Rhonda Woodward (15 page)

Throwing her shoulders back, she took hold of her quaking emotions and left the room. Crossing the foyer, she went toward the larger, more formal drawing room on the south side of the house. Before she could turn the handle, a voice called to her.

“Miss Buckleigh, may I have a moment of your time?”

She turned to see Henry Willingham in the foyer, his hunting coat a bit disheveled, his light brown hair tousled and pale blue eyes concerned.

She held out her hands to him, her recent irritation with him gone in light of their years of friendship. “Mr. Willingham!

“Is there any word? Has he stirred yet?”

She swallowed hard but refused to give way to the tears clogging her throat. “Not yet. I must go and speak with everyone. As soon as he is better I will send word.”

He nodded, but did not release her hands. “Miss Buckleigh—Marina—if you have need of me, do not hesitate to send for me and I will come at once. Day or night. Under the circumstances,
our
very special circumstances, we need not stand on ceremony with each other.”

“Thank you, very much,” she gently pulled her hands from his. Although she was extremely grateful for his kindness, her thoughts were on the drawing room full of people.

“I shall take my leave, but will return tomorrow for a very brief visit in hopes of finding Lord Buckleigh much improved.”

“Yes, thank you, and please forgive me for not seeing you out.”

He bowed and she hurried into the drawing room, which was crowded with concerned-looking people.

Her gaze immediately lit upon Lord Cortland, who stood with his back against the fireplace, facing the door. Their gazes held and he gave her a quick encouraging nod.

Mr. Sefton stood on the other side of the room, by the casement window where the struggling sun shone on his golden hair. Quickly, she looked away from his intent gaze.

The rest of the men stood as she moved into the room and she was relieved to see that tea things had been brought in.

Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, she made a quick curtsy. “On behalf of my family, I thank you all for your care and concern. My father is still unconscious, but we have every reason to believe that he will be on the mend shortly.”

Lady Darley rose then, and approached Marina with outstretched hands. “My dear Miss Buckleigh, you must be wishing us all away, but we could not until we received a report and until you have been assured that we at Ridgeton Abbey are at your beck and call.”

The others murmured their agreement to this and Marina managed a smile. “You are too kind. I must return to my parents. Please do not leave until you have had your tea. I will send word at the first improvement.” After another quick curtsy, she hurried from the room, fighting back tears.

She had almost crossed the foyer when a male voice called her name. Turning, she saw George Halbury coming toward her. He was not much taller than she was, and his dark brows furrowed above his brown eyes. He reached out and took her hand in his.

“Mr. Halbury, I am so grateful for your assistance today,” she said when she recalled that he had been one of the men carrying Papa across the park.

“Miss Buckleigh, I wish you to know that I shall be staying with my cousins at Fielding Manor. If you have need of me, you need only send word, of course. At any time.”

She put a bemused hand to her head, wishing to return to her mother immediately. “I had forgotten for a moment that you are staying with the Fieldings. I thank you, sir. Your kindness is most appreciated.”

“No, Miss Buckleigh, not kind at all. Under these most unusual circumstances, you must know that your peace and happiness are of paramount concern to me.”

Marina pulled her hand from his, sparing a thought that this was neither the time nor place for a personal discussion. “Thank you. You must forgive me, Mr. Halbury, I must return to my mother.”

“Of course, I shall come back tomorrow.”

With a curtsy, she left him in the foyer, leaving all thoughts of anything other than her beloved papa behind.

Chapter Fifteen

The next afternoon, at Ridgeton Abbey, in the newly decorated drawing room with the Chinese red silk drapery and Persian rugs, Lord Cortland sat with his aunt and cousin, quietly discussing yesterday’s terrible events.

He owned himself disturbed by the experience—never had he seen a horse go down with its rider in such a violent manner. It was a hell of a thing to watch a man nearly lose his life.

In those first chaotic moments, he had been convinced that the Baron had broken his neck and had been surprised to find him breathing, his leg and arm bent in an unnatural fashion beneath him.

