‘Levedale. He was the one who got a rope with something heavy to catch round a branch and tangle so we could haul it. It was damnably hot up there, I can tell you. He was a little quicker than I was getting out of the way, and then my foot slipped on a wet tile. We saved the roof though, Celia.’ He sounded rightly proud, and she smiled at him.
There came a knock at the door, and several more ‘walking wounded’ entered. The stable boy had never been above stairs in the ‘big house’, and looked overawed on top of being singed. Sarah sent the two lords downstairs to pour themselves each a stiff brandy, and looked to the next casualty.
It was about twenty minutes later when, having made her brother as comfortable as possible, and placed a cold compress upon his ankle, Celia came down the stairs. Marianne was still sat, dutifully, upon a chair against the hall wall, and looked pale. The worst of the storm had passed over, and the rumble of thunder was in the far distance by now. The front door was opened once more, and Lord Mardham, his other male guests, and the majority of the household servants, trooped back inside, in various states of disarray. All were soaking wet, which Lord Mardham declared, trying to be cheerful, had undoubtedly saved worse damage occurring.
‘Although I have no doubt there would have been a great deal of harm to the east wing if Richard and Levedale had not gone up there and tackled the tree.’ He turned, looking for Lord Levedale to shake by the hand. Celia saw him for the first time. His face was streaked with black and with blood from a cut, his shirt grey tinged, ragged to one sleeve, and clinging to his torso. When Lord Mardham grasped his right hand he winced. He looked up towards the stairs, and saw Celia. He smiled, but then Marianne was in front of him, her lip trembling.
‘Oh, my lord, is it not dreadful,’ she managed, and collapsed in tears upon his chest. He was wet, sore, and filthy, and the last thing he needed was a weeping female casting herself upon him. He put one arm about her, cautiously, and spoke reassuringly. Celia made her way across the hall.
‘You are hurt also, my lord.’ She sounded calm, though part of her would have happily replaced Marianne and cried over him.
‘Minor wounds, Miss Mardham.’
‘Sarah is bringing down the lint and salves. Marianne, could you fetch more water and bring it to the drawing room?’
Marianne sniffed, and nodded as she lifted her head, apologising to Lord Levedale as she did so. He smiled a weary smile. He did not really want to think.
‘Come, sir.’ Celia hobbled into the drawing room. Lady Corfemullen was seated upon a sofa, pallid and with smelling salts in her hand. Miss Darwen was now silent, but sitting very rigidly, and one cheek was red. Lady Mardham, dealing with an unconscious woman and worrying about her husband and home, had eventually given up trying to calm the girl with words and resorted to the very practical answer of slapping her across the face. The manic laugh had been replaced by sobs, but these too had passed and now Miss Darwen sat like a statue. Mrs Wombwell cast herself upon the bosom of her son as if he had just led a forlorn hope. Lord Deben and Lord Pocklington were at the far end of the room, with glasses in their hands. Lady Mardham looked to her husband.
‘It could have been a lot worse, my dear.’
‘I have sent for Dr Stour, Papa, to look at Richard’s ankle. I do not think he has broken a bone, but I am not properly able to judge.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Oh, my poor boy! I shall go up to him immediately,’ cried Lady Mardham.
‘Then take him a glass of brandy too, Mama,’ suggested Celia, practically. She turned back to Lord Levedale. ‘Now, my lord. Make yourself as comfortable as you can upon a chair and let me attend to you.’
He did as he was bid and sat, slightly slumped, in a chair. Marianne came in with a dish of water, concentrating on not spilling it, and set it at his elbow on a small table. The height made things difficult for Celia, and so she perched upon the arm of the chair, in far too close proximity for normal propriety, and commanded him to look up at her. The look upon her face eased all his hurts.
‘You are a disreputable sight, sir,’ she chided, but soothingly.
‘Mmm.’
One hand lifted his chin, and she studied his face more closely.
‘I shall remove the soot and dirt so that I can see the source of the cut more easily. Cuts upon the face always bleed profusely, even when small.’
‘Mmm.’ He let her wash away the grime, and though he wanted to gaze at her, his eyes half closed as he gave himself up to the delicacy of her touch. Once or twice he winced, but he said nothing and nor did she, and they forgot everybody else in the room.
‘Ah, the cut is upon the cheek, just below the cheekbone. I imagine it was the lash of some twig. Keep still.’ She cleaned the cut and very gently wiped salve upon it, then leaned a little back to survey her handiwork.
‘Yes, that is an improvement. Now, is your hand the only other injury, my lord?’
‘Yes.’ He held up his right hand, and the palm and base of the fingers were red, with a linear blister showing.
‘These are thankfully not deep, sir. They will be most uncomfortable for a day or so, but there should be no lasting harm.’ She placed a lint pad, liberally soaked with the Carron oil, upon the palm, and bound the hand with a bandage. ‘The other gentlemen have broached the brandy. Would you care to join them?’
