“He was always aware of the risk involved,” Ham said. “Coaches roll over. Horses trample coachmen. It’s a dangerous life on the roads.”
Before they left, Margaret prayed for Finney once more, but doubt edged into her heart and her trust crumbled. Was the Lord listening to her?
A lone fiddler entertained in the taproom of the inn during the evening. His melancholy tunes sent waves of homesickness washing over Margaret. Though she and Mrs. Ulery stayed in their room, the fiddler’s melodies wafted up the stairway.
“I remember listening to those songs when I was young,” Mrs. Ulery reminisced. “They are old country airs.”
“They sound so sad,” Margaret said as her eyes misted with unshed tears.
“Oh, they are.” Mrs. Ulery sighed. “They’re about young lovers whose love is doomed.”
Margaret’s throat closed up. She thought of Frances. Then she thought of Derrick and the way he had kissed her. Her cheeks grew hot.
“Is there a difference between young love and more mature love?” she asked.
“Yes, but they’re both nice,” Mrs. Ulery sighed. “I still miss my husband. He was so…comfortable.”
Margaret frowned. Derrick did not make her feel comfortable. He set her nerves on end.
For the first time in days, she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow until sometime in the night when she woke up with a start.
A knock came at the door of the room.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
Nobody answered.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Ulery, half-asleep.
“Someone knocked and I asked who it was, but they didn’t answer me.”
“Probably the ghost,” Mrs. Ulery mumbled, turned over, and went right back to sleep.
Margaret barely breathed. Maybe it was a ghost. The angry spirit of the highwayman come for revenge. Or worse, his accomplice. She shivered, waiting for another rap on the wood or for some dark figure to break in by kicking the door with his boot.
Now the creaks and groans of the old inn took on a menacing air. As dawn tinged the horizon, she gave up the idea of sleep. She dressed and prepared for the day. After her prayers, she stood by the window and watched the sun come up.
From far off, she saw a cloud of dust on the road made by a horse and rider galloping at a reckless pace. Was that the highwayman or his accomplice?
With a trembling hand, she shook Mrs. Ulery to ask, “Do ghosts ride horses?”
Still dreaming, the older woman mumbled, “Sometimes…in the dark…” She drifted off to sleep again.
Since dawn had already appeared, the rider must be the accomplice. Maybe this was the end of her journey. She might never reach Broadcraft Hall. She wrung her hands for a few moments while deciding upon a course of action. Mrs. Ulery was still asleep. Getting her up, dressed, and out of the bed would take too long. They could not possibly escape unnoticed.
Besides, she did not want Mrs. Ulery harmed. The older woman had already gone through enough.
She must face the thief. She decided to offer her apologies and condolences. She was sorry about his dead friend, though she did not think it would be wise to inform him that a resurrectionist had collected his friend’s body and sold it to a surgeon for a dissection. Her stomach turned at the thought.
What if he wanted to know where Finney was? She would never, never tell him. What if he threatened to shoot her?
She swallowed hard and picked up her reticule. If necessary, she would offer him the banknotes.
Girding her resolve, she walked out and locked the door behind her. Mrs. Ulery could go on dreaming while she dealt with the matter at hand. She went down the stairs and through the tavern room. Even at that early hour, a few patrons were downing tankards of ale while eating eggs, sausages, and kippers.
She stepped out onto the porch and moved to stand beside the coach as the rider came toward the inn. He reined in his horse and dismounted.
“Margaret!” he called.
Her heart leaped the moment she heard his voice.
“Derrick!” she cried and rushed into his open arms.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Relief flowed through Derrick as he hugged her. Judging from the strength of her arms, she had not been harmed. He tugged at her cap, releasing her golden cascade of hair and buried his face in the silken strands.
“Is that your ghost?” Mrs. Ulery laughed from the upstairs window.
Reluctantly, Derrick dropped his arms and Margaret stepped back.
“I thought you...were someone else,” Margaret said. She wound her hair tightly and replaced the cap. Derrick mourned as the delicate flaxen wave was smothered beneath the cloud of white fabric.
