Mrs Peterson opened her mouth and, at his continued silence, closed it. The retinue then moved through the kitchen and into the scullery. Mr Cumming was laid on the table and Miss Barton efficiently tore off his shirt with a rent of fabric.
That noise—that sound of fabric tearing—did it again. His mirth evaporated into a shivery, nauseous, thudding fear.
The kitchen become distant, a surreal, nightmarish place.
He’d pulled off his own shirt to stop the bleeding when his brother-in-law was shot. The cloth had been burned into his skin where the bullet had struck his side. He’d pulled the material away. He remembered thinking how odd it was that he felt no pain.
It hadn’t mattered. It was a futile gesture. The cloth was already wet with his own blood and sodden—a useless thing.
And George had died.
After that it had felt so lonely lying on that field, oddly quiet after the thunder of the battle.
The clouds were so low he could not tell where the mist ended and mud began. The acrid scent of gunpowder coated his tongue. Gradually, the sun burned off the mist and he’d felt hot. His tongue had swollen, becoming huge and dry within his mouth, while his back was cold with the mud from yesterday’s rains.
Between the bodies, a few men were still alive. Some cried out, but most groaned softly as if aware of the futility, as if knowing that no one would hear them. Or care.
He’d gone to the other wounded men. He’d tried to help. Maybe one or two had lived. Not many.
He’d felt so powerless. He’d looked over the damp, muddy, misty fields littered with bodies and felt a heavy, heartsick hopelessness, as if he was drowning in mud or quicksand.
George was dead. He could not find Edgar. And he could do nothing to help or save those dying men.
He’d stayed beside George’s body to save his teeth from the scavengers. He could see them, their dark shadowy shapes visible within the mist. Sometimes they’d loom quite close, at other times they’d slip from view, disappearing within the hollows caused by the cannon balls.
Now and again he thought he heard the click of their small efficient pliers—a click of metal on tooth, a breath of exertion and a rustle of cloth as the tooth was deposited within a sack. Click, breath, rustle...click...breath...rustle...
‘Lord Anthony, if you could step aside a moment,’ the clipped female voice said.
He looked around the scullery which should be as familiar as his own hand. But wasn’t.
Briefly, it seemed as though the two worlds had collided; the mud and corpses oddly superimposed on Mrs Peterson’s clean kitchen. His amusement came back. Some part of him almost laughed. Mrs Peterson would so disapprove of mud within her kitchen.
‘Lord Anthony!’ This time the words were sharper.
The mud disappeared and he was back once again within the scullery, looking into Miss Barton’s clear emerald gaze.
Their gazes met. For a moment it seemed as though she was the bridge, the connection, the lifeline between these two divergent worlds. The shadowy shapes which peopled his nightmares seemed faded. He gulped at the air, as if at some point he had forgotten to breathe.
‘Sit down. Put your head between your knees. I cannot have you keeling over while I am stitching him up.’ She spoke with determination but without any panic lacing her tones. Somehow, that firm clear direction was what he needed. He complied. The crazy shushing of his heart slowed and steadied so that he could hear the voices of the staff.
‘I don’t wonder you’re not feeling the thing, my lord,’ Mrs Peterson said. ‘No gentleman should have his kitchen used in such a way. Not the thing at all. Most extraordinary. Should I give you smelling salts? Or camphor?’
‘Good God, no,’ he said, or he thought he said, although later he wondered whether he’d uttered the words only in his mind.
‘I require some wine,’ Miss Barton said.
‘Much better,’ he said or maybe said.
‘I have brandy here,’ the butler stated.
Yes. Ever better!
‘I suppose that will do,’ Miss Barton said. ‘Pour him a small measure and I will add a few drops to it.’
Tony watched as his butler poured the amber liquid. Then Dobson gave it to Miss Barton who gave it to the man on the table.
Tony laughed. This time they must have heard him because everyone looked.
‘Perhaps His Lordship could go to the library or his study,’ Miss Barton suggested.
