But before he left, he wanted to ask the older woman a question or two. “One slight memory of the attack is coming to me. In the ditch, there seemed to be—now don’t laugh—an angel by my side. It’s foggy, but a gentle, loving presence. Do you suppose that was my guardian angel?”
“That was Miss Melissa Southwood, the one who found you.”
“The girl who spooned broth into me?”
“Don’t you remember anything?” She smirked, revealing a fleeting dimple.
“Only an angel.”
“That was her. You rest now, Lord Russell.” She rustled the thin pages of a book and cleared her throat. “I’ll be reading God’s Word.”
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside quiet waters, He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
The refreshing words comforted Mark, and he fought off sleep. The last thing he remembered was someone tucking the blankets around him.
~*~
Melissa attempted nonchalance. “How does he fare?”
“As well as can be expected. That knock on the head must be painful.” Miss Cleaver untangled embroidery threads. “He’s asleep now, and that will help.”
Melissa’s hand lay across the open book in her lap as she stared at the fire. They’d lit a small blaze in the grate to fight off the late afternoon chill. “What is your opinion of him?”
“Well…I’m barely acquainted with the man. Let me think.” Her old governess snipped a thread at an angle to create a point for easier threading. “He’s young and strong. Appears to own a good mind.”
Melissa waited and turned her gaze on her dear friend, whose lips had gone tightly shut. “Is there more? Something you’re not saying?”
“No, no. It’s simply that the poor man is at low ebb as far as his morale, or perhaps spiritually, and I don’t believe I should discuss the particulars of that behind his back.”
“True. I’d appreciate discretion if I were in his position. But you do find him splendid, don’t you?”
“Splendid? Now there’s a word. I won’t say no, but I must say he’s a fine young man.”
Melissa stared into the fire again. Lord Russell’s presence at the vicarage caused a level of interest within her that she’d never experienced before. Her thoughts kept flying to him. How was he sleeping? Was he in terrible pain? Hungry? Lonely? She didn’t understand why, but an inner pull that wouldn’t go away nagged at her, making her want to be with him. To care for him until he was well—and beyond.
Melissa took her eyes off the flames to glance at her friend.
Miss Cleaver hummed before speaking without looking up from her stitchery. “My brother’s at Squire Hannon’s. The cook there had her bad foot operated on, and Jeremiah’s paying a pastoral call.”
“Surgery? Dr. Swithins, correct? I hope he had clean hands. Not that I perceived anything to the contrary. It’s just that I’ve read what a scourge that can be. Healers spreading illness.” Melissa clucked her disapproval and made a hand-washing gesture.
“I agree. Sanitation is improving, though—not one woman in the village has died from childbed fever in several years.”
“May I take supper to our patient later? When it’s time.”
“Yes. The sight of you ought to perk him up. An old biddy like me might send him into a decline.” She laughed in her usual self-deprecating fashion.
“Now stop that. You’re a darling, Prissy.” Melissa closed the book, set it aside, and rose from her chair by the fire. She brushed down the front of her gown, smoothing out the creases from sitting. She walked over to the window, peering first left, and then right, and then down the driveway. “It’s certainly quiet here today. Excellent for Lord Russell.”
“Hard to believe the district hosted robbers a few, short days ago.” Miss Cleaver tied off a knot with vigor as if she were tying up a robber. “Supper’s too far off. One of us should check on him soon. He might be hungry. I wonder when Dr. Swithins will get here. He did say he’d visit the patient today.”
Miss Cleaver made to rise, but Melissa held out a staying hand. “I’ll go. I’d like to check on the patient. You rest because you will possibly need to sit with him all night. And I couldn’t do that, now could I? Not proper. So I’ll take a turn at this time.”
She departed with a resolute nod since Miss Cleaver made no objections. She enjoyed her visits here—such an unfettered life compared to that in London. In London, she’d never be allowed to play nurse to an injured nobleman.
Melissa slipped into the small sickroom at the second story rear of the house. A glance told her the patient slept, but she tiptoed over and stood by the bed. Her gaze roamed over him, checking that he was covered, warm and still.
Silly, you’ve checked on him, now go. But she stayed near, hands clasped at her waist. Lord, please be with this man, heal him, and return him to good health. Amen.
She reached out, and then drew her hand back. If she touched him, he might wake. He needed the curative of sleep. The green-painted wooden chair didn’t weigh too much, so moving it into position made little noise. She sat next to the bed, hands folded, hoping that was what a real nurse did in a case like this. She settled herself and tried for placidity. Posture erect, clasped hands, eyes demurely focused on the carved footboard. The whorls of design only held her attention for a minute before her gaze drifted to the man’s face again.
A straight nose, strong jaw, dark lashes splayed—quite entrancing. A trance, yes, that’s it. He’d put a spell on her—one of attraction. No, don’t be preposterous. The poor man’s done no such thing.
Lord Russell’s eyelids fluttered. Sitting there quietly with him suited her well, but the thought of his eyes opening caused a flicker of excitement to shoot through her.
Melissa looked inward, questioning her sudden interest. Never before had a man awoken even a glimmer of attraction within her heart. This one, however, having not done a thing to draw her, captured her fascination.
