Sylvester (14 page)
Authors: Georgette Heyer
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #General
‘Good God!’ said Sylvester, struggling with a strong desire to laugh. ‘Wait a minute!’
With these words, he went out into the road again, to where Keighley awaited him. ‘Stable
’em, John!’ he ordered. ‘We are putting up here for the night. There is only one ostler, and he has gone off to Newbury, so if you see no one in the yard, do as seems best to you!’
‘Putting up
here
,
your grace?’ demanded Keighley, thunderstruck.
‘I should think so: it will be too dark to go farther in another couple of hours,’ replied Sylvester, vanishing into the house again.
He found that Phoebe had been joined by a stout woman with iron-grey curls falling from under a mob cap, and a comely countenance just now wearing a harassed expression. She dropped a curtsey to him; and Phoebe said, with careful emphasis: ‘This is Mrs Scaling, sir, who has been so very helpful to
my brother
and to me!’
‘How kind of her!’ said Sylvester, bestowing upon the landlady the smile which won for him so much willing service. ‘Their parents would be glad to know that my imprudent young friends fell into such good hands. I have told my groom to stable the horses, but I daresay you will tell him just where he may do so. Can you accommodate the pair of us?’
‘Well, I’m sure, sir, I should be very happy—only this is quite a simple house, such as your honour—And I’ve took and put the poor young gentleman in my best room!’ said Mrs Scaling, considerably flustered.
‘Oh, that makes no odds!’ said Sylvester, stripping off his gloves. ‘I think, ma’am, it would be as well if you took me up to see your brother.’
Phoebe hesitated, and when Mrs Scaling bustled off to the back premises, said suspiciously: ‘Why do you wish to see Tom? Why do you wish to remain here?’
‘Oh, it’s not a question of wishing!’ he returned, a laugh in his eyes. ‘Pure fellow-feeling, ma’am! What a dog I should be to leave the poor devil in the hands of two females! Take me up! I promise you, he will be very glad to see me!’
‘Well, I don’t think he will,’ said Phoebe, regarding him in a darkling way. ‘And I should like to know why you talked of us to Mrs Scaling as though you had been our grandfather!’
‘I feel like your grandfather,’ he replied. ‘Take me up to the sufferer, and let us see what can be done for him!’
She still seemed to be doubtful, but after a moment’s indecision she said ungraciously: ‘Oh, very well! But I won’t have him ranted at, or reproached, mind!’
‘Good God, who am I to give him a trimming?’ Sylvester said, following her up the narrow stair.
Mrs Scaling’s best bedchamber was a low-pitched room in the front of the house. A fire had been lit in the grate, and the blinds drawn across the dormer window to shut out the bleak dusk. An oil lamp had been set on the dressing-table, and a couple of candles on the mantelshelf, and as the window-blinds and the curtains round the bed were of crimson the room presented a pleasantly cosy appearance. Tom, fully dressed except for his boots and stockings, was lying on the bed, with a patchwork quilt spread lightly over his legs, and his shoulders propped up by several bulky pillows. There was a haggard look on his face, and the eyes which he turned towards the door were heavy with strain.
‘Tom, this—this is the Duke of Salford!’ said Phoebe. ‘He
would
have
me bring him up, so—so here he is!’
This startling intelligence made Tom wrench himself up on to his elbow, wincing, but full of determination to protect Phoebe from any attempt to drag her back to Austerby. ‘
Salford
?’
he ejaculated. ‘You mean to tell me—Come over here, Phoebe, and don’t you be afraid! He has no authority over you, and so he knows!’
‘Now, don’t you enact me a high tragedy!’ said Sylvester, walking up to the bed. ‘I haven’t any authority over either of you, and I’m not the villain of this or any other piece. How do you do?’
Finding that a hand was being held out to him Tom, much disconcerted, took it, and stammered: ‘Oh, how—how do you do, sir? I mean—’
‘Better than you, I fear,’ said Sylvester. ‘In the devil of a hobble, aren’t you? May I look?’ Without waiting for an answer he twitched the quilt back. As Tom instinctively braced himself, he glanced up with a smile, and said: ‘I won’t touch it. Have you been much mauled?’
Tom grinned back at him rather wanly. ‘Oh, by Jove, haven’t I just!’