“A ghost?” he asked.
“No. Yes,” she answered in apparent confusion. “There was an unfortunate incident...”
Derrick pulled the book out of his pocket. “I found this. I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
She reached out to take the small volume from him. Her hands shook as she hugged it to her breast. He lifted his finger and trailed it along her soft, smooth cheek. His throat tightened with emotion. She loved Frances—not him. A thin splinter of pain lodged in his heart.
“Two highwaymen stopped the coach....” Her voice trembled.
“Two?”
“One...died...horribly...”
“He had your book in his pocket. Dr. Hunter obtained the body to dissect it,” Derrick explained. “As soon as I read the inscription, I felt bound to assure myself of your safety.”
She opened her misty silver eyes. A small bolt of lightning seemed to hit him. How he had lived without her for nearly four days?
He listened as she recounted the entire scenario and rubbed his forehead. Why had he sent her off without making sure the road was safe? “The coachman told me he had a musket.”
“I don’t know whether he did or not, but two thieves stopped the coach. Finney got a hold of one pistol. He shot one highwayman, who shot back, and Finney—he’s not doing well.” She opened the cover of the book to run her quivering fingertips over the inscription on the flyleaf and the splinter went deeper into Derrick’s heart.
“His brother, a barber, lives here. He removed the musket ball, but he didn’t want to amputate. I gave him some of my ointment, though I am afraid the infection has already spread.” Her eyes darkened with pain. “He did his best to protect us. He was so brave…”
Derrick had ridden half the night, but he would not refuse her unstated plea. “After I eat and drink, I’ll examine the wound.”
They all ate breakfast together. Mrs. Ulery was delighted to see him. He was astonished she had driven a coach with a team of horses—especially with an arm not fully healed.
“Before I was married, I handled a wagon and four all the time,” the older woman explained.
“Mrs. Ulery is full of surprises.” Margaret smiled at her companion.
“She is indeed quite talented,” Derrick acknowledged. “I never considered the splint from a broken arm as a weapon.”
“Necessity is the mother of invention,” the widow stated.
“Plato?” Derrick questioned.
“My husband was a bookbinder.” Mrs. Ulery sighed. “Some of his customers relished philosophy.”
Puzzled, as he pondered the entire chronicle of events, he noted how one bad calamity, Mrs. Ulery’s broken arm, became an important turning point in a desperate situation. A chill shimmered up his spine despite the warmth of the inn. A positive outcome resulted from what appeared to be a catastrophe. As if...perhaps...planned. If he dwelled upon the less favorable consequence, he could barely breathe.
“I’ll be happy when this splint comes off,” Mrs. Ulery confessed. “It is heavy.”
“Another week would be good,” he stressed. “Afterward, you should continue resting your arm in the sling for several more weeks.
“Humph,” Mrs. Ulery glared at him. “It’s either fixed or it’s not fixed.”
“It’s not like stitching a rent in a seam,” he explained. “The bone must knit together.”
Driving a team of horses without breaking the bone again constituted a most unusual occurrence. He furrowed his brow. He would ask Dr. Hunter about it.
“Do you suppose a team of horses at Broadcraft Hall might need some exercise?” Mrs. Ulery asked.
“If there are horses, I will ask if you may drive them all day long,” Margaret promised.
“Will you hire another coachman to reach your destination?” Derrick questioned.
Margaret’s silver gaze darted away. “We needed new clothing and a trunk. I—I do not know if I have enough banknotes for another private coach. Riding on the stage is far less of an expense, but yesterday’s stage had no room for us with all the mail and passengers already occupying the vehicle.”
“It’s a wonder those horses didn’t collapse,” Mrs. Ulery commented. “They gave those poor beasts too much of a load.”
“So, until Finney recovers or the stage coach has room for you, you are stranded here,” he surmised.
“We’ll walk.” Her chin lifted and her voice took on an edge of steel.
“It would be unseemly for Lady Margaret to arrive on foot,” Mrs. Ulery huffed.
“Lady?” Derrick queried.
