‘Don’t tell Mother.’
‘I’ll keep my aspirations a dark secret,’ he’d said.
Later, after he’d gone out, she’d held the letter, pressing the edges between her fingertips and studying the bold words inviting ‘Mr Barton’ for an interview to see if he might be a suitable apprentice to become apothecary or surgeon-apothecary.
She’d stared at the words until they seemed imprinted on her eyes, visible even when she squeezed them shut. Why had she written? As she’d stood within the breakfast room, the paper tightly pinched between her fingers, it seemed as though this was an added torture, opening her to a litany of ‘what ifs’.
With a sudden impulse, she’d run up the stairs and into Ramsey’s room. She’d flung open his closet, pulling out his clothes. She was a tall woman. She always hated her height, her long gangly legs which had so ludicrously lengthened during her fourteenth year. Now she felt a flash of gratitude as she pulled on a ragtag collection of trousers, shirt, cravat and jacket.
Indeed, on her brother’s return, she’d had on long trousers, bagging about her hips, a pair of riding boots and a poorly fitting jacket.
‘Letty? What are you doing?’
‘These don’t fit, but we could get some made and I could lower my voice and wear hats all the time. I—I wouldn’t be Mr Barton. I mean that’s you, but I could apply under a different name. I could be—I could be—’ She’d gazed out of the window at the green fields behind Oddsmore and then around the room at the boots, shirts, hats and cravats tossed about so randomly. ‘Mr Hatfield. I could be Mr Hatfield.’
‘And now I really do think you’re lost your reason,’ her brother had said.
‘It would work. At least for the interview.’
‘And what good would an interview do? Do you know what people would say?’
‘Do I care? I don’t want to marry. I have never wanted to. And this way, I’d know.’
‘Know what?’
‘I’d know if I was good enough,’ she’d said.
* * *
‘I do not think you should go, miss,’ Sarah said, interrupting Letty’s memories with this pronouncement from the doorway ‘Not if you are still planning to be her ladyship’s physician. Indeed, I would urge you to reconsider.’
‘What? Tea or being her doctor?’
‘Both. They can certainly afford Dr Jeffers,’ Sarah said.
‘It would be better if they could not. The local midwife has considerably more luck in keeping patients alive.’
‘It is not up to you to save everyone.’
She’s all I have. His words echoed in her mind.
‘They’ve lost so much—’
‘Then if you are so determined to be the doctor, you should avoid the risk of tea.’
‘I am not planning to ride Lord Anthony’s bulls,’ she grumbled.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know I never thought a cup of tea would be considered a daredevil activity.’
‘Likely it wouldn’t for them as are not living a double life of mystery and intrigue.’
Letty sighed. ‘I know you’re right. Every logical part of me urges me to follow your advice. But so few females have ever wanted my friendship, even when I was a small child.’
‘They might have appreciated you more if you had not practised your amputation skills on their dolls.’
Letty allowed herself a brief grin. ‘I didn’t make a habit of it. I only did so once with that awful doll belonging to that dreadful Grismold girl. Besides she looked quite possessed. The doll, I mean, not Miss Grismold.’
‘Grisgold, miss.’
‘And I find myself worrying about Elsie—I mean Lady Beauchamp. She sounds lonely and I would like to see if her face and hands are less swollen.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘It is not wise.’
Letty chuckled. ‘Good gracious, if I wished to be wise, I would never have started this masquerade. No, I refuse to live my life in fear. Enjoying a cup of tea is hardly taking up highway robbery or treason.’ Letty nodded, as if agreeing with her own words. ‘Tell the footman to wait. I will come.’
‘I do wish you would not be so inordinately stubborn and headstrong,’ Sarah said. ‘I am certain it will all go awry. And you know who will have to wipe up the tears. Muggins here.’
The maid prodded her chest to emphasise her point.
‘But you do such a wonderful job,’ Letty said, pressing a kiss against Sarah’s cheek before getting ready for tea with uncharacteristic excitement.