‘Well, I am very sorry, but we had to get your boot off, and we did
try
not to hurt you,’ said Phoebe.
‘Yes, I know. It wasn’t so much that as that booberkin thinking he knew how to set a bone, and Mrs Scaling believing him!’
‘It sounds appalling,’ remarked Sylvester, his eyes on the injured leg, which was considerably inflamed, and bore the marks of inexpert handling.
‘It was,’ asseverated Tom. ‘He is Mrs Scaling’s son, touched in his upper works, I think!’
‘Well, he is a natural,’ amended Phoebe. ‘Indeed, I wish I hadn’t allowed him to try what he could do, but he was not at all unhandy with poor True, which made me think he would very likely know how to set your leg, for such persons, you know, frequently have that kind of knowledge.’ She saw that Sylvester was regarding her with mockery, and added defensively: ‘It
is
so! There is a natural in our village who is better than any horse-doctor!’
‘You should have been a horse, Orde,’ said Sylvester. ‘How many hours is it since this happened?’
‘I don’t know, sir. A great many, I daresay: it seems like an age,’ replied poor Tom.
‘I am not a doctor—even a horse-doctor—but I fancy the bone should be set as soon as possible. We shall have to see what we can do. Oh, don’t look so aghast!
I’m
not going to make the attempt! We need Keighley—my groom. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he knows how to do the trick.’
‘Your groom?’ said Phoebe sceptically. ‘How should he know anything of the sort, pray?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t, in which case he will tell us so. He put my shoulder back once, when I was a boy and dislocated it, and I recall that when the surgeon came he said he could not have done it better himself. I’ll call him,’ said Sylvester, walking to the door.
He went out, and Tom turned wondering eyes towards Phoebe. ‘What the deuce brought him here?’ he asked. ‘I thought he had been chasing us, but if that was the way of it what makes him care a button for my leg?’
‘I can’t think!’ said Phoebe. ‘But he didn’t come in search of me, that I
do
know! In fact, he says he didn’t come to Austerby to offer for me at all. I was never more relieved in my life!’
Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, but since he was a good deal exhausted by all he had undergone, and his leg was paining him very much, he felt unequal to further discussion, and relapsed into silence.
In a short space of time Sylvester came back, bringing Keighley with him, and carrying a glass half full of a rich brown liquid, which he set down on a small table beside the bed. ‘Well, Keighley says that if it is a simple fracture he can set it for you,’ he remarked cheerfully. ‘Let us hope it is, therefore! But I can’t help feeling that the first thing to do is to get you out of your clothes, and into your nightshirt. You must be excessively uncomfortable!’
‘Oh, I do
wish
you will persuade him to be undressed,’ exclaimed Phoebe, regarding Sylvester for the first time with approval. ‘It is precisely what Mrs Scaling and I wanted to do for him at the outset, but nothing would prevail upon him to agree to it!’
‘You amaze me!’ said Sylvester. ‘If I find him similarly obstinate Keighley and I will strip him forcibly. Meanwhile, Miss Marlow,
you
may go downstairs—if you will be so obliging!—and assist Mrs Scaling to tear up a sheet for bandages. No, I know you don’t wish to leave him to our mercy, but, believe me, you are shockingly in the way here! Go and brew him a posset, or some broth, or whatever you think suitable to this occasion!’
She looked a trifle mulish, but a chuckle from Tom clinched the matter. ‘Oh, do go away, Phoebe!’ he begged.
She went, but the incident did nothing to put her in charity with Sylvester, politely holding the door for her, and saying with odious kindness, as she passed him: ‘You shall come back presently!’
Tom, however, was so grateful that he began to think Sylvester a very tolerable sort of man; and when Sylvester, turning away from the door, winked at him, he grinned, and said shyly: ‘I’m much obliged to you, sir! She’s a good girl—as good as ever twanged, in fact—but—but—’
‘I know,’ said Sylvester sympathetically. ‘They
will
be ministering angels!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tom, somewhat uneasily eyeing Keighley, who, having shed his coat, was now rolling up his shirtsleeves in an ominous manner.
‘You want to bite on the bullet, sir,’ recommended Keighley. ‘Because I’ll have to find out just what you have broke in your leg, if you’ve broke anything, which I’ve only got your word for, when all’s said.’
