Anita Mills (5 page)

“Thought you might he on it again.” This time, when he swayed, he leaned over, then lay down. “Pardon—too tired.” The oiled cloth that protected the bed crackled beneath him.

Mercifully, the doctor arrived, bleary-eyed but sober. Surveying his patient, he asked only how long ago Mr. Smith had been shot, then shook his head. “Ball’s got to come out.”

“But the bleeding has just stopped!” she protested.

“Lead—at least two hundred grains of it—festers if ’tis left inside.” He looked up at her. “Don’t want him carried off with a fever, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Didn’t think so.” Even as he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves, then dug in his bag for an evil-looking probe. “Fetch the washbasin, will you?” He eyed her curiously, noting the expression on her face. “If you ain’t got the stomach, send up Mrs. Turner.”

“I have the stomach,” she answered, swallowing the gorge that rose in her throat.

“Good. Like to see a woman as stands with a man. These days, there ain’t too many of them.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Best get a cup for the laudanum, ’cause he’s going to need it.”

“No.” It was the first time the baron had spoken since the physician had arrived. “No,” he repeated succinctly. “Too much rum.”

The doctor shrugged. “He’ll swoon then.”

Later, Kitty would be hard-pressed to describe anything about the procedure. She washed away the clot, then held the basin while Dr. Burke probed for the ball. Finally, he inserted an evil-looking pair of thin tongs and pulled it out triumphantly. Haverhill had gone rigid for a moment, then fainted. It was a mercy, for Kitty discovered that the wound had yet to be cauterized to stop the bleeding. It was not until his shoulder had been neatly bandaged that she had the stomach to look again.

In the end, Burke stood up. “Lost too much blood, but the body’s a wonderous machine, Mrs. Smith. If he keeps quiet and drinks enough, the blood will replace in a matter of days. He ought to feel better by day after tomorrow— unless there is an infection,” he hedged, qualifying his rosy prognosis. “Ought to get him out of his wet clothes, though, and keep him warm. Let him drink broths and avoid wine.” He looked from Haverhill to her, seeing the utter fatigue in her eyes. “Want me to help you undress him? Don’t suppose a little thing like you can manage, can you?”

“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully.

“Don’t know why big men like him always pick little females,” he went on, reaching to unbutton the baron’s tight-fitting breeches. “Makes ‘em feel strong, I suppose.” As Kitty turned away, he peeled the pants down. “How’d he get wounded?” he asked conversationally.

“I told you—robbers—”

“No. No, I meant this.”

Despite her resolve, she looked to where Burke pointed at an angry scar that dented deeply into Haverhill’s thigh, thinking it explained why the baron favored the leg. The muscle puckered around it.

“Suppose it was the war,” he decided. “Nearly lost the leg by the looks of it—broke the bone.”

“Yes.”

“Peninsula?”

“Er—yes, I believe so.”

“Haven’t been wed long, have you?”

“No.”

He stood again. “Can always tell the newly married ones.”

“Oh,” she asked cautiously. “How is that?”

“They still blush.”

Long after the doctor left, Kitty sat on a chair pushed against the wall. She’d never been quite so tired in her life, and she was beginning to wish she’d said she was Haverhill’s
sister. Then she could have requested a separate chamber. As it was, she was doomed to sit up with naught but her unhappy thoughts for company.

She thought of the lines by the Scottish poet, Robert Burns, that went “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley; an’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain, for promis’d joy.” How very true, she reflected dispiritedly. Instead of going home to America in disgrace, she would more likely go to prison. And Jess would never get Sturbridge, because her husband would be too intent on revenging himself against Kitty.

The candle guttered in the dish, spluttered valiantly one last time, then died, leaving her in darkness. Outside, the storm still raged, pelting the many-paned windows like a host of pebbles.

“I’d have—a drink.”

At first, she thought her ears tricked her, that ’twas the wind, but then she realized he spoke to her. Rising, she made her way unsteadily across the room on cramped legs. “Yes?”

“I’d have a—drink,” he repeated, his voice little more than a whisper, his words separated by effort.

She sparked a candle wick with the flint, then turned to find the water pitcher and was in the process of pouring some into a cup when he spoke again. “Have you thought—what you’ll—tell the magistrate?” he asked low.

“What?”

“The magistrate. You reported a—robbery.”

A deep, cold chill crept down her spine, making her fingers shake. “I did not think of that, my lord—I was but wishful of getting you to the doctor.”

“Then say—you—saw nothing.”

“You do not mean to give me away?” she asked, turning back to face him.

“No.” Despite the pain he felt, his mouth turned down wryly. “Tale would do—nothing—for my credit.” His hazel eyes seemed dark in the faint light. “Tell me—what name did you—give me?”

“John Smith.”

“Inventive,” he mumbled as she sat beside him to hold the cup to his lips.

“Well, I did not know your name beyond Haverhill, sir—and I could scarce use that,” she explained practically.

“Name is John.”

