Allison Lane (10 page)

“All right.  But growing up with Symington will explain my concern for your health.  You are a friend as well as my employer’s heir.”

“You left out distant cousin.”

“I wonder what is in my trunk,” he said, changing the subject when he spotted the two trunks in the corner.  “A poor relation will hardly own an array of evening clothes.”

“Let me know when you find out.”  Sedge’s voice was growing weary.  “We will concoct a tale if necessary.”

“Sleep,” commanded Randolph.  “I must check on John Coachman.”

“Don’t give orders,” Sedge said, closing his eyes.  “Ask if something is possible.  Be uncertain.  Accept less than perfect service.  Wait on yourself.  Keep your expectations very low.”  In moments he was asleep.

Randolph dragged his trunk from the corner.  It was too small to hold much variety.  He was about to ring for a footman when Sedge’s reminder stopped him. 
Don’t give orders.  Wait on yourself.
  Sighing, he carried the trunk from the room.  How long until his baggage coach arrived?  A man in Mr. Randolph’s position would hardly have his own valet.  He had to conclude this farce quickly, before it exploded in his face.

A maid directed him to a bedchamber.  While not as opulent as the one Sedge was using, it was several cuts above what he’d expected – testament to his position as prospective son-in-law.  He shivered.  Or perhaps it was his friendship with Symington.  Everyone now knew that Sedge had inquired about him several times.

The trunk contained no evening clothes.  Nor did it have his other pair of boots.  But that was just as well, he conceded reluctantly.  The disreputable appearance of those on his feet would hide the quality of Hoby’s workmanship, particularly from those who were unfamiliar with London fashion.

Changing into clean clothes, he went in search of his coachman.

Symington’s coachman, he corrected himself mentally.  He must think of Symington and all his affairs as remote.  So far, it had been easy, but that was unlikely to continue.  On the other hand, he rarely thought of himself as Symington, so distancing himself from that name should not be too difficult.

* * * *

By the time Elizabeth reached her room, tears were shimmering in her eyes.  She furiously blinked them away, splashing water on her face to shock it into behaving.  She never cried.

Damn Fosdale for all eternity!  He could not have made his hatred plainer if he had scrawled it in foot-high letters across the front of the Manor.

What a coil!  Wedding Mr. Randolph was impossible, but the only way to avoid it was to leave home.  How would she manage?  She could not throw herself on Aunt Constance’s mercy.  It would be the first place Fosdale looked for her, and Constance had neither the strength of will nor the power to prevent him from forcing her home.

If only she had not blurted out the one thing she had planned to keep secret!  Her mother had often warned her against giving free rein to her temper.  And she was right.  It had gotten her into the biggest trouble yet. 

How was she to escape?  If she didn’t wed Mr. Randolph, Fosdale would shout this escapade to the world.  She didn’t care on her own account, but Mr. Randolph would also be hurt.  His position might be considerably lower than hers, but he was gentleman enough to feel obligations.  So he would suffer.  What a despicable way to repay him for saving her life.

Yet she could not wed him.  Somehow, she had to convince Fosdale that Mr. Randolph was unworthy of her hand so that he would allow the subject to drop. 

But even as she formed the thought, she knew that any attempt would fail.  Fosdale would wed her to a Gypsy if it got her off his hands.  And she could not think of a single trait that made Mr. Randolph ineligible for marriage.  He was the most caring gentleman she had ever met – and the kindest.

Damn!

She needed to calm her nerves so she could think clearly.  And the best way was to write.  It had been her refuge for years.

Pulling out paper, she began jotting down the jumble of feelings that had accumulated in the last fortnight.  Within moments, the pen was flying across the page, recording her fury upon overhearing Fosdale’s dishonorable plots, her disgust at Constance’s mistreatment, the terror of being swept away by a flood, the exhilaration of defeating the elements, the insidious warmth that had stolen through her body as she touched Mr. Randolph’s bare skin.

She blushed and crumpled that last page, tossing it into the fire.

A knock interrupted her.  Cursing her failure to lock the door, she paused in indecision.  Had Fosdale followed her?

“My lady?” asked a soft voice.

“Come in, Letty,” she said, recognizing her maid.