“If thugs and robbers believe she is an aristocrat, they’ll think twice about hurting her,” Mrs. Ulery maintained.
“As an aristocrat, I would wear finer clothes,” Margaret pointed out. “At any rate, I doubt the highwayman believed you, since I speak with a colonial accent. If Finney hadn’t shot him, we would have been killed.”
“If the highwayman thought you were a lady, he would have taken you for ransom.” Who would have paid to get her back, Derrick wondered?
The play of emotions on Margaret’s face shifted from determination to anxiety. The highwayman must have terrified her. Derrick wondered if more highwaymen roamed the roads of England and preyed on defenseless women. His misgivings about her safety increased.
After eating, they paid Finney a visit. Derrick took one look at the man’s wound and the familiar sense of helplessness swamped him. Sepsis had developed.
He held tightly to his emotions as he thought of Julian. He discussed Finney’s condition with Ham, his brother. Finney did not want his leg amputated. Derrick did not blame him, for only one third of the men who endured an amputation lived. Still, sepsis proved more deadly—and while there were varying degrees of the infection, and some people did survive, for Finney to pull through would take a miracle.
Derrick thought of what John Hunter had told him about allowing wounds to stabilize, about leaving the musket ball in place as long as it wasn’t doing any harm, and about the fact that dilation often did more damage. Ham had opened the wound and dug out the ball.
He stared at Finney’s tortured features and remembered his horrible dream. He could not save them all. He had not been able to heal his brother. Why was life so fragile? Why was it so hopeless? Gloom weighed down on his shoulders as John Donne’s poem ran through his mind.
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe…
He wanted to swear, or curse, but with the women present, he held his tongue. Meanwhile, Margaret cleaned the gash with vinegar, applied more ointment, and placed clean bandages on it.
Mrs. Ulery made tea with chamomile and a smidgen of her precious whiskey. She urged Finney to drink it.
As they were leaving, Ham said, “My oldest boy, Theo, is fifteen, but he’s as good a driver as any. He can get you to Broadcraft Hall if there are no highwaymen to stop him.”
“He might be risking his life,” Margaret protested. “I will walk.”
“What of our trunk?” Mrs. Ulery asked as anxiety deepened the lines on her face.
Thinking of the danger involved alarmed Derrick. “I am joining you. Theo can drive. I’ll keep watch for highwaymen. I brought my pistol.”
“You are to study with John Hunter,” Margaret reminded.
“Yes, but he said I could return at anytime and continue.”
Margaret lowered her head, making her expression unreadable. Was she upset with his offer? She had been cold to him when they parted in London. Yet when he got off his horse, she rushed into his arms. Relief had soared through him as he held her, and he would have continued to hold her if Mrs. Ulery had not interrupted.
“I will get to Broadcraft Hall after all.” She lifted her head, and a tremulous smile graced her lips.
A warm glow of pleasure flowed through Derrick.
“Arriving in the proper manner is most important,” Mrs. Ulery stated in a haughty manner. “You must learn to keep up appearances while you are in England.”
“I do not care for it at all,” Margaret said. “Please do not insist on calling me a lady. No one will be fooled. Besides, The Lord says we are to clothe ourselves with humility.”
“You may be clothed in humble attire, but your opinions are strong.” Derrick smiled at her. He realized now he enjoyed sparring with her.
“What’s right is right.” Her voice lowered and a frown marred her lovely features. “Pretending to be something I am not is wrong. I like simple things. I miss my family. I miss the smell of baking bread. I miss…everything.” She turned quickly and headed toward the inn.
Derrick’s joy faded as he realized what she really missed. She missed Frances! The man who wrote of her as the most beautiful woman in Leedsville.
Mrs. Ulery turned to him. “All this excitement is not good for the nerves. I told her a drop of whiskey would do her good, but she won’t touch it.” The older woman hurried after Margaret.
Derrick shook Ham’s hand and agreed upon a time for their departure with the coach.
He did not hurry as he walked back to the inn, for his mind churned with turmoil. Margaret believed him to be arrogant. Her opinion should not bother him, but it did.