The sea-blue eyes opened, and he turned toward her, gaze widening as though in surprise. His hand lifted to tug the covers over his chest. He rasped out the word, “Water.”
“Ah yes. Let me get that straightaway.” Melissa scampered across the small room to the washstand where a glass water pitcher sat ready in anticipation. Shaky hands caused a few clinks, but she was soon back at the bedside.
She must reposition him, or the water would end up bathing his face and neck. She set the drink on the bedside table and shoved her cuffs out of the way. Wringing her hands, she edged closer until her legs met the side of the mattress.
Heart in her throat, she slipped a hand under his warm, muscular neck and lifted. She tugged the pillow down lower and placed a second pillow under his head before laying him down. She hoped this would be enough of an angle for him to drink. He gave her a smile.
As she provided this tender service, the rosy-cheeked doctor blustered into the room.
“Oh ho. You’ve got yourself a nurse.”
The doctor’s jesting tone hit a nerve. “I’m serving water to the patient. His throat is parched.”
Turning her back to the doctor, she resumed her efforts with Lord Russell. “Can you manage a sip or two?”
Several healthy swallows later, he lifted his hand to make a faint slicing motion, and she withdrew the glass.
She bustled over to the washstand to deposit the glass, and then diverted to the window while the doctor took the patient’s pulse. It crossed her mind that the doctor hadn’t much to offer for these injuries. Tender care alone would speed the healing.
As i
f he read her mind, the doctor stated, “It is my opinion the patient needs nothing more than rest, willow bark tea for his pain, and the good people of this house to keep an eye on him.” He rested his fingers on Lord Russell’s shoulder. “Simply endure and you’ll recover.”
The doctor bustled out, and Melissa didn’t mind one bit. She preferred being here, taking care of Lord Russell, alone. With the door propped open, propriety was well-served. This was a work of mercy as well as necessity, after all.
Light snoring came from the bed. Her fingers crept over and touched his arm. The layers of sheets and blankets muted the unmistakable zing that coursed through her fingers and all the way to her heart. She left her hand there, making sure to put no pressure on Lord Russell.
Minutes passed at a crawl, but she liked that. The slower time went by, the further off her departure to London. But no, best not to think of that, rather about this poor man, beaten and left for dead. Lord Russell was much more interesting to ponder. And so handsome, too. Questions she’d like to ask formed. How old was he? Had he been happy to inherit an estate?
Would he be pleasant, arrogant, or foppish? So odd to meet someone who was incapacitated. All that was certain was that he was young, yet older than her, and was going home to become Lord of Russell Manor.
Movement from the bed caught Melissa’s attention. A bit of writhing alerted her that he might be waking. She leaned over, taking a good long look. His eyes opened—while she hovered eight inches from his face.
She gasped and reared back. “Pardon me, sir.” She plopped into the chair, chagrinned.
He cleared his throat and, voice dreamy with sleep, made a request. “Tea?”
“Oh, yes, right here. Willow bark tea.” She plumped and propped the pillows, nurse-like, and turned to serve the tea, first cupping the pot with her hands. “Ah, good. The pot’s still warm.”
“I’ll try a sip or two. But that will be enough. Thank you.” The hushed tones of his voice lent an intimate flavor to the words.
Positioning the cup, she let him drink his fill, withdrawing it when empty, dabbing his lips with a linen cloth.
He reached over in an arc, palm up. Tentative, she laid her fingers on his. He closed his hand around hers and let his arm drop to the bed.
Holding hands. Why had he reached for her? Was this a normal part of nursing care? It could be, for to hold a patient’s hand seemed to be within the realm of possible normalcy. But she wasn’t sure.
The intimacy of the moment choked her up. Having been so lacking in companionship the last year, physical contact comforted a part of her she hardly remembered existed.
Not simply any someone, either. A shivery thrill ran up her spine, and she sat straighter, trying to rid herself of such errant thoughts and emotions. Inappropriate longings for her patient warred with demure self-scolding. What would it be like for those strong arms to come around her? I must stop this madness.
He released her hand. “You’re an excellent nurse.” He reached up and gingerly touched his forehead, all the while gazing at her from beneath heavy lids and a thick sweep of bronze eyelashes.
To her surprise, he flung back the covers from his upper body and sat up. Flustered, she leapt to her feet and took a step back.
“Do you reside in Russelton, Miss Southwood?"
His smile held a hint of flirtation if she wasn’t mistaken. She whisked her hands behind her back to hide their sudden shaking. His low voice trickled through her confusion. She must answer his simple question. “Honored to make your acquaintance, and no, I don’t live here. I’m a guest—from London.” Highly irregular, but Melissa strove to say all the proper things. Difficult to do in such a setting.
She brought the cup to his lips again, and he took a sip, and then pushed it away.
“You’ve had enough?”
“Yes. So, kind. I lived in London, too.”
“Could you eat some food? I can have the cook put together a light supper.”
“That sounds excellent.”
“I shall get you a tray.”
“Very well.”
He appeared to be a man of few words, but injuries could account for that. Agitated by his nearness, she glanced over her shoulder on her way out of the room.
