Leslie LaFoy (16 page)

“Jesus.”

“One foot… in front… of the other,” she gasped, coughing and choking as she pulled him forward. “We can … do … this.”

He went, no longer breathing, just moving because Lindsay MacPhaull wouldn't let him lay down and die. It was beginning to rain fire.

“Few … more … steps.”

They pitched forward. He sensed it rather than felt it, and there was nothing he could do to save them. He heard their bodies hit wood, but there was too much pain to feel any more. His awareness began to gray around the edges and Jackson welcomed it, knowing that inside the mist, pain ceased to matter, ceased to exist.

Lindsay moved against him and he vaguely understood that she was trying to crawl from beneath his arm. If she had the strength to struggle, then she had the strength to get out alive. He had to give her that chance. Jackson focused his attention on the arm pinning Lindsay down, on getting his body to move at his command. He willed movement and nothing happened. And then there came the sound of distant voices. Lindsay stilled and in the next second he was being borne upward. He went without resistance, surrendering to the sweet promise of the mist and knowing Lindsay was free.

T
HE RESPITE FROM PAIN
was too short by a thousand years. He came to as a fresh wave of searing red shot through the back of his head. He'd just barely clawed his way through it when his chest heaved and smoke scraped its way upward and out. There was no stopping the inevitable. He gagged and choked and coughed, finding some meager solace in the fact that he was still alive and had the physical wherewithal
to roll onto his side before he unceremoniously threw up in the gutter. And when it was done, he lay there, his eyes closed, breathing and thinking wildly that he needed to find Lindsay, needed to be sure that she'd gotten out, too. He knew he had to get to his feet. Actually doing anything about it, though, seemed to take more mental acuity than he could marshal.

“Oh, Jack. You're bleeding.”

Lindsay. And she was right there. Judging by the even, calm sound of her voice, she was faring better in the aftermath than he was. He breathed a sigh of relief. A realization slowly nestled around his brain; she'd called him Jack. He touched his tongue to his parched lips and managed a small smile.

“Let me see where you're hurt,” she said, touching the side of his face and then running her fingers ever so lightly through his hair. A lover's touch.

Jack frowned and, reminding himself that Lindsay was Billy's daughter, said, “It's my head.”

“Yes, I can see that much already.”

“Prob'ly isn't as bad as it feels. Or looks. Heads bleed like a son of a—” He bit off the rest, reminding himself that he really needed to watch his language around her. Lindsay was a lady, and his mother had taught him manners. He carefully rolled onto his back. Lindsay knelt beside him, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders and made bronze by the smoke and soot, her face smudged and tearstained. Her dress was torn and singed and blackened with ash. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. If he'd been capable of moving with any deliberate speed, he'd have pulled her into his arms.

“You need stitches. We'll get you home and send for Dr. Bernard. In the meantime, though …”

Jackson watched as she rose to her feet. Had she pulled the back hem of her dress between her legs and tucked it into the front of the waistband? How'd she know that washerwoman trick? As he contemplated the mystery, Lindsay pulled the skirt edge free from her waist. She didn't, however, instantly drop it for the sake of modesty and propriety. No, not Lindsay. Instead, she shoved the
dress fabric out of the way, grasped the flounce of her petticoat with both hands, and pulled in opposite directions. The seam gave way with a loud protest. She repeated the process until the flounce separated completely.

“I can't very well let you bleed all over the inside of the carriage,” she explained, smiling as she once again knelt beside him on the walkway. She folded the strip of cloth in half and then placed the end against his forehead, adding, “The stains would never come out of the upholstery.”

Billy had been a goddamned fool to leave her behind. She was made of the stuff that made a man proud to call her his own. It served Billy right to have lost that pleasure, that admiration from other men. She'd been left behind to fend for herself and she'd done all right. She was good and strong and brave. And if it weren't for Lindsay MacPhaull's grit, he'd be deader than a damn doornail right now. He owed her and he owed her big.

“I'll do right by you, Lindsay,” he said. “I swear it on Billy's grave.”