* * *
The Beauchamps’ coach proved considerably more comfortable than the doctor’s shabby vehicle. Of course, Ramsey had offered her a more deluxe and better-sprung carriage, but she had refused. Anything too grand would have invited question. Besides, despite both her own inheritance and her brother’s generosity, her funds were not infinite and she wished to be self-sufficient as soon as possible.
Still, this didn’t stop her from enjoying the luxury of working springs and an interior which was not tainted with a combination of old leather, wet footwear, medicinal herbs and body odour like an aromatic history.
In contrast, this carriage was new, without any distinct or unpleasant smells, and seemed unlikely to rattle one’s teeth loose from one’s gums. With a sigh of content, she leaned back against the cushioning. Her body relaxed as she swayed to the carriage’s rhythmic rocking. She had always found that carriage rides put her to sleep and really there was no reason to fight it. Indeed, she’d racked up enough sleepless nights to doze through a dozen carriage rides.
It was just as her lids drooped that the carriage jerked to a halt. Her eyes flew open as she half-tumbled to the floor.
‘What is it?’ she called out, scrambling to look out of the window. They appeared to be in the middle of the wood which surrounded the Beauchamp estate.
‘Stay in there, miss. It might be a trick,’ the groom shouted from the podium.
She ignored him, swinging open the carriage door and clambering out.
For a moment, she saw nothing. It was only as she stepped to the front of the vehicle that she saw the crumpled figure.
‘Good God!’
A man sprawled on the ground, only five feet in front of their wheels. He lay awkwardly and appeared unconscious.
‘Sir?’ She stepped towards the prone figure.
The footman had now also descended from the podium.
‘Miss, please go back inside. T’aint no place for a lady. Indeed, he may be a highway man—’
‘Nonsense! We are miles from anywhere in the middle of a wood. An unlikely location for a highway man,’ Letty said, crouching beside the man. He was breathing. She could hear his inhalations and felt it soft against her hand.
‘I wouldn’t say so, miss. I really think—’ the footman repeated.
Letty glanced about to see if she could see any sign of a horse or vehicle but they were, as the footman had stated, quite alone.
‘I think he must have knocked himself out on this rock. Get me a cloth or a shirt or something,’ she directed.
‘A cloth, miss?’ he said as though this were a foreign object.
‘Yes, his head is bleeding.’
‘Miss, I am sure you should be in the carriage.’
‘Where I would be no help whatsoever and you obviously require assistance unless you expect to heal him with the intensity of your stare. Now find me something that I can tie about his head.’
The firm tone did the trick and, galvanised into action, the footman grabbed a cloth from the vehicle. ‘Will this do, miss?’
She took it. With efficient movements she tied the cloth tightly about the head wound, carefully moving his head to secure its position.
The gash was bleeding quite profusely, turning the white cloth quickly red.
‘Br
ing me some water,’ she directed to the groom who still stood behind her.
‘I don’t have none.’
‘Bother. Sir? Sir?’ Letty bent over him, tapping his cheek slightly, hoping to see some return to consciousness. ‘Sir. This is—Miss Barton.’
The man groaned. His eyes opened.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me? Tell me your name.’
The man made no response, his eyes closing.
The footman cleared his throat. ‘It’s Mr Cummings, miss. He’s our neighbour.’
She nodded. ‘Right. Well, you are going to be fine, Mr Cummings. The bleeding is slowing, which is very positive.’ She turned back to the footman. ‘Do you have something which might do as a stretcher?’
‘Pardon?’
‘To help carry him. And a sling.’
‘A sling?’
‘Yes, for his shoulder. I think it might be dislocated and I need to immobilise it. My shawl will do.’
‘Here, miss,’ he said, procuring the shawl.
‘Thank you and thank goodness he is not overly portly,’ she added, as they moved the man on to the board, their efforts punctuated by Mr Cummings’s groans and her own gasps of exertion.
