“Mrs. Hammond has been looking after him..” He nodded to the housekeeper who was seated beside the bed.
Unlike the butler, Mrs. Hammond’s eyes did not glare with disapproval. “The poor boy shows no sign of waking,” she announced.
“Aside from cleaning him up, have you done anything else?”
“Just kept him as warm as possible. He won’t swallow, and I’ve little experience with the injured.”
“How cold was he when you brought him home?” She turned questioning eyes on Norwood.
“Quite. His legs felt especially icy. The stream was very cold.”
She turned back the sheets and ran her hands down his limbs. “They are warming well, so that is one less concern for the moment.”
Norwood raised his brows in question.
“If the legs remain cold several hours after submersion, he risks developing gangrene,” she explained. “But if they warm up, that is much less likely. I would hate to see him lose anything.”
He blanched and she flashed an impish grin at his discomfort.
Amanda prodded Oliver’s head, gently feeling the large knot. “Good,” she murmured, laying a pad over the site and wrapping it.”
“What is good?” asked Norwood.
“The bone does not seem depressed under the swelling. That is another thing that often leads to serious complications..” She turned to Mrs. Hammond. “I will need water, both for washing and for making tea. The latter will need to be kept hot, so make sure there is plenty of coal in here. Have one of the girls renew the warm bricks. There is nothing further that can be done until he wakes. I will sit with him. Hopefully, the doctor will call soon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morrison,” murmured Norwood when the housekeeper left.
“The footman said that you rescued him?” Her voice held a trace of surprise, though she was busy unwrapping Oliver’s wrist to inspect the scrapes left by the strap.
He flushed. “Yes.”
“He owes you his life, then.”
“It was nothing.”
“I doubt it, though I always suspected you were not the unfeeling iceberg you pretend. How badly were you injured?”
“Nought but cold and that is long gone.”
She turned back to Norwood. “What a bouncer! Show me your wrist..” She pointed to the red spot peeping out from under his sleeve.
“It is just a scrape. I had to break off the door to enter the carriage.”
“Have you dressed it properly?”
“It is nothing.”
“Men! Do you remove that jacket or do I?”
He matched her glare but pulled off his coat. Blood stained his shirtsleeve. She glowered at him and jerked open his cuff.
“You are a fool, your grace,” she snapped as she bandaged his arm. “And your valet is a fool for not tending you properly.”
“Enough,” he pleaded as she tied off a strip of linen and refastened his sleeve. “It is nothing.”
“Stoicism will kill you one of these days..” She sighed and returned her attention to the rescue. “But Sir Harold will be grateful for your efforts. He lost one son at Waterloo. Fate would be too cruel to take another.”
“Is that what Stevens was quizzing you about so intently that night?”
“Yes. He wanted to hear any details I could provide..”
“I suppose you knew the brother.”
She nodded. “And found his body when I was searching for Jack..”
She suddenly recalled where she was and mentally shook herself. “Enough of this maudlin fustian. Go and seek your dinner, your grace. There is nothing further you can do here.”
“Until later, Mrs. Morrison..” He bowed and left.
But before he reached the drawing room, his attention was drawn to a strident argument in the library. Thorne was berating someone for disobeying an order. Frowning in distaste over a scene that was already attracting the servants, he was moving on when Emily’s voice took over.
“You would condemn one of your houseguests to possible death just to perpetuate a nine-year-old feud?” she asked incredulously.
“I was right to disown the chit,” Thorne countered. “Her disreputable ideas have already corrupted you. How dare you abandon your duty by overturning my instructions and undermining my authority?”
“There is more than one duty involved here,” she all but shouted, the passion in her voice surprising Norwood, who had never heard a hint of emotion from her in the past. “Have you considered your own duty as a host? If you fail to care for an injured guest, your credit must suffer. And if the world learns – as it will – that such inadequacy arose from the misguided hatred of an unnatural father, you will be scorned by the very society you have always worshiped.”