“They need you downstairs, my lady,” said Letty.  “Symington’s coachman is in a raving fever.”

“Why was I not informed earlier?” she demanded, her own problems forgotten.

“The servants’ hall is at sixes and sevens.”  Letty shrugged.  “Mrs. Hughes was with his lordship most of the night.  She thought Rose was looking after the coachman, but Rose had to answer a call from Lady Fosdale, so she sent Ted to find me.  But Lord Fosdale ordered Ted to fetch you from Bornhill Park, driving the message out of his head.  He just returned, which is how we discovered that nobody had seen after the coachman.”

Elizabeth bit back a sharp reply.  It wasn’t Letty’s fault, and the tale was typical of Ravenswood’s staff.  There was always more work than people to do it, so muddles were common.

Grabbing a bag of healing herbs, she headed for the stairs.  She should have inquired about Symington’s servants when she first learned of the accident.  But finding him still in Cumberland had scrambled her wits.

The coachman was in the room she used to isolate ailing servants from the rest of the staff, and he was indeed suffering a high fever.  His thrashing nearly tumbled him off the narrow cot.

“Bring water,” she ordered.  “And bandages.”  She swore.  No one had even seen to the cuts on his head.

Symington would likely be furious to find his servant abused so badly.  The lack of hospitality reflected poorly on Ravenswood and everyone in it.

She suppressed another wave of anger at Fosdale.  As the most powerful landowner in the valley, he should have paid a stipend to keep a doctor in the village.  But he had refused, and the local residents could not support a decent healer.

“Help me get this wet clothing off,” she ordered when Letty returned.  The servants had tossed a cover over him without removing his muddy clothing.  Everyone had expected someone else to treat the fellow.  If Mr. Randolph had been traveling with Lord Symington, then the accident must have occurred shortly after she had fallen in the river.  So he had been cold and wet for nearly a day.  Such lack of service was scandalous.

The coachman was a big man, but sharp commands penetrated his delirium.  He struggled to sit up so they could remove his shirt.  Elizabeth replaced half of the damp sheet with a dry one and coerced him into drinking a potion that would reduce his fever.

But once he collapsed back onto the cot, she faced a problem.  She could not both lift his hips and remove his trousers, even with Letty’s help.

“He is too heavy.  We need a footman.”

“May I help?” asked a voice from the doorway.

Mr. Randolph.  He must have found some luggage, for he had changed into a loose-fitting blue jacket, rose-striped marcella waistcoat, and pale gray pantaloons, though he still wore the muddy boots she had removed last night.  He had cleaned up surprisingly well, and quite appealingly.  Every attractive man she had previously met had also been imposing.  How did he avoid it?  But this was no time to consider conundrums, for his appearance below stairs confirmed her suspicions.  Cursing gentlemen’s inconvenient devotion to honor, she glared.

“What are you doing down here?” she demanded.  This was hardly an auspicious place to discuss marriage, but she would bet her entire savings that he possessed a stubborn streak.  He wouldn’t drop the subject any time soon.

“Checking on John Coachman.  What are you doing?”

“Trying to remove his soaked clothing before it kills him, if it hasn’t already,” she snapped, his unexpected answer irritating her worse.

The coachman opened his eyes a crack.  “Master Randolph,” he wheezed.  His hand made an abortive movement that stilled when he passed out.

“Perhaps he is not as delirious as I thought,” said Elizabeth, heaving a sigh of relief.

“I fear not.  That is the same tone he used while teaching me to ride.”  Randolph cursed under his breath when he realized what he had said.  Lady Elizabeth was staring suspiciously.  He scrambled for an explanation, finally settling on two unrelated truths.  “John worked for the duke before he joined Symington’s staff.  I lived at the Castle.”

“Why?”

“My father also worked for Whitfield.”

She abruptly abandoned the inquisition.  “Lift his hips so I can slide these trousers off and change the sheet.”

He watched in growing appreciation as she competently stripped John Coachman.  No missishness here.  It was
his
face that was blushing.  She would have treated him with the same impersonal touch, which proved that her career as a healer went far beyond passing out potions and bandaging scraped knees.  A stab of disappointment accompanied the realization that he had been just another body to her.  But it explained part of her fury over Fosdale’s demands. 