At last they had moved the unfortunate gentleman from the board and on to the cushioning within the carriage.
‘Good,’ she said, ensuring that the bandage had not shifted and his head rested on one of the cushions. ‘Drive slowly. I will ensure he does not roll from the seat.’
‘Yes, miss,’ the groom responded, hurriedly ascending to the podium as if thankful to be back in this familiar role.
As the carriage lurched forward, the gentleman opened his eyes again.
‘Good,’ she approved, taking his hand. ‘Try to stay with me, Mr Cummings, it won’t be long now. Do you remember what happened?’
He blinked. His eyes were a pale blue. He was not young, appearing to be at least middle aged with a bald head, encircled by a fringe of short blond whiskers.
‘Trying out a new horse. Must have got spooked. Threw me.’
‘It is fortunate we came along. Not to worry. I will stitch up that wound,’ she said.
‘You, miss?’
‘Indeed.’
It appeared tea might need to be delayed.
* * *
Tony was striding across the courtyard when he heard the carriage roll down the drive and pull to a standstill. He turned, aware of a pulse of interest and unusual eagerness.
The door flew open almost before the wheels had stopped. The woman, Miss Barton, bolted out. Again, something about her captured his attention. There was a vibrancy and energy about her which was arresting. It was the brightness of her red hair against her dark bonnet, the flush of colour staining her cheeks and her quick movements.
He felt a start of awareness, pleasure almost, and was so taken aback that it took him a moment to realise that she appeared distressed and was talking rapidly and with agitation.
He started forward. ‘What happened?’ he shouted. ‘Miss Barton, are you all right?’
‘—need help—gentleman—met with accident—’ She could barely get her words out for her heavy breathing.
He saw now that she was dishevelled, her face dirty and her clothes bloodied. His pulse accelerated and he felt fear twist through him. The size of the emotion, the thud of his heart and dryness of his mouth surprised him.
‘Miss Barton? Did you meet with an accident? Are you hurt?’
‘No, I am absolutely fine,’ she assured him and he could see that, despite the stains on her dress, she appeared as robust as usual. A mix of relief and irritation flashed through him. Tension tightened his shoulders.
Just then, the footman, Phillips, appeared from the back of the coach. His face was chalk-white and his clothes were also dirty.
‘We found Mr Cummings and he has met with an accident,’ the man explained, his voice shaky.
‘Indeed,’ Miss Barton agreed. ‘But we can catch His Lordship up on the details later. Currently, Mr Cummings is in the carriage. I need him to be moved to a clean, flat surface within the house.’
Tony stared at the preposterous woman, his irrational fear now replaced by irrational anger.
‘Miss Barton, I hardly see a need for you to further involve yourself in Mr Cummings’s care. I will send for a medic—Hatfield, I suppose.’
‘I—’ She appeared briefly uncertain. He saw her exhalation and her brows draw together over her remarkable green eyes. ‘I share a stable with Dr Hatfield in the village so I know he is away. I—have—read a lot about medical issues and carry some basic supplies, so I can help. In any event, the gentleman needs to be removed from the carriage with all possible dispatch.’
She finished this statement in a brisk rush of words before turning and disappearing back into the carriage. Instinctively, Tony stepped forward. He had meant to argue—no, not to argue, but to order, to direct, to instil reason. The sensible words and phrases were already formed and waiting to be uttered.
‘Miss Barton.’ He leaned into the carriage. ‘I—’
The words and sensible phrases died on his lips. It was the smell. His breath left him in a sharp whistled exhalation. His stomach hurt, as though he had been punched in his gut. His good hand squeezed the doorframe so tightly that later he found a red line marking his palm.
The interior was laced with the scent of blood. And fear. And sweat.
In some part of his mind, Tony knew he needed to say something; to give direction and regain control. Again, he tried. Again the sensible, logical words formed even as his own blood thundered against his eardrums. His throat was dry, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
His gaze was drawn almost against his will to the man reclining unconscious against the cushioning with his pallid, clammy skin and soiled makeshift bandage.