He and Major Fielding—despite his lame leg—had been the first to reach Lord Buckleigh. Then there had been the new fear of killing him by moving him too quickly or carelessly. Major Fielding, his war experience lending his voice authority, shouted directions. Some of the men found a plank from a nearby farm and brought it over quickly.

Then Fielding and Cortland—Fielding directing the others to stay back and give them room to work—had carefully strapped him, securing the damaged arm and leg, to the wide plank. They had even strapped his head to prevent it being jostled as he was carried back across fields to Buck Hill.

The men had taken turns, in threes, carrying the large man across the countryside. For the first time in his adult life, Cortland prayed. He prayed that he would not have to tell Marina that her father was dead.

It was a shallow kind of relief when Lord Buckleigh had been delivered home, barely alive, but alive. However, from the way Dr. Gray had looked and spoken, it seemed that hope was a fragile, if not fruitless, exercise.

It grieved him, for he respected and even admired Lord Buckleigh. The man was a true country lord, who took his responsibilities in the community seriously and seemed to have found a great contentment with his family. In Cortland’s mind, that set the man apart from most men in his sphere.

His thoughts returned to Marina. Never had he seen anyone’s face go so deathly pale as when she ran up and saw her father on the board. It was heartrending and he hated how powerless he was to ease her distress.

Silently, he’d cheered her as she rallied, taking her sister in hand and dealing with everyone who stayed to offer commiseration and support. He had sensed how near her tears were to falling when she had come into the drawing room, and he found himself willing her strength, knowing that unlike her sister or his cousin, she did not wish to show strong emotion in public.

“I know we were to stay for several more weeks, Eugenia dear,” his Aunt Meredith was saying softly, “but under these circumstances, perhaps we should return home. I doubt there will be much to entertain with the tragedy of Lord Buckleigh’s horrid accident on everyone’s mind.”

Eugenia turned from gazing into the fire to reply to her mother. “Oh, but I would much rather stay, Mama.”

Aunt Meredith’s expression betrayed her surprise and impatience. “If it’s because of Mr. Sefton—”

“No! It’s not that. I mean, I am not as keen on marrying him as I was.”

Cortland resisted a sarcastic reply to this statement. It was at least a concession on Eugenia’s part—a significant victory considering how foolishly stubborn she’d been before confronting Marina.

He exchanged a brief look with Aunt Meredith.

“Then why do you wish to stay?” she asked her daughter.

Eugenia fiddled with the fringe on her shawl. “Well, I know we have been here but a short time, but I—I have grown fond of the Misses Buckleigh. And Jane Willingham, Lydia Hollings and Phoebe Tundale have all been obliging and amusing. We do not have many girls my age at home. And besides, it just seems . . . seems ill-bred to leave while Lord Buckleigh is so ill.”

Aunt Meredith didn’t seem to know how to respond to this most unexpected statement from her daughter and only sent Cortland another baffled look.

Cortland considered his cousin, weighing her words. “Quite so, Genie. I have decided to stay the duration as well.”

She brightened a little. “Oh, good. Perhaps we could call upon the Willinghams and Hollings in a day or two. And perhaps we could prevail upon Lady Darley to invite some of the other young ladies here. This kind of thing would not seem insensitive if the Buckleighs hear of it, do you think?”

“Not at all,” her mother said, looking very pleased at this change in attitude from her daughter.

“I . . . I truly don’t care if Sefton is here or not,” Eugenia said, fiddling with the fringe again.

Thinking of Sefton, Cortland was confident that the pre-mourning bleakness hanging over the village would have him packing his bags and leaving posthaste. With Eugenia figuratively beyond his reach, and the terrible situation at Buck Hill, Sefton had no reason to stay. Cortland spared a contemptuous thought for the spineless cur, regretting that he would not accept his challenge and settle the matter like a gentleman.

The drawing room door opened and Vanessa Darley swept in. “The Vicar and the Willingham’s carriages are turning up the drive. I thought we would all have tea in here, and listen to what news they bring.”

