Chapter Twenty-Seven

Y ves, who must have had the sharpest ears, heard the wagon returning first. He leapt up from the table, scattering the draughts board and its pieces in all directions, and ran to the window, Hetty on his heels.

“They’re back. They’re back, and they have the cart with them. I can see Nat sitting on it!” squealed Hetty. “He’s not dead.”

Caroline rose from her seat by the bed, where she’d been sitting quietly with a book while Sir Hugh dozed, and hurried to join them. Sure enough, the cart was rumbling over the gravel with Nat sitting upright in it, his right arm in a sling. He looked disheveled and pale, but he was alive. And that was what mattered. Whoever had tried to kill him today, if that were what had truly happened, hadn’t succeeded. Caroline’s heart gave a great leap of relief. Thank God.

“Can we go down to see him?” Yves asked, jumping up and down at the window. “I want to ask him what happened.”

Sir Hugh stirred. “What? What’s that?”

“Nat has been found,” Caroline said. “He’s being brought back on the cart, but he doesn’t look badly hurt. Thank goodness.”

Were those tears glistening in the old man’s eyes? Had he, like Hetty, been inclined to think some curse hung over the Treloar family males? A sobering thought, and one, no doubt, Trefusis might try to use to his advantage.

Hetty ran to her grandfather and caught his hand. “Nat’s safe, Grandpapa. He’s not lying dead. I’m so happy I could sing.”

“Please don’t,” muttered the old man.

“He’s got his arm in a sling,” Yves pointed out. “So he’s not absolutely all right. I wish I had a sling. Can I have one too, so I can look like Nat? Can I, Caroline? Can I?”

Caroline laughed, a little hysterically due to the relief she was feeling. “Next time you play at pirates you can have a sling, but not just now.” She bit her lip. “And I think, if we’re all very quiet and you two don’t get carried away, we could go to the gallery and maybe down to the hall and see how Nat is. But you have to promise to behave. Both of you.”

“I promise,” Yves said.

“Me too,” Hetty added. “Although why you think I need to make the same promise as Yves, I don’t know. I’m always very well behaved, aren’t I?”

“Come back and tell me how he is,” Sir Hugh called. “Leave the dog with me. He can keep me company.” He hooked his bony fingers into Dash’s collar, but the dog didn’t seem inclined to give up his comfortable billet.

Caroline, Hetty, and Yves hurried to the top of the stairs, where they peered over the banisters. The front door stood wide open, and Ennion, in unaccustomed shirt sleeves, was standing in it. A moment later, Nat walked in, accompanied by Dickon and Young Pascoe, hovering to either side of him as though they feared he might buckle at the knees. His hair was in a mess, his buff breeches covered in dirt, and he’d lost his coat. Feeling Yves start forwards, Caroline put a restraining hand on him and Hetty.

*

Every step Nat took jarred both his shoulder and his head, but he was determined to show nothing. After all, he’d had much worse than this in battle, hadn’t he? And he had rather a large audience.

His stepmother had emerged from the parlor, her face even colder than normal, her eyes like icy pebbles. She didn’t look in the least bit pleased to see him. “Nathaniel. I see you are returned to us. What a furor you have caused, upsetting the whole household who had to leave their work and turn out to search for you.”

What was this? Was she accusing him of doing this deliberately? Of it being somehow his own fault? It wasn’t as if he’d just fallen off like some novice. His saddle had been faulty and come off with him.

His stepmother’s hard eyes ran over the sling and his dirty appearance. “I trust you are not badly hurt. Do I need to call Doctor Rescorla out?”

Nat shook his head, wishing immediately that he hadn’t but even more determined not to show it. “I’ve been well looked after by Gryff Casworan.” He didn’t need to tell her what his friend had done for him. “No need to trouble the doctor. Just a sprained shoulder and a bump on the head.” He turned to Young Pascoe and Dickon. “I can see myself upstairs to my room, thank you. I’m not an invalid yet.”

They stepped back, diffident and wary probably at his tone of voice, much as they’d been all the way back from Wheal Jenny. Having supported Nat’s mended shoulder with his makeshift sling, Casworan had sent a couple of young bal maidens to look for the search parties, and it hadn’t been long before Pascoe and the cart arrived. There being no women present to make a big fuss, Nat had allowed them to help him into the cart without further ado, and they’d set off for Roskilly.

Footsteps sounded in the still open front doorway, and Trefusis stepped into the hall, his face as dark as Nat’s stepmother’s face was cold. Anybody would think they weren’t glad to see him back safe and sound. Well, not all that sound, as Casworan had said, but practically so.

“I heard you were found,” the land agent said. “You seem to have the luck of the devil.”

Did he sound put out? Nat’s head ached too much to ponder that for long.