Almost blindly, Tony stepped back from the carriage. His hand dropped. His every muscle felt limp. His throat felt dry and his tongue swollen so that it was Miss Barton who spoke. He heard her words as if from a great distance or muffled by the roar of a water fall.
‘Lord Anthony, you do not look entirely well. I can look after Mr Cummings. Perhaps you could go inside and explain to your sister why I might be late for tea,’ she said.
Tony felt himself nod, but seemed peculiarly unable to either comply or dispute the issue. Instead, he stood, with a feeling of dislocation and odd fascination as his two footmen brought wooden boards from the stable. Under Miss Barton’s direction, the footmen removed his neighbour from the coach.
He watched the limp figure lying flat against the boards.
At Waterloo, they had not even had proper porters. The entire army had moved on to continue the fight, leaving the dead and dying scattered and inconsequential. Some local peasants had come, trundling their carts through the bodies. Many had helped. He owed his own life to just such a man.
Scavengers had come also, prying out teeth to sell to the French dentists—‘Waterloo teeth’. You could get them now from fashionable London dentists. He saw the advertisements in the newspapers.
‘Take him to the kitchen,’ Miss Barton directed.
The kitchen? Tony felt a ripple of inappropriate mirth, jarring and discordant with the earlier images as though he were on some bizarre, emotional swing. Mrs Peterson would not approve of bleeding bodies within her kitchen.
Dazedly, he followed Miss Barton and the two footmen as they carried the unconscious man on the makeshift stretcher.
‘What in the name of all that is good are you doing?’ Mrs Peterson thundered to the footmen.
It was exactly what he had expected her to say, he thought. He still stood in the passage, which was dark in comparison to the brightness in the kitchen, giving him the odd feeling that he was watching a theatrical production.
But then perhap
s it was not so very odd. Since his return, he had often felt more observer than participant—as though he was mouthing the script of his former life.
‘You cannot be putting a sick man in my kitchen. And certainly not one what is bleeding. I am making dinner,’ Mrs Peterson’s strident tones pierced his peculiar, inner soliloquy. ‘Take him to a bedchamber, for heaven’s sake.’
‘No, there is no easy access to water and soap and often bedchambers are not well lit. We will use the scullery.’
Mrs Peterson reddened, placing her hands at her ample waist. ‘Well, I never and who might you be when the Pope’s in Rome?’
Tony knew again that odd mirth, a fleeting thing which would too soon be replaced with numbness. He must have made some sound because Mrs Peterson saw him. Her hands dropped from her waist and her mouth opened.
‘Oh, my lord, I am that sorry for my tone. I did not see you there.’
She continued to look at him. Likely she was expecting intervention, a return of sanity, where bodies were not strewn about her kitchen. On another day, in another life, he would have thundered out an immediate dismissal of Miss Barton and her nonsense. On another day, in another life, he would have done the sensible thing and sent for Jeffers. On another day, in another life, he’d have done something instead of inhabiting this frozen place.
‘If we could look after Mr Cummings. As I said, the scullery would be suitable.’
‘Bleeding men do not belong in my kitchen and that you can tie to. Indeed, I am certain a footman can get a proper physician.’
‘That would be better, I am certain,’ Dobson intoned.
Dobson always spoke, Tony thought, as though making an announcement, turning every comment into an oration.
‘Except Dr Jeffers is gone to London for several days,’ the housekeeper said suddenly from her position behind Dobson. ‘He informed Lady Beauchamp.’
Tony hadn’t seen her earlier. Indeed, it was like a play in which he had front-row seats.
Miss Barton frowned. She bit her lip, appearing less confident. ‘I have read extensively on head wounds. And if Dr Jeffers is away, I am able to put in some stitches. Mr Cummings will bleed considerably less and make a better recovery.’
A Debutante in Disguise Page 7