And he went. He followed Dobson like an overwrought bloody child. And it seemed that he felt every emotion: pain, anger, fear, guilt—
Indeed, he felt so much that he felt nothing.
* * *
Letty exited the kitchen and approached the library a half-hour later. The wound had only required a couple of stitches and she felt certain it would heal well. Satisfaction surged through her. She straightened, adding swing to her step as she strode down the hall. Logically, she knew she should never have shown her medical ability—at least not as Miss Barton. Not in this house, to these people.
Yet, despite the risk, she felt a thrill, a vindication.
She had seen their doubt. She’d heard Mrs Peterson’s loud whisper to the housekeeper, ‘Are you certain we should be allowing this? Just because His Lordship isn’t feeling quite the thing doesn’t mean we should allow torture in my kitchen.’
But she’d persisted and, just for once, she had not had to hide under the white powered wig.
Her jubilation was curtailed as she approached the library, pausing with her hand on the knob. While Mr Cummings’s issues had been straightforward, Lord Anthony’s were not. His Lordship had not been himself. She frowned. In fact, he had not been anyone. It had felt as though he was oddly absent.
Letty had an excellent memory and could often see and reread the words, long after she had put away the article. She recalled now that she’d read about soldiers who sometimes seemed less able to cope once they returned from the battle. Indeed, she could almost see the printed words, although the title and volume escaped her.
She would not chase the thought. She found that she would sometimes remember that which had been eluding her if she let her mind think about other things. Besides, it was entirely possible that the man had been demonstrating yet another form of inebriation. Or apoplexy.
Hopefully not the latter, as it was a serious complaint and, on occasion, fatal.
She twisted the knob with urgency, stepping forward, aware of a sudden fear almost bigger than that which she had experienced when they had located Mr Cummings.
Which was not logical.
The library at Beauchamp was large, long, with high ceilings and wood-panelled walls interrupted only by stacked shelves and paintings. She saw Lord Anthony almost immediately. He was not prone, thank goodness. So likely it was not apoplexy.
He sat very still with a rigidity which was not natural. The curtains were drawn, but even in the low light she saw that his colour had not yet returned, making his face white except for the crimson mark of his scar.
‘Lord Anthony,’ she said softly.
He made no sound and did not acknowledge her presence. Indeed, he still sat as though closed from the world. His eyes were open, but she had the strange sense that he did not see her or even the room or empty hearth.
If this was the effect of drink, it was one that her father, brother or the villagers had never demonstrated.
Swallowing nervously, she rubbed her hands against her skirt. The rustle of cloth was loud in the still room.
‘Lord Anthony?’ she said, stepping forward.
He still made no response.
She looked about, taking in the shelves, books, the comfortable chairs and the paintings of dead Beauchamp ancestors as though for inspiration.
‘I like this room,’ she said softly. ‘I like the huge fireplace. It mu
st be so very cosy in winter.’
Nervously, she bit her lip. ‘Of course, it is summer now so there is no fire. And outside, there are green shrubs and flowers. I—I love the colours and smells of summer...’
She paused again, looking around rather desperately. She had a foggy notion that if she could make him aware of the sounds, the smells, the textures of this place, this present, it might help. She had to do something. The contrast of the man she recalled so vividly in Lord Entwhistle’s library and this person who seemed so greatly removed, hurt on a physical level. It was as though his grief or loss or pain was so huge that it had engulfed him so that the man was lost.
Again she rubbed her hands. The need to help or to comfort seemed so much larger than was usual for her. She always cared for her patients, but this was different. Or maybe it was simply that this distress was less rooted in the physical and therefore she felt less competent.
Yes, that must be it. The tightness within her chest and the clogged feeling within her throat must be due to this feeling of uncertainty.
With a desperate impulsivity, she reached for a bunch of lilies within a cut-crystal vase. She pulled them out. The cold water dripped against her skirt in huge dark splotches.
She leaned forward, thrusting the blooms under his nose so that the water splashed on to his trousers.