Some minutes later, the residents of Ridgeton Abbey welcomed Mrs. Willingham, George and Jane Willingham, and Vicar Ralston. Cortland stood by the fireplace, surveying the scene before him with an array of emotions, none of them pleasant.

Vanessa had ordered the tea tray to be brought in and asked how Lord Buckleigh fared as soon as the courtesies were dispensed with.

“No, I am afraid that there is no change,” the Vicar stated heavily, accepting the cup and saucer. He informed them that he had just come from Buck Hill, and had decided to call on Ridgeton Abbey on his way home when he saw the Willinghams turning up the drive.

Cortland did not normally take tea, but as the Vicar seemed to be the only inhabitant of Parsley Hay who’d been received by the Buckleighs since the terrible accident, he wanted to hear what the man had to say. His own visit to Buck Hill that morning been met, not surprisingly, by the stern-faced butler informing him the family was “not receiving visitors.”

“Lord Buckleigh has not stirred at all?” Pen, seated in a wing chair, asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“Not at all,” the Vicar said with a sad shake of his gray head. “Unfortunately, in my capacity as a clergyman, I have seen these kinds of head injuries on occasion. Tragically, more often than not, it ends with me condoling with the surviving loved ones.”

“Oh no, the poor Misses Buckleigh!”

This was from Eugenia, and Cortland looked over to see the concern in her large blue eyes. Her expression looked sincere and he owned himself surprised, for he didn’t think the brat was capable of it. However, the Vicar’s news, or lack thereof, came as something of a blow to him as well.

“Indeed,” Vanessa Darley agreed with Eugenia’s comment. “I can think of few things more tragic. And the Baron is such a delightful man.”

Stout Mrs. Willingham, beneath a ridiculous orange bonnet adorned with a profusion of green feathers and blue silk flowers, brought a bit of lace up to her eyes.

“I can still hardly believe Henry’s description of Lord Buckleigh’s tumble. To know that such a dear friend hovers so near death breaks my heart. And to think,” she stressed, looking at each of them with tear bright eyes, “that my Henry had a
private
conversation with Lord Buckleigh regarding Miss Marina, not two days before. Well! I’m just grateful that we shall be able to offer our dear Marina comfort in the future.”

Eyeing the lady coldly, he wondered if she could truly be this crass.

“’Tis a terrible tragedy,” Henry Willingham put in. “My only comfort is that in time, I will be able to bring about what doubtless will turn out to be Lord Buckleigh’s last and dearest wish.”

With a narrowed gaze, Cortland took in Willingham’s expression, which was a strange mixture of solemnness and self-satisfied pleasure.

In the past, Cortland occasionally found it necessary to settle grievances with a rapier. He and his opponents found the weapon quite gentlemanly and civilized. However, right now, he’d settle for using his fists.

“I do not take your meaning, Mr. Willingham,” Cortland said, his voice sounding harsh in the subdued atmosphere. He was instantly aware of the varying looks of alarm his family—especially his Aunt Meredith—and friends sent his way.

Willingham hesitated, sending him a cautious look. No doubt he feared he’d been indelicate and now intended to be a little more circumspect in his speech.

“Perhaps I have said too much,” Willingham said slowly. “Suffice to say that Miss Buckleigh and I have been fond of each other the whole of our lives. But as Lord Buckleigh is so ill, now is not the best time to go into that.”

“Quite so,” Cortland said coldly and did nothing to soften the edge of contempt plainly evident in his tone.

Mrs. Willingham’s mouth dropped open, and she sent both her children a look of alarm.

“I intend to call at Buck Hill tomorrow,” Vanessa put in quickly. “I certainly have no expectation of being admitted, but I might glean some bit of good news from the butler’s expression at least. More tea, Lady Meredith? Miss Willingham?”

***

By the third day, when there was still no news from Buck Hill, Cortland and Pen decided to leave the palling gloom of Ridgeton Abbey and ride into the village.

The weather was clear and blustery cold—not unusual for early March.

“It’s my intention to visit Buck Hill later and leave my card again,” Cortland said after they had ridden for a bit. “Fortunately, the butler has warmed to me, and has been more forthcoming with information. Sadly, what little news he shares is not encouraging.”

