A Mistress for Stansted Hall (4 page)

Seeing her, he lost his purchase and crashed backwards. This was done without the usual cursing, he fell in total silence which made the sickening thud of his head, first striking the edge of the desk, and then bouncing on the boards, far worse. For a second she was unable to move, shock and horror glued her feet to the floor. Then she rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him.

‘Mr Bucknall, I am so sorry. Can you hear me?’ Blood pooled beneath his head. She had killed him. It was her fault. Snatching up her skirt she ripped off the lower half of her petticoat. Then tore this in two, quickly making a pad with one piece, she raised his head and pressed the folded material against the cut. Next she wound the second strip around to hold the pad in place.

His eyes were closed, he was she thought, deeply unconscious. She was reluctant to call out for Foster, to do so would alarm her daughter. She must wait until he came to investigate her disappearance. It could not be long before Fred came to the kitchen door demanding to know why she was tardy.

All she could do for the moment was cradle his poor head in her lap and pray that his injury was not as severe as she feared. She stared down at his blood streaked face, it was the first time she'd had the opportunity to look at him closely. Of course she had noticed the scars that puckered the right side of his face, but these were mostly hidden by his overlong black hair.

Gently she smoothed his hair away from his forehead. It grieved her to see how badly he'd been burnt; how he must have fought to save his wife and child from the blaze. Poor man – to lose a spouse was hard enough but to lose a child would be agony indeed. Her babies were her life, the reason she forgave her profligate husband time and time again. For without him she would not have her precious children.

This man was as different from her husband as chalk is to cheese. Where John had been blonde, slim and weak willed, not famous for his courage under fire. The man whose head she held was as dark as a raven, strong and formidable and prepared to risk his life to save those he loved. Her eyes pricked, not for her own loss but for his. His grief must have been terrible for him to have abandoned hope like this.

His breathing was even, his colour pale but not frighteningly so. She remembered a doctor telling her you could check the pulse of a patient by putting your fingers at the juncture of the chin and the neck. Sliding her own down, she felt the roughness of his unshaven cheek beneath her fingertips. As she pressed then into the place she had been shown, his eyes opened.

Chapter Four

Rupert gazed upwards through blurry eyes. His head was resting somewhere soft, a golden haired angel was staring down at him. That was a relief, he'd not been pitched into the fiery furnaces as expected. The angel looked vaguely familiar and far more anxious than an angel should.

Devil take it! It was Mrs Reed. His head was cradled in her lap. He tried to sit up but gentle hands restrained him.

‘Please, sir, lie still. You have sustained a nasty injury to your head, it is going to require the attention of a physician. I am certain that Mr Foster will be here in a moment, that will be the time for you to attempt to get up.’

Her lap made a comfortable pillow, it was many years since he'd enjoyed such intimacy. He might as well make the most of it.

*

Emma felt his shoulders relax. Thank goodness; she was terrified that as soon as he moved the hideous gash on the back of his head would reopen and his life would be at risk. His eyes had closed, now they opened for a second time. They were fully cognizant, he knew exactly what he was about.

A strange flutter began in her chest as his mouth curved and his eyes widened. He was all but irresistible when he wasn't scowling and roaring at her. It was decidedly improper to be sitting in this manner, she was tempted to abruptly tip his head from her skirts but did not dare do so.

‘My dear Mrs Reed, do you think you could explain to me how I come to be in this…this peculiar position? The last thing I recall I was about to remove a book from the shelf.’

Under his scrutiny her cheeks flushed. ‘You overbalanced, sir, and when you fell you hit your head on the corner of the desk. I have managed to stop the bleeding temporarily, but the injury will require sutures.’

Lazily he raised his left hand and fingered the dressing she'd cobbled together. ‘I see. It is fortuitous that you had about your person the wherewithal to make this bandage, is it not?’

His innocent enquiry was accompanied by a slightly raised eyebrow. Now she was puce from head to foot. The wretched man was well aware from whence the material must have come and was deliberately goading her. She refused to remain in this invidious position a moment longer.

At that precise moment Mr Foster appeared. With remarkable aplomb he nodded. ‘I see, the master has met with an accident. I shall fetch Tom Coachman and the groom to assist you, sir, and send a stable boy to fetch Doctor Andrews.’ His words were accompanied by the distant sounds of piano music. Mary had obviously not lost her musical ability.

The butler turned and almost hurried from the room leaving her still nursing the smiling head of her employer. She glanced around the room, not a cushion in sight that she could put under him. It was insupportable to be trapped in this way, and most improper. Unwanted tears brimmed, now this gown was ruined from his gore and she had nothing else to wear apart from the one she'd travelled in yesterday.