‘What the...?’ he muttered, with a jerk of his head.
The relief was huge. Her eyes smarted as though she might cry. Her hand shook, further scattering water droplets.
‘Why do—I have lilies—stuck under my nose?’ He blinked somewhat dazedly and spoke unnaturally with a staccato rhythm.
‘I didn’t have smelling salts,’ she said shakily.
‘Thank heaven for small mercies.’
This wobbly mix of relief and a sentiment akin to joy was uncharacteristic as she knew herself to be prosaic in nature.
‘And—and because the lilies seemed much more beautiful than whatever you were seeing.’
Irritation, pain, fear, rage and a myriad of other expressions flickered across his features before hardening to a cold anger. He straightened his spine.
‘Miss Barton, I am fully recovered and I do not require your ministrations. Indeed, I was merely experiencing pain from my wound.’
She shook her head. ‘I do not think so. I am certain you still have residual constant pain, but I do not think it was the cause of—of—’
‘Yes?’ he bit out.
She replaced the lilies, shifting away from him, needing to distance herself from the bristling anger. The clock ticked, loud within the uncomfortable silence of the room.
She licked her lips nervously. ‘When I was little I fell off my horse. It was in a meadow. I remember very little about the incident except for the smell, a mix of skunk cabbage and moss. Anyway, whenever I smelled anything remotely resembling skunk cabbage, I am transported back to that place and time.’
She glanced at him.
‘Is there a point to this sad tale about your poor equestrian skills?’ he drawled in cold aristocratic tones, with a rise of one eyebrow. ‘I can suggest to my groom that he provide you with some lessons, if you would like.’
‘No, I ride quite adequate to my needs. My point was that memories can be very powerful.’
His lips twisted into a smile that was not a smile. ‘Tell me something of which I am not aware.’
‘I hoped to counter whatever you were remembering with the scent of the lilies. I thought it might bring back more pleasant memories.’
He smiled. This time a faint glint of humour almost reached his eyes and that flicker of humour seemed to do something to her insides. ‘Indeed, I am reminded of dreadful debutante balls.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Awkwardly dancing and forever hiding from my mother.’
‘In the library, as I recall.’ His smile grew and it almost seemed as though she saw a flicker of that man she had met—indeed—the man she had thought about at odd moments and that brief meeting that was so oddly sharp within her mind.
The warmth within seemed to grow, heating her cheeks. ‘It always seemed the safer option. I had a habit of treading on people’s toes or accosting them with odd topics of conversation.’
‘Yes, although I actually found your discourse more interesting than many. I once had a young lady discuss her spaniel’s medical problems. Did you know that spaniels suffer from ear wax?’
‘I did not.’
‘And flatulence.’
‘That would have been Miss Grisgold. She was always giving the poor animal sweetmeats—it became portly.’
‘You see, cowpox is a much more pleasant topic.’
Her mouth felt oddly dry and her pulse peculiarly quickened. The fact that he had recalled the nature of their conversation from three years ago somehow jumbled her thoughts and made her gasp as though she had just ascended the stairs extremely rapidly, which she had not. In fact, she had been sitting quite still.
Now, the room which had felt pleasantly cool was suddenly unconscionably hot. The slight warmth in her cheeks was now a raging fire and she seemed oddly immobile, incredibly aware of his proximity.
Indeed they sat directly opposite each other. His knee was approximately nine inches from her own. His hand rested on his leg, the long fingers outlined against the worsted cloth. He was a large man, in a tall, spare, big-boned way. She looked up. His gaze was a deep, dark grey-blue. His brows were straight, dark and formidable, so that he almost appeared to be glowering except when he smiled. And that contrast between angry pain and wry amusement seemed even more intriguing.
He shifted forward. She heard the rustle of cloth. Very slowly, he raised his hand and trailed one finger along the delicate line of her chin. His touch was so light, yet she felt it everywhere—it sent a strange tingling into her extremities.