‘Thank you, yes, but I am not so wounded I may not pour my own glass.’
‘You may hold it, my lord, but if you are right-handed, and in a wearied state, I would not vouch for you not spilling brandy on Mama’s fine carpet. I shall pour and you will hold.’
She stood, and made her way across the room. He followed. Miss Darwen, long ignored, was now sufficiently recovered to be aware of what was going on about her. She saw The Cripple hobble across the room, and Lord Levedale follow her. He then took a brandy glass and she the decanter, and poured him a generous measure. They looked at each other. Miss Darwen hissed. She really would have to do something, and if The Plan did not achieve her goal, then it would simply have to be revenge.
Chapter 15
Lord Levedale awoke to a throbbing hand, and the realisation that his half-written letter to his sire would remain in that state for several days. The generous quantity of brandy, and his exertions, had meant that sleep had claimed him swiftly upon being helped to bed by Welney, who had fussed over him whilst also apologising for his own begrimed appearance. The valet had been rather proud of ‘his’ gentleman, but at times very fearful for his safety, and put a very tired Lord Levedale to bed with the tenderness of a nursemaid.
Summoned from the nether regions of the house by the bell, Welney appeared, fully prepared to shave Lord Levedale’s chin, since his lordship’s own use of a razor would be out of the question for a day or so, but when he saw the redness upon his cheeks and the cut, he shook his head.
‘I fear, my lord, that just for today it would be better for you to remain unshaven, terrible as it is for me to say it. I am sure you will be forgiven, in the circumstances. By tomorrow I would be hopeful that I could shave you without doing damage to the skin. It is, might I say, a little puffy.’
‘Do I look totally disreputable, Welney?’
‘Shall we say, my lord, a little piratical.’
‘Pass me the hand mirror then, and I will see the damage.’ Welney did so. ‘I see what you mean. Not a sight for the ladies.’
Privately, Welney thought that the ladies might find Lord Levedale’s appearance rather dashing, since it was consequent to courageous deeds and not any slovenliness of person, and would not persist.
In addition to his rough face and sore hand, Lord Levedale found that a wide variety of muscles were complaining of ill usage, and he was eased into his coat with some grimaces, and even a groan. He went down to breakfast slowly, and did not notice the additional swiftness of the footman who was by the breakfast parlour door, and who opened it for him with a certain relish. This morning was for ‘heroes’. He found the others who might
be so named, and a couple less deserving, gathered over their gammon and eggs. Despite his aches, he laughed.
‘What a sight we present, gentlemen. You would have thought we had to repel a siege last night.’
‘Morning, Levedale. In a way did we not do so?’ Lord Pocklington had a black eye to add to his red cheeks, and had been ribbing Lord Deben about it, since he was convinced the viscount had kicked him as he descended the ladder with more speed than grace to avoid the falling tree. ‘Besieged by the forces of nature, we were, but we emerged battered but undefeated.’
‘Talking of feet,’ remarked Lord Deben, ‘has anyone heard how Mardham does?’
There was no answer. Sir Marcus, who had been well to the rear of anything approaching danger, privately thought the young men were treating the whole thing far too lightly. The house might have burnt to the ground had the wind been greater, the rain less. He failed to understand that they knew this as well as he did, and knew that there had been some risk to themselves. Their reaction was to make a jest of it all, a reaction which Sarah’s military brother would have recognised in an instant.
Lord Mardham’s entrance provided the information they sought. Mr Richard Mardham had sprained the ligament in his ankle, and it was tightly strapped. He had been told to put no weight upon it for a week and then the doctor would assess it once more.
‘There goes our shooting,’ sighed Lord Pocklington.
‘Not at all, Pocklington. My son would far rather you stayed about to entertain him of an evening, and had some sport in the day. He only regrets that he cannot play the host as he would wish.’ Lord Mardham was very proud of his heir this morning. The boy had proved his courage, and also how much Meysey meant to him. It did his father’s heart good to know that. If he had asked that his friends be allowed to shoot every partridge on the estate, Lord Mardham would have agreed. He looked at Lord Levedale.
‘Are you feeling too beaten about to go to the sales in Cirencester, Levedale.’
‘Oh Lord! Of course, the sales are today. I had forgotten. Well, I cannot drive myself, not with this hand, and I look the devil, but if you are prepared to be seen with me, my lord, I would come with you. Looking at horseflesh might take my mind off my burns and bruises.’
‘Excellent. I will send to the stables to order the carriage for, shall we say in an hour? And have your groom make ready to come with us.’
‘Then I must let Miss Mardham know that there is no lesson this morning.’ Lord Levedale was not sure whether this might not be a good thing. Last night she had been wonderfully calm and sensible, and yet her every touch had been a caress, and he told himself that he was not imagining it. She had no doubt been gentle with all her patients, but surely he was the only one to have felt there was magic in her fingers. If he were alone with her this morning he could not guarantee remaining gentlemanly.