“Unnatural, am I?” sputtered Thorne, rage vibrating through the words. “The description fits you far better. Is this how an obedient daughter thanks the father whose training allowed her to capture the prize of the marriage mart?”
Norwood could hardly believe his ears, but he refused to allow the argument to continue. Without knocking, he shoved open the door.
“You are castigating the wrong party, Lord Thorne,” he announced coldly. “I am the one who ordered that Mrs. Morrison be summoned to tend Mr. Stevens. The doctor is unavailable, and your guest is in dire need of competent attention.”
“So you are abetting my daughter’s defiance,” Thorne stormed, propriety forgotten in his fury.
“I suggest we both have a glass of brandy to settle our tempers, then discuss this like reasonable gentlemen,” suggested Norwood through gritted teeth.
Thorne drew in a deep breath. At last he walked over to a cabinet and poured two glasses of wine. “Sit down, Norwood, Emily,” he ordered, seating himself in a nearby chair. “And then you can explain why it was necessary for a guest to counter the orders left by the estate’s owner.”
Norwood succinctly described the day’s events.
“And his injuries are that serious?” asked Thorne.
“He is still unconscious. I have no idea when the accident occurred, but it has now been five hours since I found him.”
Thorne frowned. “We will discuss your behavior when I have had time to consider it,” he addressed Emily. “Perhaps you will see to our guests now.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she replied demurely, curtsying first to Thorne, then to Norwood. She smiled at the duke for the first time in days.<
br />
“Why was it necessary to forbid Lady Amanda the house?” asked Norwood when Emily was gone.
“I cannot have her contaminating my children with her appalling ideas and disreputable behavior,” he replied shortly, his tone making it clear that questions were unwelcome.
Norwood continued anyway. “What did she do that was so bad? I have seen no evidence that she deserves censure..” His old self reared up to castigate his newer self at that clanker, but he ignored it.
“She has always been an unnatural child,” said Thorne with a sigh. “She took after her mother, exhibiting no respect for her position and no sign of good breeding. Despite all we could do, she ran wild, sneaking off to consort with peasants, dangling after the local witch, and displaying unseemly emotion at every turn. We tried everything we could think of to teach her proper manners, but she harbors some devil that repudiates all that is good.”
Norwood was frowning, but not in commiseration. Shorn of the vitriolic tone, Lady Amanda’s childhood sounded remarkably like his own. He suspected that her motives were also the same – a search for enjoyment. He could not believe that she was deserving of contempt. Nor could he forget the pain in her eyes when she spoke of her father.
“There is nothing wrong with emotion,” Norwood said aloud. “Not even among the upper classes. From what I have observed of her, she is a caring, compassionate woman devoted to assisting others.”
“You are hardly impartial, having met her when she gave you a ride home that day,” snorted Thorne.
“It is true that she has done me some service,” agreed Norwood. “More than you know. It was she who patched me up last summer when I broke my arm trying to escape an inn fire. She treated many people that night. Her efforts saved more than one life. Nor do I believe that I am alone in my admiration for Mrs. Morrison. Wellington gave every impression of both gratitude and friendship.”
“He is biased. So many years of war are bound to warp any man’s judgment. How can anyone praise a person so lost to propriety that she stoops to spying? A more dishonorable activity I cannot imagine.”
“I can think of many activities more dishonorable, including some practiced regularly by men and women high in society,” countered Norwood, controlling his anger with an effort. Thorne was proving with every word that he was an unforgiving, vindictive, and rigid man, whose vision of the world was so constrained that few would agree with it. Even his own father had not been openly antagonistic. Why had he never noticed this before? More importantly, what legacy had so unfeeling a parent bequeathed to his daughter? All he could do was try to temper the intransigence. “Information is vital to any war effort. Gathering it requires skill and courage. I would never slight anyone who served his country in that way. The fact that Mrs. Morrison is female makes her achievements all the more admirable. She lived in a man’s world for many years, holding her own according to those who knew her, yet never abandoning her ladylike behavior.”
