He was a spare man of around thirty years of age, of medium height, with close-cropped fair hair and grey eyes. He had a straightforward manner that Mary found appealing, although she was taken aback by his ready assumption she would help to nurse Lord Rothley. At first, she was inclined to resent such presumption but, upon reflection, it would at least provide her and the children with a welcome haven—a place, and the time, for them to recoup their strength before they must move on.
‘I am Mary Vale, Dr...?’
‘Preece; Robert Preece, ma’am, at your service.’ He bowed, then rounded the table to sit opposite Mary. ‘I understand it was you who discovered Lord Rothley in the woods this afternoon?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did he tell you how he was shot? Or by whom?’
‘I’m afraid not, Doctor. I did ask but, well...’
‘Quite. You both had other priorities, I make no doubt.’ He contemplated her in silence for a moment, then commented, ‘It was most fortunate you were passing.’
Mary was thankful he dropped the subject; she was altogether too weary to field questions about why she had been in the woods. Her eyes drifted closed, exhaustion near overwhelming her, as her mind travelled back over this most difficult of days.
‘How has he been, Mrs Lindley? In himself?’
The quiet question penetrated Mary’s reverie. She feigned sleep, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. Her interest in the marquis was, she assured herself, transient.
‘Oh, you know, Doctor. Much the same,’ Mrs Lindley replied, her voice at the same low pitch as the doctor’s. ‘He drives himself relentlessly. Won’t listen to no one: not his mama, not none of us. He’s been a sight worse since she’s been away.’
‘When is she due home?’
‘We’re none of us sure. If his lordship knows, he’s keeping it tight to his chest, that’s for sure.’
‘We have seen very little of him in the village in the past couple of years—he has become something of a recluse since his return. He would appear to have gone from one extreme to the other, if the tales of his time in London are to be believed. What I cannot understand, though, is his reluctance to socialise with his old friends.’ There was a note of bitterness in the doctor’s voice.
‘No more can any of us, Doctor. When I think how much you two shared as lads...but he’s changed, sir. You’d hardly recognise him. It’s as if he cannot trust another soul. ’Tis a pity: he was always such a bonny, carefree lad, despite that father of his.’
‘He was a harsh man, for sure, but that doesn’t explain why Lucas has shut himself away.’
‘It’s my belief his lordship had no notion of how much debt his father was in. He came home, wanting to learn about the estate—a good five years ago, now—but his father were having none of it: sent his lordship off with a flea in his ear. Called him a no-account wastrel, he did. Eee, the look on his lordship’s face when he walked out the door—I shall never forget it, as long as I live. And his poor mama, she near to broke her heart. He never saw his father alive again.’
‘I wonder why his father rejected Lucas’s help?’ Dr Preece mused. ‘One would have thought he would welcome it. Pride, maybe? Oh well, I dare say we shall never know the truth of it. And I,’ he added in a brisker tone, ‘should be shot for gossiping about your master in such a fashion, Mrs Lindley. Lucas would be quite within his rights to bar me from his threshold, were he to hear us. But I shall acquit myself, for I am genuinely concerned for him and it is a fact he will not confide in me.’
Mary had heard enough. She stirred ostentatiously and the quiet conversation ceased.
‘Well, now, I must bid you goodnight, ladies,’ the doctor said, rising to his feet. ‘Don’t forget: someone must sit with Lucas...his lordship...at all times. If he does develop a fever—and I shall consider it a miracle if he does not—I shall expect to be informed of it immediately.’
‘Doctor...?’ Mrs Lindley looked troubled. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but your bill...?’
Dr Preece finished donning his greatcoat, then crossed to Mrs Lindley and placed his hands on her shoulders, peering into her face. ‘Mrs Lindley, I forbid you to worry about my fee.’
As she opened her mouth, he continued, ‘Leave me to thrash it out with Rothley. We will come to some arrangement. You are to send for me if I am needed, do you hear?’
Relief on her face, the cook nodded.
‘Good. And as for you, ma’am,’ he said, turning his attention to Mary, ‘you have proved yourself already to be an oasis of calm in a crisis. I charge you with ensuring there is no silly hesitation in sending for me should Lord Rothley’s condition deteriorate.
‘Goodnight, ladies.’ He bowed and left the room.
* * *
Mary sat alone by the side of Rothley’s bed and studied the form lying in the huge four-poster, his complexion as white as the pillow upon which his head rested. His features were relaxed, the harsh lines that had bracketed his mouth and creased his brow had smoothed until they had almost disappeared, but, even in repose, he exuded danger. His dark, brooding features drew Mary’s gaze like a lodestone. She conjured up the image of his body—large, muscular, inherently masculine—and felt her stomach perform a slow somersault as she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining his body covering hers, the weight of him on her, his hands and his mouth...
Pushing such thoughts aside, she rose from the chair and crossed to the fire to place a log on the flames.
What on earth is wrong with me, thinking of such things at such a time, when he is critically injured? But the feeling of him lying on her was so evocative, so familiar, she... Of course! With a surge of relief, she recalled the journey back to Hall on the flat bed of the cart that transported him home. She felt again his body, lying between her splayed legs, the weight of his head on her belly.
She was tired and her mind was playing tricks on her. She was not, after all, an immoral wanton, lusting after a man lying wounded in his bed—a man she was supposed to be caring for. She sat down in the chair again and studied her patient. He had suffered a great deal, but he was strong and would no doubt recuperate quickly. Then she could be on her way and these confusing sensations would be left behind, where they belonged. The thought of the journey still ahead of her and her likely reception raised old familiar doubts that pecked at her. Had she made the right decision? But what was the alternative? She could think of none.
It had been a grim few hours and Mary was exhausted. She leaned her head against the high back of the wing chair. Her eyelids drooped. Aware she was on the brink of sleep, she pushed herself back to her feet. She went to the window. Twitching the curtain aside, she peered out, but could see only the raindrops that spattered intermittently against the glass. Shivering, she let the curtain fall back into place, then crossed to the fireplace and placed another log on the fire. She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf—nine of the clock. No wonder she was tired, for they had left the cottage before dawn, but she must remain alert. She must watch the patient. There was no sign of fever yet, but the doctor had said the next few days would be critical.
There was a faint sound and the massive form of Mrs Lindley appeared in the doorway. Mary went to her and stepped out into the hallway, that they might not disturb Rothley.
‘I’ve come to apologise, Mrs Vale. I fear I mightn’t have given you a very proper welcome at first.’ Her eyes twinkled.