Instead, he nodded. “I’ve been right through the Peninsular War, so it’s going to take a lot more than a simple fall from a horse to kill me off.” They must know his saddle had come off as Young Pascoe had told him Duchess’s return home without him had sparked the search.

Trefusis managed to get his expression under control and even forced a smile onto his rugged face. “It’s a relief to have you back safe at Roskilly, Nathaniel.”

Why did he get the feeling Trefusis didn’t mean a word he was saying? And he didn’t like the man using his first name. He had ideas above his station.

Nat turned away and glanced around himself. There was about the gathering in the hallway a certain tension, as though everyone there wanted to say something of their own, but none dared. Even the servants looked as though they wanted to speak.

Dickon and Young Pascoe stepped back, and Nat took a step toward the stairs, anxious to be away from everyone and lie down somewhere dark and quiet. He needed something for his head and the persistent ache in his shoulder and arm. Perhaps he could ring for something from Mrs. Teague, who kept an arsenal of herbal remedies in the kitchen.

As he reached the bottom step, he turned around to stare straight at his stepmother. “Someone needs to go and fetch my saddle back. I’d like to have a look at that later on and find out exactly what failed. Perhaps Young Pascoe could go. It was at the top of the gully I rolled into, not far from Wheal Jenny’s count house. It’ll be easy to spot.”

What was that lurking behind her eyes? He couldn’t read her expression at all. And, if he admitted it, which he didn’t want to, his head was swimming too much to cope with working out what the woman was thinking about. Her eyes bored into his for several seconds too long. “Very well. He may go.”

Trefusis butted in. “He’ll need to deal with the cart and the other horses first. The saddle’s not as important as his usual work.”

Nat’s stepmother’s eyes slid sideways to Trefusis, and she gave him a slight nod.

That would have to do. Nat didn’t have the strength to argue the point. Young Tom Pascoe could bring it back this evening and he could scrutinize it. Perhaps he’d take a bath while he waited. A long, hot bath. He could ring for one to be brought up. But first the daunting prospect of the stairs.

He started up them, and the group in the hall broke up, although he didn’t look back to see. The door into the parlor closed, presumably on his mother and Trefusis, and the servants dispersed. Head down, he trudged up the wide staircase.

He’d reached the half-landing before he spotted he had an audience in the gallery. He stopped, heaved in a deep breath, and continued up the stairs.

Yves met him at the top. “Are you hurt? What did you do to your arm? Caroline’s being mean and won’t let me have a sling.”

“Silence, brat,” Nat said. “Your chatter is hurting my head.” His hand went automatically to the back of his skull and came away sticky with blood.

Hetty gave a horrified squeal, which made Nat want to cover his ears.

A firm but gentle hand rested on the small of his back. “Come into your room and let me take a look at your head. Someone needs to, and as you’ve turned down Doctor Rescorla’s attentions, it seems it falls to me to be your nurse.”

Caroline, of course.

Nat would have argued, but he found he didn’t have the energy. “Not her,” he said, indicating Hetty. “She’s too noisy by half.”

Caroline turned to Hetty. “Take Yves and go and reassure your grandfather that Nat is home safely. I’ll deal with his head wound. Off you go.”

Hetty and Yves, both rather reluctant, vanished off to Sir Hugh’s room to relay the good news. Thank goodness. He did not need Hetty squealing and Yves’s constant questions. He needed peace and quiet. Although he wasn’t quite sure Caroline should be coming into his bedroom with him. He pushed that aside. No one was going to know.

She kept her hand in the small of his back all the way along the gallery and down the corridor to his room, the feel of it reassuring. But as he pushed the door open, she removed it, and turning to the bellpull, jerked it. “We need warm water and cloths. Sit down on that chair and let me have a look at you.”

Nat sat down, obedience being the easiest thing. For some reason exhaustion was washing over him, despite having spent what must have been half the day asleep in the gully. Or at worst, unconscious.

Caroline stood behind him, her fingers gently parting the hair on the back of his head. Ouch. He winced. She didn’t hesitate though, but kept up her gentle probing. “It’s not too bad. A big lump, which has bled quite a lot. I’ll try to get the blood out of your hair. Not enough to need stitches, so you were right that you don’t need the doctor.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you have a concussion.”

“Since when have you been a nurse?”

She chuckled. “Since forever. As a child, I was friends with a big family and they were always getting into scrapes they didn’t want their parents hearing about. They turned to me every time.”

“Good luck for me.”

“Do you have a bad headache?”

“Crippling.”

“And what have you done to your arm? I’m assuming if it were broken, you’d have agreed to see the doctor.”

“Dislocated my shoulder.” He felt her startle. “Don’t worry, Casworan put it back in for me. But he says I have to be careful because it’s easy to do it again.”