“I said you were called Johnny.”

He drank thirstily of the water, draining the cup, then fell back. She moved back to the chair, and sat again, stretching her legs to ease them.

“Won’t molest,” he said finally. “Cannot. You can lie down also.”

“No. I suppose you can be forgiven for thinking me that sort of female, my lord,” she admitted tiredly, “but I am not. This whole day is but a mad scheme gone awry, I assure you, and I am heartily sorry for it.”

When he did not respond, she thought he meant to ignore the apology, and she could not blame him if he did. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, hoping that somehow she could waken on the morrow and discover she had but dreamed an utterly awful dream.

“Never been Johnny in my life,” she heard him say.”

“ ’Twas always—Jack.”

“W
HERE CAN SHE HAVE GONE
?” Mrs. Merriman demanded, facing her eldest daughter. “And never say that you do not know, Jessica, for ’twill not wash!”

“I thought she was visiting Squire Marsh’s daughter,” Jess protested. “Indeed, but I know she said ’twas Amelia, and—”

“She is not there!” her mother announced dramatically. “Moreover, neither Jem nor the carriage has; returned!”

“But how—?”

“One of the March grooms rode over but a few minutes ago with a message for her. And when I said I thought it quite odd that Amelia should write to her here if she is there, he said they had not seen her, missy.” Isabella paced the floor of the small back parlor, her agitation evident even to the young man who lounged with his feet up on her favorite settee. “You do not think ’tis an elopement? Surely Sturbridge would not be so lost to propriety that—”

“In our carriage, Mama?” Roland asked incredulously. “A man don’t take a female to Gretna in her equippage— takes his own cattle. Where
is
Sturbridge, by the by?”

“Charles will be here directly,” Jessica volunteered.

“And I cannot like that, missy! It seems to me that he spends as much time with you as with Kitty, and how’s he to fix his interest there, I ask you, if you are forever in the way?”

Roland choked. “Charles and Kitty? Coming it too strong, Mama! She don’t like him much better’n she likes me, if you want the truth of it. And if there’s any as says otherwise, ’tis a faradiddle they’ve told you.”

“Rollo, you stay out of that which you do not know,” his sister warned him. “I am sure she thinks a great deal of him.”

“Humph! Don’t show it if she does.”

“If you would pay attention to the world rather than dwell in the clouds, fancying yourself a soldier, you might see something,” Jessica retorted. “But every time you are down from Oxford, you spend your days with naught but those musty war books for company, and you know ’tis the truth!”

“Please!” Mrs. Merriman put her hands to her temples as though to block out yet another brangle between her two eldest. “Of course there is a
tendre
there. Why else would he be forever here? But that is nothing to the point now,” she recalled. “Where
is
Kitty?”

“Don’t know,” Roland muttered. “Ten to one, she went to a turn-up or something—be like her to go off to a mill, if she wanted. Gel don’t go on as she ought, you know.”

“In the Carolinas, I daresay females are more free in their manner,” Jessica observed loyally, coming to her absent cousin’s defense. “And she is not exactly a green girl, after all. I mean, she is even older than I. Moreover, she did take Jem.”

“It
ought
to have been an abigail,” Mrs. Merriman muttered.

“But she don’t—well, she ain’t used to the ways of the
ton,”
he pointed out. “Dash it, Jess, but she don’t try to fit in!”

“All the more reason I had such hopes of Sturbridge,” his mother admitted. “He did not appear to note her—” She groped for a word. “—well, her
candor—
or her lack of
refinement,
I suppose I should say. Indeed, but I had thought—”

“You mean her eccentricities, and if he did not, you can be sure his mama did,” Roland cut in dryly. “If ever there was a Tartar, ’tis she. No, you’d best not count on Charley Trevor coming up to scratch for Kitty, I can tell you.”

“Of all the unfeeling—”

“Ain’t unfeeling—just don’t see it, that’s all. Dash it, but he’d be more likely to offer for you than Kit!” He rounded on his sister. “At least you got a notion how to go on!”

“How would you know? You do not pay attention when you are at home,” Jessica shot back.

“My hopes in that quarter are quite cut up,” Mrs. Merriman sniffed. “Had it not been for Haverhill, naturally I should have wished—” Her voice trailed off wistfully. “But there
is
Haverhill, of course, and there’s naught to be done about that. Your dear papa did what he thought he ought, after all. And we cannot say that the money the baron sends Jessica has not been a blessing. Indeed, but since Mr. Merriman passed on, I know not how we should have survived without it.”

“Fiddle. Uncle Thomas left Kitty enough for all of us,” Roland reminded her.

For a moment, his mother looked as though she would cry. “No, no he did not.” Then, when both of her children turned disbelieving eyes on her, she shook her head. “I’d not meant to tell any—that is, I’d hoped that Sturbridge would have offered first—”

“Doing it too brown, Mama!”

“Oh, Rollo, you know how Kitty is! If she should discover the reverses the Funds have taken, she will not accept his suit! And she must!”