Nervously, she bit her lip and felt his dark gaze move to her mouth. Again she heard the rustle of his movement. Very gently, he touched her chin once more. Everything, her entire consciousness, was focused on the feel of his thumb as very slowly, with infinite care, he ran it along the line of her chin.
He moved forward, shifting, leaning—
Her own hand lifted. She touched his jawline. He was still thin from his injury, but that seemed to give him a hard leanness.
He jolted at her touch.
His hand dropped. It smacked against his leg, the noise surprisingly loud. He stood, almost bolting upright, so quickly that she heard him wince.
Her own hand dropped back to the cloth of her skirt.
‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘I am quite fine now. If I seemed...unwell earlier it was likely the heat. Terribly hot summer, this year.’
She shot back in the seat, pressing her spine against the cushioning, as though hoping to mould herself to the frame. ‘Yes. Hot. Very. Extremely. Unusual—for England which is usually rainy. And damp. Very. Anyway, I—um—must go. See your sister.’
She sprang, as though catapulted, and was already halfway across the floor when the butler entered. ‘Lady Beauchamp is awake and asking for Miss Barton,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I will go immediately.’
Dobson cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest, miss, that you freshen up? The maid says she has located some clothing which might prove adequate. She is in one of the guest rooms and will help you change. If you would like to do so, I can take you.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Letty said, glancing at her dress which had definitely seen better days. ‘Thank you.’
‘And her ladyship suggests that, given the late hour, Miss Barton stay for dinner and the night.’
‘No—I—don’t want to inconvenience anyone,’ Letty said, her refusal swift and too emphatic for courtesy.
‘Her ladyship said to say that the road is hard to navigate in the dark.’
Letty glanced towar
ds Lord Anthony, hoping for assistance in avoiding the invitation that must be uncomfortable for both. Tony merely shrugged as though such domestic arrangements were not his concern. ‘Discuss it with my sister. I am going out for some air.’
With these words, he strode from the room. The door swung shut. She exhaled, conscious that she had been holding her breath. She felt a confused mix of relief and anti-climax as though she had been robbed of something vital with his departure.
‘I suppose I’d best get changed so I do not look as though I have slaughtered a chicken or something,’ she said somewhat lamely to the butler who still stood at the door.
‘Indeed, miss.’
She heard his condemnation in his tone. Of course, stitching up injured gentlemen was likely much worse than slaughtering a dozen chickens. And oddly, the incident with Mr Cummings, the kitchen surgery, those waves of disapproval and even her own sense of vindication all seemed oddly distant, as though it had occurred to her in the distant past—or as though she had been somehow immutably changed since it occurred.
Chapter Five
Elsie lay on the daybed with her legs raised upon a pillow. She looked better, Letty noted with some relief. Her face appeared less puffy, her smile genuine and her expression no longer listless.
‘I am so glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘I heard you looked after Mr Cummings which sounds wonderfully brave and gallant of you. It is so fortunate you found him. Heaven knows what would have happened.’
‘His servants would have looked for him when his horse returned,’ Letty said somewhat drily. ‘And given that he was on the main path within a rather small wood, they would likely have found him.’
‘By which point he might have expired. Or perhaps been trampled by a rider or carriage less alert than our own dear Phillips. Anyway, the good thing is that now it is so late that you absolutely must remain for dinner and stay the night.’
‘I don’t know...’ Letty hesitated. ‘I think I could make it back.’
‘But it would be dark. Indeed, you must stay. I am so bored here and apparently poor Phillips is quite shaken by the episode. I am certain he will be startled by every shadow. So it would be so much kinder to let him rest. Normally, of course, McGee could take you, but his sister is getting married and we gave him the day off. Besides, now we can choose you a wonderful dress for dinner. I haven’t been able to fit into anything for ages. Plus, I’ve had to wear black, but it will be so much fun to dress you. Indeed, I have been wanting to do so for ever.’
A Debutante in Disguise Page 8