Tom assented to this, clenched his teeth and his fists, and endured in sweating silence while Keighley discovered the exact nature of his injury. The rough cart-journey, and the inexpert attempts of Will Scaling to set the broken bone, had caused considerable inflammation. Keighley said, as he straightened himself: ‘Properly mauled you they did, sir! True enough, you’ve broke your fibula—which is what you might call Dutch comfort, because it might have been worse. Now, if that jobbernoll below stairs has sawn me off a nice splint, like I told him to do, we’ll have you going along like winking in a pig’s whisper, sir!’
‘Are you sure of that, John?’ Sylvester asked. ‘It won’t do to be making a mull of it!’
‘I shan’t do that, your grace. But I’m thinking it would be as well if the young gentleman was put to bed. I’ll have to slit his breeches up the left side, but I can get
’em off easier without his leg being splinted.’
Sylvester nodded; Tom said faintly: ‘My razor is on the dressing-table. You may as well use it. It’s ruined already, cutting my boot.’
‘Don’t let that vex you!’ said Sylvester. ‘You can borrow one of mine.’
Tom thanked him. He submitted to being stripped, and put into his nightshirt, and owned, upon being lowered again on to the pillows, that he felt a degree more comfortable. Keighley then went away to collect splints and bandages; and Tom, a little white about the gills, said with what jauntiness he could muster that he would be devilish glad when it was over.
‘I should think you would be,’ agreed Sylvester. He picked up the glass he had brought into the room, and held it out. ‘Meanwhile, here’s a drink to fortify you. No daylights, mind!’
Tom looked rather dubiously at the dark potion, but took the glass, and raised it to his lips. Then he lowered it again. ‘Yes, but it’s rum, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes. Don’t you like it?’
‘Well, not above half. But the thing is I should be as drunk as a wheelbarrow if I drank all this!’
‘That isn’t of the slightest consequence. Oh, are you thinking of what Miss Marlow might say? You need not: I shan’t let her come back until you’ve slept it off. Don’t argue with me! Just drink it, and be thankful.’
Keighley, returning to find his patient happily, if somewhat muzzily, smiling, said with approval: ‘That’s the dandy! Properly shot in the neck, ain’t you, sir? It won’t make any odds to you
what’s
done to you. Now, if your grace will lend a hand—?’
If Tom was not quite as insensible as Keighley optimistically prophesied, the rum undoubtedly made it much easier for him to bear the exquisite anguish of the next minute or two. He behaved with great fortitude, encouraged by Keighley, who told him he was pluck to the backbone. The ordeal was soon at an end. It left him feeling limp and rather sick. His leg ached; and he found that everything he tried to look at swam so giddily before him that he was obliged to close his eyes, yielding to the powerful effect of rum. Keighley, observing with satisfaction that he was sinking into stertorous sleep, nodded at Sylvester, and said briefly: ‘He’ll do now, your grace.’
‘I hope he may, but it will be as well if we get a surgeon to him,’ replied Sylvester, frowning down at Tom. ‘If anything were to go amiss, I’ve no mind to be responsible. He’s under age, you know. I wonder why the devil I embroiled myself in this affair?’
‘Ah!’ said Keighley, snuffing the candles. ‘Just what I’ve been asking myself, your grace!’
They left the room together, and descended the stairs to the coffee room. Here they found Phoebe, sitting before a brisk fire, and looking anxious. Sylvester said: ‘Well, Keighley has set the bone, and Orde is now asleep. For anything I know, there’s nothing more to be done, but at the same time—What’s the weather like?’ He stepped up to the window, and drew the blind aside. ‘Still snowing, but not dark yet. What do you wish, Miss Marlow?’
She had smiled at Keighley, and thanked him; but at these words she cast him an apologetic glance, and said: ‘I should
wish
to bring a doctor to see him, because if it hadn’t been for me it would never have happened, and I know Mrs Orde would do so. It is the most vexatious thing! Mrs Scaling only spoke to me of a doctor at Newbury, and now I’ve discovered that there is a Dr Upsall, living at Hungerford! If I had known of him earlier I might have walked there, for I don’t think it’s much above four miles. Mrs Scaling didn’t think to tell me of him, because from what she says I collect he is above her touch.’
‘Let us hope he doesn’t consider himself above mine. Do you suppose the half-wit capable of guiding one to his house?’