“Are you telling me that Kitty has no fortune?” Jessica demanded incredulously.

“Well, there is a little, but nothing like there was, my love. I had it of that wretched man your papa appointed to oversee our affairs. No, ’twould seem the end of the war has thrown the economy into disarray—or some such thing.” She twisted the handkerchief she carried. “But if Sturbridge is besotted with her, I am sure ‘twill not matter. If naught else can be said of the Trevors, they have more than enough money to be generous, my love.” Isabella met her daughter’s eyes and nodded. “Suffice it to say that she
must
take him, for there does not seem to be anyone else on the turnpike, does there?” she asked rhetorically.

“No!” Then, perceiving that they both turned to her, Jessica colored guiltily. “That is, if she does not want him—”

“ ’Tis nothing to the point. They will deal well together, I am sure,” her mother declared flatly. “I promised Thomas I should see her settled, and if it takes my last breath, I shall.”

“Gel’s at her last prayers, Mama.”

“She is four and twenty,” Isabella acknowledged, “but she does not show it, after all. Indeed, but with her looks and her natural liveliness, I am sure she could have found a husband anywhere.” She eyed her son speculatively. “Indeed, I have often thought that if you were older—but then I suppose the situation with the Funds would have changed that, in any event.”

“Egad, no!”

They were interrupted by a footman, who peered inside to announce, “ ’Tis Viscount Sturbridge, madam—shall I direct him in?”

“Yes—no—oh, dear!” Looking to her offspring, she wavered. “Whatever shall we say? We cannot tell him she has disappeared, after all, but—” Squaring her shoulders, she collected herself. “You will, of course, direct him to the front saloon.”

“Tell him she’s visiting,” Roland suggested.

“Where?”

“It don’t make no difference where! Dash it, but he ain’t going to pry, Mama! You have but to say she is out.”

“But where
is
she?”

“Ten to one, she’s gone shopping somewheres and forgot to tell you. Do things differently in America, after all,” Roland uttered bracingly. “Be home ere nightfall, no doubt.”

“Overnight? Kitty would never—oh, dear—do you suppose there has been an accident?” Jessica wondered nervously.

“I am sure I do not know, but I would not think so, else we should have heard.” The older woman sighed. “There is no help for it, is there? Jessica, you will have to make an excuse for Kitty to Sturbridge, for I do not think I could face him without betraying my worry.”

“Well, if she don’t want him, it ain’t impossible that she’s fleeing ’cause of him,” Roland hazarded.

“Do not be absurd, Rollo,” his sister retorted. “Charles is a catch.” Her chin came up and her eyes defied him to dispute it. “Very well, Mama, I will see him.”

“What the devil ails her? Did I say he wasn’t? You know, Mama, if she wasn’t wed to Haverhill, I’d think she was head over heels for Sturbridge herself!”

“Well, if she is, she’d best rid herself of any foolish notions—there is Haverhill, after all.”

Jessica closed the door on them and crossed the hallway to the front saloon. As she stepped inside, the fair-haired young man jumped up, smiling expectantly. She stared at him as though she would remember him always with just that expression on his face.

“Jess?”

“Oh, Charles!” she wailed, her face crumpling. “You are going to have to marry Kitty after all!”

“I beg your pardon? Jessica, whatever—?”

“ ’Twas impossible to think otherwise!” she blurted out. “One of us has to wed you—and you know I cannot!”

“Oh, my love …” He crossed the room, reaching his hands to her.

“No, I pray you will not.” She backed away. “Charles, we must give up this foolish dream of ours. And Kitty will make you an unexceptional wife, I am sure. She is pretty and lively and—”

“Jess—”

“And while your mama cannot like her breeding, I daresay she will come to admire her for her mind. Kitty is quite clever, you know, and—”

“Jess—” He moved closer.

“No! What I am telling you, Charles, is that Kitty has to marry you!”

“Jess, I know not what goes here, but Kitty would be the first to tell you we should not suit. She’d have me in Bedlam within a fortnight, love.”

“Please—you do not understand!”

“ ’Tis nonsense—Kitty Gordon has no interest in me, and well you know it,” he murmured soothingly.

She turned away. “She will discover one, no doubt.”

“She wishes to return to America.”

“With what?” Spinning around, she raised tear-filled eyes to his. “Charles, she has no money—’tis gone.”

“Gone? But how could that be? ’Tis common knowledge that Gordon left her well fixed.” He stopped, seeing that his beloved was indeed quite serious. “Egad—
all
of it?”

She nodded. “Enough, I am afraid. So you see, if you love me, you will take her. I should rather think of her having you than someone else. At least I should still see you.”

“Jessica, what you suggest goes against every feeling! I am not such a man as—”

“No, of course not,” she cut in quickly. “I did not mean that, Charles.” The tears spilled onto her cheeks and trickled downward. “It was always a hopeless passion, you know.”

“But Kitty—she would not—”

“She will. As Mama said, there is no one else.”