Reaching the kitchen via the back stairs, she quickly assembled what she thought would be an appropriate meal for an invalid. Thinly sliced bread, a small bowl of plum sauce, and broth from a pan kept hot on the stove. Bustling, she re-entered the sickroom in less than a quarter-hour.
“Here is your food.”
“I’ll hold the tray on my lap, if you please.” In her absence, he’d propped his pillows against the headboard and sat up against them.
She handed over the meal and pivoted away, scuttling over to the window. The man’s nearness undid her usual calm propriety. Nothing in her previous experience prepared her for the presence of this man, nor for the sensations he aroused within her.
5
“How do you like your bread? Or the fruit sauce? What’s wrong? Are you suffering?” The words came tumbling out.
Mark kept his tone measured and pleasant. “The food you brought is delicious. I am not in pain.”
The young lady’s eyes flew wide, and her hand covered her lips. He hated having alarmed her. Bad enough she had to see him thus. Helplessness didn’t suit him. His main purpose was to get home. How ironic, that when he finally resolved to walk the straight and narrow, he’d been struck down.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, just call a manservant.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
The little lady slipped out of the room. He missed her already, but he needed to get home.
A servant clad in workman’s garb arrived a few minutes later and stood just inside the door, turning his cap in his hands. “May I help you, milord? The young lady said you were asking for me?”
“Yes. What’s your name, fellow?”
“Toby. I work in the stables and as a handyman for the minister. At yer service.”
“Be a good lad, Toby, and bring me my clothes—there, hanging on that hook. Yes, those. See if you can locate my boots.”
While the servant searched for the boots, Mark dressed. When he got to the neckcloth, he shook his head at the crumpled mess that once was a gleaming, starched fashionable cravat and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
Toby returned with the boots. “Found ’em in the hall.”
“Very good. That’s all for now, thank you.”
Alone again, he forced his feet into the snug boots. The sore ankle protested, but happy to be dressed and resolved to get to Russell Manor, he bid a mental adieu to the sickroom and headed downstairs to bid farewell to his hosts.
~*~
In the cozy parlor below, Melissa started at the sound of booted feet coming down the front stairs. “What’s that?”
The appearance of a bedraggled Lord Russell answered her question as he limped through the door and stopped a few paces inside the room.
“I don’t recall Dr. Swithins suggesting you come downstairs.”
“Pardon my dishevelment, Mr. Cleaver, Miss Cleaver, Miss Southwood. It’s past time I get to Russell Manor. My injuries are not major, and I simply need healing, which I can do there, without inconveniencing your entire household.”
Since the Cleavers sat silent and dumbstruck, Melissa seized the moment. “That’s all very well, but the doctor said—”
“Yes, he did say something such as to imply all I needed was rest. Dear friends, may I call you friends? I must get to the manor and tend to my responsibilities.”
Mr. Cleaver found his voice. “Indeed we are friends. It’s been an honor to have you under our roof and now that we are neighbors, hope to see you hither and yon for many years to come.”
“I am eternally grateful for all you’ve done,” Lord Russell said, his glance touching them all. He clasped the minister’s hand in a strong grasp. “Though I am up on my feet, I’ll ne
ed another way home—not sure I’m up to a walk of that length.”
“Ah yes, I’ll prepare to drive you home. Happy to be of service.” Mr. Cleaver departed.
A flicker of loss cascaded through Melissa’s chest. Would the man, her patient a few minutes ago, leave with mere commonplace farewells? After what she believed to be a special connection? Foolish, silly girl!
He moved to bow over Miss Cleaver’s hand. He murmured more words of appreciation before turning to Melissa. “Miss Southwood.” His gaze direct, he went on, “To you, I offer my sincere gratitude for your tender care. I swear it was your sweet succor that brought me to my senses and gave me the strength to do what I must.” With this bit of flattery, he swept up her hand and placed a kiss a mere hairsbreadth from her skin.
She withdrew after an acceptable time passed. Though wanting to cherish the feel of his touch, she needed to act as though she accepted his parting with maidenly submissive equanimity.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you are stronger than the doctor thought.” I sound insipid. He’ll never want to see me again. As if seeing her once more mattered to this lord. It had been hard to witness a strong, virile man like him down, even though he’d been attacked and had every reason to lie low. So her time of playing nursemaid came to an end. She’d still possess sweet memories.
Lord Russell nodded toward them, pivoted, and left the room
“Now, that was a surprise.” Melissa shoved aside the curtain and watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the vicarage.
“I agree. A shock.” Miss Cleaver collapsed onto the settee with a flounce of her skirts. “I hope he doesn’t experience a terrible setback. So like a man.”
Worry lanced through Melissa. “Is there anything more we should do?”
“We need to keep him in our prayers. Rising from a sickbed before one is pronounced well is not preferential to one’s health.” Miss Cleaver wagged her head. “We can’t gauge the real state of his recovery.”
Miss Cleaver’s declaration didn’t ease Melissa’s mind. “I wanted to do something tangible for the poor man.”
Miss Cleaver gave her an assessing stare.
A Match for Melissa Page 3