He strove to learn as much as possible in his discipline. He read extensively, studied with learned men, and listened to innumerable lectures. Yet, all his knowledge changed nothing. He believed more study and intensive research would be the answer. What if it wasn’t?
It disturbed him that Dr. Hunter’s methods differed greatly from Dr. Rush’s. Did that make Dr. Rush wrong and Dr. Hunter right?
He reminded himself the outcome was what mattered—the percentages of successful surgeries. Time would reveal which methods proved best, but he did not feel he had time. He wanted answers now.
He missed Julian. Not a day went by without him thinking about his brother. Despite his superior attitude, Julian had never listened to him—except when he asked his brother to join the Continental Army. Derrick wished Julian had behaved in his usual manner and told him he was a fool.
...a certain narrowness of thinking.
Derrick shook his head as if to rid himself of the memories haunting him. He lifted his gaze. Margaret stood beside the coach while Mrs. Ulery examined a wheel.
“This spoke needs to be replaced.” Mrs. Ulery kicked the offending wheel. “The highwayman’s bullet probably blasted it away.”
“You drove rather fast,” Margaret reminded. “You went bouncing over many ruts.”
“I wanted to be far away when the highwayman I trounced woke up,” Mrs. Ulery stated. “I also wanted to save Finney…but now...he looks bad. I feel...I feel it’s my fault. If I hadn’t knocked out the other...” She choked on her words and sobbed.
Margaret gathered her in a hug.
Derrick’s throat tightened. If Finney hadn’t shot the highwayman, the two women might now be dead. Finney was a hero. Julian was a hero.
Heroes died.
He took in a deep breath and tried to stick to practical matters. “I’ll find a wheelwright in town or a clever blacksmith who can fix the wheel.”
He hurried into the inn and asked the innkeeper the whereabouts of a wheelwright. Fortunately, one sat in the inn having a pint and was only too happy to go outside and assess the damage
.
Derrick asked the innkeeper for a room and a bath.
“This inn is haunted,” said the innkeeper.
“Good, the ghosts can scrub my back,” he said as he signed the register.
“They are not servants,” the innkeeper scowled.
“Then why do you keep them?” he asked as he took the key. “If I were you, I’d send them packing,”
He remembered Mrs. Ulery calling out the window, “Is that your ghost?”
Now it made perfect sense. The innkeeper made a habit out of frightening potential customers, which seemed a ridiculous way to do business. However, maybe that was why Margaret had been so happy to see him. Was she was afraid of the ghosts?
He rubbed his eyes. Fear had spurred him on his ride, but now he could rest for an hour. Once he saw Margaret safely ensconced in Broadcraft Hall, he wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.
* * *
Margaret crawled about on her hands and knees with a rag, attempting to scrub away the bloodstains in the coach. Mrs. Ulery cleaned the windows. The widow’s emotional storm faded almost as soon as it began, but it had started Margaret crying, too, and stopping the flood of tears was more difficult for her.
“You must stop acting like a maid once we get to Broadcraft Hall,” Mrs. Ulery reminded her. “You are the granddaughter of an earl.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “I am without a title. At any rate, what does a lady do all day?”
“She gets dressed in fancy clothes several times a day, works on her needlepoint, walks around the garden, instructs her servants in the chores they are to do, receives visitors, enjoys elaborate dinners, and goes to elegant parties,” Mrs. Ulery explained. “Oh. She drinks tea from thin, delicate cups, too.”
“I like walking and tea,” Margaret stated. “Anything fancy, elaborate, or elegant sounds tedious to me. Spending the day changing clothes strikes me as a waste of time. I hope there are good ovens at Broadcraft Hall. I can’t wait to do some baking.”
“From what I recall—though I was young at the time—Broadcraft Hall had a magnificent kitchen,” Mrs. Ulery proclaimed.
“Then I shall have a grand time while we’re there.” She tossed the dirty cloth in the bucket at her side and surveyed her work. “I need a good scrubbing brush.”
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