Unexpectedly his gloved hand closed over hers. ‘Don't cry, I'm not worth your tears. I know you are loathing every minute of this. Please, madam, let me lie here on my own. I do not deserve your assistance.’

‘Do not say so, Mr Bucknall. I do not blame you for being irascible and for having let yourself go, what you have suffered… to have lost your wife and child and been injured yourself…no one could blame you for having lost your way.’

His harsh bark of laughter chilled her to the marrow. ‘Pray, madam, spare me your misguided and unwanted sympathy. I am as I choose to be, I find it suits me to be, as you so kindly put it, irascible and unkempt.’ His elbows dug painfully into her knees and then she was free. She could not hold back her exclamation of distress.

‘Mr Bucknall, I beg you do not move, already the blood is seeping through the pad I pressed on it.’ Hastily she wriggled away and scrambled to her feet. Ignoring the fact that he was watching her every move she snatched up the hem of her gown and ripped another strip from her chemise.

‘Hold this against the pad that is already there. Press it hard, it will stem the blood.’ He didn't argue, must have sensed the urgency in her voice. With the final strip of her ruined garment she bound the second wad of material against the wound, praying it would do until the physician arrived.

When this was done she tore down the nearest curtain and folded it into a makeshift support. ‘Rest on here, sir, I shall fetch a footstool for your feet. I remember now, when my husband received a similar injury, the doctor raised his feet. I've no idea why this is efficacious, but I shall do the same for you.’

The padded stool was ideal for the purpose. However his booted feet proved remarkably difficult to arrange. Each time she managed to place one to her satisfaction and turned to lift the other the first mysteriously returned to the floor. As she was on her knees with her back to the patient she had no idea if he had swooned and this was why things were so difficult.

After the second attempt she glanced over her shoulder to be met by a smile that caught her breath. He had been deliberately teasing her. ‘You are impossible, have your feet any way you choose, it is no matter to me if you bleed to death.’

This time his laughter was genuine and added to her discomfiture. ‘I beg your pardon. There, see, both feet neatly arranged as instructed. Please, go about your business, madam, I shall do very well here until the quack arrives. He lives but a mile from the end of the drive, he should be here in no time.’

Crossly she stared at him. His colour was better, his extraordinary eyes quite definitely twinkling. She was not going to remain in the room and be made fun of. She curtsied, but kept her head lowered not wishing to meet his eyes. ‘Excuse me, sir, I must rearrange my appearance before going into the village. I am sure that Mr Foster will be back momentarily to take care of you.’

Leaving the door open she hurried out, not stopping until she was safely in her own chamber. In despair she looked at her gown, the bloodstains would never come out. She rallied, with luck the damage would be hidden by her apron. However, she could not go in to the village as she was she must put on her travel stained gown.

This had once been a pretty shade of blue, it was now somewhat faded from frequent washing. She had sponged it down last night, it didn't look too bad, and at least it was less like something a menial would wear. Maybe there would be sufficient money to buy a length of material, if the village shop stocked such items. She was an excellent seamstress and had always made her own clothes and those of her children With the long summer days it would be possible to sew after she had finished her duties for the day; if Mary helped her with the straight seams she could have a fresh garment completed in a couple of days.

The cart was waiting outside the back door, there was no sign of Fred or Jethro. She was quite capable of driving the vehicle herself, the pony looked amenable enough. It was of an indeterminate brown colour, with large intelligent eyes. On impulse she walked round and stroked its long nose. ‘There, you are a fine young man. I'm sure we shall deal well together. Fred must be helping Mr Bucknall, so let us depart immediately. I do not wish to leave my children any longer than necessary.’

The animal snorted and blew into her hand. She scratched between his pricked ears, untethered him, and climbed nimbly onto the slatted seat. It was some time since she'd driven, but she had been quite competent in her youth at both riding and driving. Expertly releasing the brake handle, unwinding the reins from around the post, she clicked to the pony and they were away.

*

‘Up you come, sir, we're all ready for you now.’ Foster's wrinkled face loomed into view.

Rupert's vision was somewhat clouded, he was light headed; the loss of blood was taking its toll. He didn't have the energy to reply, remained slack on the carpet allowing his minions to manhandle him on to a trestle. Although he'd lost a quarter of his bodyweight since the fire, he was still a substantial burden for his men to carry.