“I have to admit, I have no knowledge of shoulder dislocations. Bumps and scrapes are my limit.”

Dickon arrived, and Caroline sent him to fetch water and cloths and ask Mrs. Teague for both an ointment for Nat’s head wound and something to dull the pain. “Brandy,” Nat said, but Caroline shook her head.

“That’ll only make you worse. Do you want the pain of a hangover as well as the headache you already have? And it’s a bad thing to have after a bang on the head. No. Warm water, Dickon, if you please, and a pot of tea.”

When Dickon returned with all the required list, Caroline laid them out on Nat’s washstand and returned to his head. Her fingers were so gentle, he could have closed his eyes and nodded off to sleep, but for the constant throbbing. He watched her wring out the cloths in the water and begin to dab the back of his head clean. Very soon the water had darkened with blood.

“That’s better now,” she said. “All clean. But if I were you, tonight I’d sleep on your side, not your back. That bump has got to hurt.”

“It does.”

“I’ll just dab on some of the ointment Mrs. Teague sent up. I don’t know what’s in it, but it smells nice.”

Nat sat mute under her ministrations, enjoying the feel of her cool fingers in his hair and not wanting her to have to stop.

However, all too soon she finished. “Now, let me see your shoulder.”

“What? It’s fine. No need.”

She came round to stand in front of him. “Nonsense. Let me have a look. I’m sure I can fashion you a better sling than this as well. And let’s give you the painkiller.”

The painkiller had come in a little bottle. She uncapped it and took a sniff, then gave a huff. “I might have guessed. Laudanum. It’ll have to do and will help you sleep as well. Just a small dose and I’ll take it away with me in case you feel the need to augment.”

“I’m not a child who can’t be trusted.”

“I know you’re not. But laudanum can be quite dangerous.” She automatically thought of Yves. “Take this.” She held out the small cup to him and he swallowed it down.

He gave a snort and a wince. “No chance of me overdosing on that. It tastes foul.”

“Probably a good thing, although I do believe some people become addicted to it, so they must be able to get over the taste. At least, so I’ve been told. A substance to be avoided, in my opinion.”

He looked up at her as she busied herself constructing a better sling out of the spare cloths Dickon had brought. How practical she was. And how beautiful. Why had he not noticed this before? She had about her an inner beauty that transcended mere good looks in other women. Her calm demeanor, her wide, dark eyes, the curve of her pale cheek, that delicate nose. How had he ever thought her plain? The urge to take her in his arms returned, despite his pounding head and aching shoulder. Well, take her in one arm at least. He felt his mouth curve into an involuntary smile.

“I didn’t know it could work so quickly,” she said.

“It isn’t. I was smiling for another reason.”

She didn’t ask him why. Maybe she suspected. Instead, she moved to the window and closed the heavy curtains. “I think you should lie down and get some rest. Hopefully the laudanum will help ease the pain. I have to go and rescue Sir Hugh from Hetty and Yves. They are my charges, after all. Not you.”

Was there a wistful note in her voice?

He rose from his chair and went over to the bed. “Could you send Dickon up to help me with my boots?”

She turned from the window. “Nonsense. I can do that for you.”

Oh, the longing to let her do so. And more. He hadn’t felt like this about a woman in… how long? Julia had been gone six years. Six long years. He felt impotent to resist, as, without waiting for an answer, she approached him, a determined look in her eyes.

“Sit down then. I can’t pull them off if you’re standing up, can I?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his heart hammering much faster than it should have been. It was only boots, after all. He was getting carried away by an action such as the soldier who served him in the army might have done, or a valet, if he had one. Just boots. He had to get a hold of himself.

She seized one of his boots. They were a snug fit and she had to pull hard, and he had only his good arm to balance himself on the bed. It necessitated bracing his other foot hard on the floor.

The boot slid off into her hands and she laughed. “I used to sometimes pull my father’s boots off for him, so he could toast his toes in front of the fire of an evening.”

“Thank you.”

She set about the other boot which soon joined the first, but didn’t leave. Was she intending to tuck him up in bed? She was a governess, not a nursemaid… but… No. This was ridiculous. “And thank you for the second boot. I shall be fine now. You’d best get off to Hetty and Yves. They might themselves need rescuing from my grandfather.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right? Would you like me to look in on you later?”

Damn it. He was blushing. Thank goodness the closed curtains hid it. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to bother yourself.”

She shook her head. “It’s no bother. I’ll bring you a light supper from the kitchens when I come.” And with a smile, she was gone.

Nat sat for a while on the edge of the bed, turning his thoughts over and finding they were just as jumbled as when he started. It must be the knock on the head. Or the laudanum dose on top of Casworan’s brandy. That was it. He’d best try and sleep it off. He’d be more sensible after a sleep.