“All butlers are snobs at heart, probably impressed with your title,” Pen replied with an attempt at humor that didn’t last. “This is sad business, Cort,” he went on grimly. “It quite puts one’s life into perspective. At least they have the comfort of all their friends.”

“Yes.”

“Speaking of comfort, what was that business with the Willinghams yesterday? If Henry Willingham was suggesting that he and Miss Marina were about to announce their engagement before the accident, I must say I think his timing in mentioning it wasn’t at all the thing.”

They had left the Abbey’s grounds and were now riding abreast on the lane that led to the village.

“That’s exactly what he was doing, and the puffed-up prig is delusional if he thinks Marina Buckleigh would ever settle for him.” His tone managed to be dismissive and emphatic at once.

Pen’s sideways glance held a quizzical light. “Didn’t realize you had occasion to develop that strong of an opinion of Miss Buckleigh.”

Cortland shrugged carelessly. “You know what an observant fellow I am.”

“Don’t mind saying that it near brought me to tears when she came in the room to thank us all after the accident. You know, Cort,” he said with a hint of suggestion in his tone, “she is elegant and has remarkably winning ways.”

“If I had not developed an immunity to those attributes long ago, I might be in some danger. As it is . . . ,” he allowed the words to trail off when it hit him that he was now willing to accept a deep truth he could not yet put into words.

They road in silence until they reached the village. Near the receiving office, Cortland saw Major Fielding, his sister, and their cousin, one of the fellows who’d helped carry Lord Buckleigh—Halbury, he believed his name to be.

Pen had seen them as well. “I say, Mrs. Birtwistle is certainly attractive. But not quite up to snuff, m’sister says. Some business about her being a seamstress or some such thing.”

Taking note of the unexpected inflection in his friend’s voice, Cortland said, “I find her charming. She doesn’t dance or converse like a seamstress and her brother is one of Lord Buckleigh’s particular friends. Let’s see what news they have.”

Dismounting, they approached and greeted the trio. No one pretended that there was any other subject to discuss. “We have just come from Buck Hill,” Major Fielding said after the briefest greetings. “No one is being admitted and by the desolate expression on the butler’s face, we are losing the last bit of hope that his lordship can recover.”

“This is grave news, indeed,” Cortland said. He was more determined to cut this foray into the village short and head to Buck Hill.

“How their hearts must be breaking,” Mrs. Birtwistle said, her voice a near whisper.

Cortland looked down at the pretty lady and was reminded how young Mrs. Birtwistle was, and how recent her own loss must have been.

“Yes,” Halbury said, with a surprising amount of passion in his voice, “I am eternally grateful that I was able to speak to Lord Buckleigh on a personal matter only the day or so before this horrific accident. As I look back, it almost seems clairvoyant on my part. At least there may be one silver lining to this sad end.”

It gratified Cortland to see that Major Fielding and Mrs. Birtwistle looked at their cousin with as much astonishment as he felt.

About to offer Halbury a sharp question, Cortland held up when Captain Fielding said, “George, old boy, Lord Buckleigh is one of the best men I have ever known. His kindness to me when I came back from the Peninsula got me through a bit of a rough patch. I don’t know of anyone in the district he has not helped. None of us will be able to speak of silver linings anytime soon.”

Halbury looked undaunted and only inclined his head, barely acknowledging the well-spoken reproach.

Again, Cortland regretted that he had not brought his rapier to Parsley Hay.

***

Not bothering to put on a bonnet, Marina wearily put on her heavy dark blue cloak and slowly walked down the long curving staircase. Taking a side door outdoors, she paused in surprise at the bright sun shining on bare branches. Although cold, there was a different quality to the air that told her spring lurked nearby.

Crossing the barren lawn, she opened a wrought iron gate in a high brick wall that enclosed a walled garden. Pulling the fur-lined hood away from her face, she moved to the stone bench beneath the arch of climbing roses that would soon have clusters of fragrant white blooms.