She kept her attention focused on wrapping the strip of petticoat around his head as she answered quietly, “Thank you. But I never doubted that you would.”

L
INDSAY OPENED THE FRONT DOOR
of the house and stood aside as Jeb and her coachman half-guided, half-carried Jackson Stennett inside. The Texan was, without a doubt, the most pigheaded man she'd ever met. Perhaps “pigheaded” wasn't the right word, she mused, as he tightly thanked the men for their assistance and stepped out from beneath their arms. “Prideful,” she decided, was the right word, as he stood swaying on his feet and tried to look as though nothing was wrong with him. She wondered how long he could maintain the charade before he fell flat on his face. Not long, she guessed. Under the coating of soot, his face was very pale.

Blood had dried on his shirt and the bandage had soaked through above the wound. It needed to be cleaned and she needed to do what she could to ease his pain before she did anything else. There was no way to count the number of lives he'd saved that morning, no way to tell him what a decent and honorable man she considered him to be. He deserved to be treated well and kindly.

She was about to suggest that they retire to the kitchen
so that she could see to his head, when Lucy came running down the stairs to throw herself into Jeb's arms and shower his face with kisses. A long familiar sadness settled into Lindsay. There were some who were destined for love and happiness in life, she told herself, turning away politely, and there were some who were put on earth to serve selflessly and responsibly. There was no sense in regretting destiny. It was a waste of time and effort. She knew that.

Mrs. Beechum provided a welcome diversion, entering the foyer and saying crisply, “What a morning you've had, Miss Lindsay! What a sight you are.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Jackson said, scrubbing his face with his hand and managing a smile.

“We need baths,” Lindsay said. “Desperately. And would you send someone for Dr. Bernard? Mr. Stennett needs stitches in the back of his head.”

“I'll see to fetching the doctor,” her coachman offered as he headed for the front door.

“Would you care for the detailed version of how I've dealt with it all?” Mrs. Beechum asked her. “Or would you prefer the summary?”

“Is any of it pressing?” Lindsay asked, eyeing Jackson and thinking that he needed to be off his feet as soon as possible.

The housekeeper sighed. “I'm afraid that all of it demands immediate attention, Miss Lindsay.”

“I suppose details would be better,” Lindsay admitted, resolving to get through matters as quickly as she could. “And don't think to spare me the problems. They have to be dealt with sooner or later.”

“Mrs. Kowalski and her cat have been put in the lavender room. She won't let the cat out. She says that it will run away if she does.”

This
was more important than taking care of Jack? “It probably would.”

“Need I point out the potential unpleasantries in having the animal confined?”

Deal with it and go on, Lindsay.
“We need to get a large pan of some sort from the kitchen and have the gardener fill it with dirt and take it up to Mrs. Kowalski's
room. That should take care of any potential problems in that regard. We'll just have to say a prayer for the curtains and upholstery and hope for the best.”

“Mrs. Kowalski is of the Jewish faith. She's informed me—quite nicely, I'll admit—that she keeps kosher.”

This
was
something of a problem—at least as she understood the practice of keeping a kosher kitchen and diet. “Oh, dear. Does Emile know anything about how this is done?”

“He swore—in French, I believe—and then suggested lying to her.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack lean his shoulder against the wall, fold his arms across his chest, and cross one booted ankle over the other. The light in his eyes told her that he was finding the situation amusing. If he was feeling well enough to enjoy it all, she decided, then perhaps he wasn't hovering as close to death as she'd thought. Buoyed by relief, she said, “We'll think of something, Mrs. Beechum. Next problem?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford and their child have been placed in the blue room. I'll see to having your old cradle brought down from the attic later today. It will need to be cleaned and bedding found for it, of course.”

“Of course.” This wasn't a problem in the least. It was a simple matter of housekeeping. She'd send Jeb up for the cradle later.

“Outside of your adventures this morning …” Mrs. Beechum sighed again. “Miss Agatha had departed before your message to her arrived here. I don't know where she went and so couldn't send it on. Mr. MacPhaull sent a second message. I placed it on the desk in the study. Mr. Rutherford brought the mail packet in from the carriage on his first arrival here and it's with the message from your brother.”