He ought to make an effort, somehow get on his feet so they could support him, not carry him. Too late, he was hoisted up and, with the butler supporting his head, was carried with surprising ease back to a chamber. He no longer slept upstairs, only returned to his rooms in order to change his apparel occasionally. If truth were told, he no longer slept anywhere. As soon as he closed his eyes he suffered nightmares, so preferred to sit up in a chair in his study.

The men lowered him slowly, from a distance he heard someone give instructions, and then he was rolled unceremoniously into bed. He couldn't be in the study, where the devil was he? His head spun and his world went grey. He didn't fully rouse until Dr Andrews, with the help of Jethro and the groom, hoisted him upright.

‘Right, Mr Bucknall, let's see what we have here. Good grief, whoever applied this bandage most certainly saved your life.’ The doctor spoke sharply to his assistant and then turned back to him. ‘I shall have to shave the back of your head, you're going to need a prodigious amount of stitches. They need to go in immediately. It's going to hurt.’

It did, like the very devil. The pain brought him back to his senses as nothing else could. Why hadn't the doctor given him a decanter of brandy to dull the pain? He gritted his teeth, the nails on his good hand dug into his palm; they were all relieved when the work was done. Cold sweat bathed his forehead, he felt appalling but the quack seemed happy enough.

‘There, sir, finished. I shall dress the wound, and then leave you to rest. You must drink as much as you can to replace the blood you've lost. Good red meat and claret will do the trick.’

With a few deft twists the doctor had finished, promising to return the next day to see he had not succumbed to a putrid fever, the man departed leaving him in blessed peace. This didn't last as Foster appeared at his side.

‘I have watered wine, it's what the doctor suggested. He was most insistent that you drink several pints before this evening.’

Rupert took the proffered glass and downed it in one swallow, he held it out and it was refilled. He managed three before his stomach rebelled. ‘Enough. Now, man, tell me where I am.’ He could tell nothing from his surroundings, one bedchamber looked very like another. He was in a large bed, the sheets fresh if somewhat crumpled, but the windows overlooked a part of his grounds that he did not recognize.

Foster fussed over the pillows, he waved him away impatiently. ‘You are in my chamber, sir, it was a small matter to remove myself to another room for the present. I'm afraid you were too heavy to transport upstairs, so here you are until you are well enough to move.’

Good grief! In the servants' domain – and his arrival had put the poor old fellow out of his bed. He smiled weakly. ‘I thank you, Foster, I have put you all to a prodigious amount of trouble this morning. I shall not remain here for more than a night, I promise you.’ The thought of being obliged to sleep and thus suffer his recurring nightmare filled him with foreboding. He would certainly vacate these rooms as soon as he was able.

Something his fair rescuer had said came back to him. ‘Foster, Mrs Reed said she was going into the village. For what reason?’

‘To obtain provisions, sir. Do not worry, she is not about to abandon you in your hour of need. I believe that she is God sent to this place to save us all. Already there are smiles upon the faces of the outside staff, I believe that Mrs Reed and her children…’

‘Be silent. I want to hear no more of this nonsense. Come back in an hour, until then leave me in peace.’

The old man retreated, apparently unbothered by his reprimand. He had heard far worse over the past three years, no doubt he too would have sloped off if he had anywhere else to go. Although he had been determined to see the back of this disturbing young woman and her brats, in the circumstances he was relieved that she had ignored his command. When he was back on his feet he would review the situation, if she could keep out of his way then maybe he would reconsider.

His mouth watered at the thought of the delicious omelette he had eaten last night and the potato pancakes with field mushrooms she had served for breakfast. The doctor had not, as far as he knew, told him he could not eat as normal. Although he doubted he could keep anything down at the present, he was sure he would be ready for a tasty treat later on.

It was surprisingly comfortable in this sagging bed, the morning light streamed in through the two small paned windows leaving a chequered pattern on the boards. Daytime he could sleep a little, his nightmares were much worse in the dark.

His head was sore, but no worse than he had most mornings after drinking too much. It was a luxury to be able to stretch out his limbs, to have clean linen against his flesh, he would risk going to sleep. It was three years since he'd closed his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time.

Drinking to excess was the only thing that gave him respite, a drunken stupor was better than the alternative. He would never forget the screams of his wife as she called to him to save her, he'd done everything to reach her, almost perished himself in his effort, but to no avail. His only consolation was that the smoke overcame her; the doctor had told him she and the baby would have been dead long before the flames reached them.

*

The pony trotted eagerly down the drive but when Emma attempted to turn his head in the direction of the village, he ignored her and headed in the opposite direction. Amused, rather than annoyed, by his antics she let him continue; she was intrigued to know what it was that made him so eager to travel this lane.