“Has he any luggage?” she asked.

He shrugged.  “Why?”

“He needs a nightshirt.”  Already, she had tucked two rugs around the shivering coachman and sent the maid for more.  She washed the mud from John’s face and from the wounds on his head, revealing cuts and abrasions that must have come from the tree.  A huge knot showed where he had fallen against a rock.

“He also needs a warmer room.” 

She frowned, reminding him that he must sound less commanding. 

“This room derives some warmth from the kitchen, but it has no fireplace of its own.  Is there somewhere better we could put him until he has recovered?”  What he really wanted to know was why John had been neglected for so long.  It was obvious that no one had tended him earlier.

Despite his efforts, she must have seen the condemnation in his eyes.  “I will apologize to Symington for neglecting his servant.  I am the one who is called upon whenever someone falls ill.  But I was not here.”

He heard the regret in her voice and softened.  She honestly cared that the service was inadequate – or was it only because the lack would diminish her chances with Symington?

“Is someone fetching the doctor?”  This time he remembered to phrase the order as a question.

“There is no doctor.”

“I know there is none in the village, but surely there is someone who can be called!”  His voice conveyed shock, and he kicked himself for overreacting.  It was not Mr. Randolph’s place to order the care of Symington’s servants or to imply criticism of his hosts.  Sedge would have to issue the necessary orders.

“Only me, sir.  This is a remote area.  The nearest doctor lives twenty miles away, across a winding mountain pass that is likely blocked by mud, given the weather lately.  But I would never consult him.  His remedies have a tiring sameness – bleeding and purging – which harm more patients than they help.  The nearest competent physician is in Carlisle.”

“Which would take days.”

“Especially in this weather.  So you will have to make do with me.  But with luck and a little prayer, John Coachman stands a fair chance of recovery.”  She shook her head, her face falling into rueful anxiety.  “If only I had not fallen asleep last night!”

He bit back his first response.  “Will he not benefit from moving him to a warmer room?”

“You truly care for him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.  I care for all my ser—friends.”  He almost forgot that he no longer had servants.  He
was
a servant.  Sort of.  Actually, he was an employee comparable to a land steward or solicitor, but without a staff beneath him.  He abruptly cut off the speculation.  Standing here with his mouth open made him seem simpleminded.  “Surely no one will object if it will save the life of Symington’s servant.”

She snorted.  “You do not know Fosdale.  What an awful precedent to set for his own staff.  They are already unhappy and might mutiny if they discover just how wretched their lot really is.”  She sighed.  “But I will take the responsibility.” 

When the maid returned with an armload of linens, Elizabeth ordered her to fetch two strong footmen.  Then she led the way upstairs.

“This room belonged to my grandfather’s valet,” she said once the footmen had deposited John on a soft bed.  “Simms was more of a friend than a servant, for they were together nearly fifty years.  Poor Simms lived only a month after Grandfather died.  I suspect it was stubbornness that kept him alive that last year, for he was also quite ill.  But he couldn’t tolerate anyone else caring for Grandfather.”

“Your grandfather must have been a good man to inspire such loyalty.”

“He was.”  She bit her lip, then changed the subject.  “Please do not mention this to Fosdale.  Coddling Simms was bad enough, but he would likely suffer an apoplexy at the idea of housing a coachman in such luxury.”

He believed her, though the room was hardly luxurious.  It was small, lit by a single tiny window, and furnished with battered cast-offs.  But it had an adequate fireplace and a comfortable bed.  And it was free of drafts.

The maid was busily building a fire.  Another arrived with a can of hot water and a kettle.  All looked approvingly on Lady Elizabeth.  Without a word being uttered, he knew that this incident would not reach Fosdale’s ears.

What kind of lord would treat people so shabbily?

Elizabeth finished cleaning John’s wounds.  Fresh bandages wrapped his head.  She prepared an infusion of herbs and induced him to swallow most of it.

Randolph felt useless, but he could not bring himself to leave just yet.  “Is that the same brew you gave Se—Symington?”

“Not quite.  His lordship’s biggest problem will be pain.  The splint he devised was poorly positioned, aggravating the swelling so that setting the bone caused considerable distress.  John Coachman’s fever is more severe, and his wounds have turned an angry red.”