“Very good.” Were they done? Could she get on with taking care of Jack's head?

“Havers has announced that his accommodations are inadequate and suggests that if you hope for him to remain in service you will have to refurbish his room. He also wants to know how he will be paid since Mr. Patterson is incapacitated and can't authorize his monthly salary.”

Lindsay gritted her teeth. Havers' concern about his salary wasn't unexpected, but his sense of necessary style was, and it irritated her. She knew that she should allow herself some time to rationally think the matter over before dealing with his expectations. “I'll have a talk with him,” Lindsay promised.

“Primrose is threatening to quit,” Mrs. Beechum went on. “I'm afraid that cooking of any sort has been a casualty of the contest she and Emile are waging.”

“Meaning that there's no luncheon.”

“And that there are no efforts under way for supper, either,” the housekeeper confirmed.

Lindsay was hungry and knew that the others had to be as well. “I'll have a talk with both her and Emile. Immediately,” she declared, flipping loose tendrils of hair over her shoulder as she eyed the far end of the dining room and the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

She'd taken a single step forward when Mrs. Beechum said, “There are reporters from both the
Sun
and the
Herald
in the kitchen, waiting to speak with you about the building fire.”

“Wonderful,” Lindsay groused, stopping and turning back. Jeb and Lucy, Mrs. Beechum, and Jackson Stennett all watched her, waiting to see how she was going to handle the small mountain of difficulties before her. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue while she looked between them all and decided. “First things first,” she said decisively. “Mr. Stennett is going up to his room to lie down before he falls down. I'll be up to take care of his head as soon as possible.”

“I'm fine,” Jackson offered quietly, wincing slightly as he pushed away from the wall to stand squarely on his feet.

Oh, yes, she could see that. “Humor me, please,” she countered. “I have too many things to do without having to stop to pick you up off the carpet. Jeb,” she added, addressing her junior accountant, “if you'd be so kind to see that he makes it, I'd be most appreciative.”

She didn't give either one of them a chance to speak before turning to her housekeeper and saying, “Now, Mrs. Beechum, please extend my apologies to the reporters and
ask them to return later today when I can devote proper attention to answering their questions. Then have Primrose start heating water for our baths. While you're seeing to those two tasks, I'll speak with Proctor about the pan of dirt for Mrs. Kowalski's cat.

“When the reporters are gone, I'll be in to straighten out the difficulties between Primrose and Emile. Tell them that I expect to find them preparing something for us to eat when I get there.”

“And Havers?” Mrs. Beechum inquired, her brow raised.

“Havers can wait a bit. I don't know quite what to tell him at this point.”

“How about telling him to go to hell?” Jackson suggested.

“It's tempting,” she admitted with a weak smile, “but I need him. He's been with Richard for years. I couldn't find anyone to replace him who would be even half as capable in caring for him.” To Mrs. Beechum, she said, “Please tell Havers that I'm aware of his desires and extend my apologies for not being able to discuss the matter with him until later.”

“Talk to me before you promise him anything,” Jackson instructed, making his way toward the stairs. Jeb stepped forward, but Jackson shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. “I can make it on my own, Jeb. Much obliged for the concern, though.”

Lindsay watched Jackson Stennett haul himself up the stairs. She wouldn't be long, she silently promised him. And she promised herself that she'd apologize for putting a cat pan and kitchen squabbles ahead of him. It wasn't right. But it was very much the usual nature of her world.

T
HE WATER IN THE PITCHER
was cold, but it was clean. Jackson studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell. There was some consolation to be had in the fact that he could see that fact clearly. No blurred edges, no half-transparent, slipping, double images. He had a god-awful headache and his shirt was ruined, but his brain hadn't been
scrambled. He'd live. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

Jackson poured some water into the basin, then stripped off his jacket and opened the neck of his shirt. He'd washed the worst of the grime from his face before a knock came at the door. “It's not locked,” he called out, dropping the wash rag into the bowl and thinking he might feel human again one day soon.