He ate his breakfast, putting up with the indignity of requesting his gammon to be cut up for him, and went upstairs to prepare to go out. As he passed Richard Mardham’s bedchamber he halted and knocked. A strong voice bade him enter, and he went in, to find Miss Mardham sitting upon the edge of her brother’s bed. She made to get up, but he implored her not to move on his account.
‘I am come to see how you do, Mardham. We had quite a battle, we two, up on that roof. Just wanted to say, I could not have had a better fellow at my side.’
Richard Mardham demurred, but was clearly pleased.
‘I could not do less, Levedale. After all, in part this is my house and I’ll be da … dashed if I would see it burn to a cinder.’
‘How does the ankle?’
‘I will be laid up with it for a week without it bearing my weight, at the least. Celia says I must not grumble.’
‘Well, and you ought not, Richard. You are very fortunate that you did not break the bone, which would have meant far longer laid up, fortunate also that Lord Deben pulled you away before you were badly burned.’ Celia thought that he had come off very lightly.
‘By the by, Miss Mardham, despite my disreputable appearance, I am going with your Father to the sales in Cirencester this morning, so I am afraid our lesson must be abandoned.’
‘Or take place this afternoon, sir, if you are back betimes.’
‘I am agreeable, ma’am, but can make no promises.’ He only wished, in an entirely different context, that he might do so.
*
Whilst generally preferring to drive himself, Lord Levedale was today grateful for the well-sprung and cushioned comfort of Lord Mardham’s carriage. Jeb Knook was upon a sturdy cob, following behind, and the journey into Cirencester was not long and upon a decent road. The fortnightly livestock sales were well attended, and included a decent number of driving and riding horses. Being interested in farming, Lord Levedale was perfectly content to look over the sheep and pigs as well as the carriage horses. He let his groom run his eye over the pens before the animals were trotted out for inspection, and confided to Lord Mardham that Jeb Knook was like having a spy in the enemy camp.
‘He finds things out, just by leaning over a rail and chatting as though no more interested than someone passing the time of day. Yet many is the time I have been warned off because, for all that the horse may look good and be advertised as sound in wind and limb, Jeb has found out from the seller’s man that it is a wind sucker, or crib biter, or simply lazy. He will come back and give us the pick of the sale, and let us choose after that.’
So Jeb Knook wandered about the yard, the innocent everyman, and looked and listened. He returned in under an hour, and touched his cap to Lord Mardham and nodded at his own master.
‘There’s three pairs of ponies you might take a look at, my lords. The others is not for Miss Mardham. The flashy chestnuts are matched for colour, but do not ‘get on’ and cause trouble between the shafts, the thirteen hand bays tend to pull, and the smaller pair are unevenly paced, as you will see when you look at their action. If I was you, I would consider Lots 52, 68 and 77. Pick of the bunch is 52, but if they go too high … Nice pair of Welsh geldings, eight and ten, know their work and eager to please. The man with ’em says the owner is hoping for a hundred and twenty guineas for the pair, and that would be a fair price to my mind.’
‘Thank you, Jeb.’ Lord Levedale pressed a coin in his groom’s hand and told him to go and wash the dust from his throat but be back to them in time for the likely ponies to appear in the sale ring. Then he and Lord Mardham wandered as casually as possible past the pens where the selected lots were enclosed.
‘I think Miss Mardham would be delighted with any of the three, but agree with Knook that the grey Welsh geldings have the edge. Whilst it is of no real importance, their being grey will look particularly good with the blue livery, and ladies like a thing to look ‘pretty’,’ murmured Lord Levedale.
‘I am with you on that, and if they go beyond a hundred and forty, we will try for the bays with no white markings rather than the ones with the crooked blaze and the star.’
They watched as the early lots came and went, and Jeb Knook came up quietly and stood just behind them looking down into the ring.
‘Lot 52, gentlemen, as nice a pair as you could wish to find, well matched and good temperaments. Who’ll start me at sixty guineas?’ The auctioneer glanced about the ring and picked up the first bidder. Two men vied for the ponies up to ninety five guineas and then one fell out, and Lord Mardham gave the nod. The figure still rose, but by one hundred and twenty the opposition was dithering.’
‘One more will have him, my lord,’ whispered Knook, behind Lord Mardham, and so it proved.
‘Not a bad price,’ declared Lord Mardham, very pleased, as they threaded their way back through the yeoman farmers and horse dealers.
‘The man you was up against was a dealer, my lord, I am willing to wager. No doubt he had an eye to sending them to a bigger sale at Oxford or maybe up to London come the spring, and making double.’
This made Lord Mardham feel even better. He offere
d to buy luncheon, but Lord Levedale said that he did not really look fit for the public, and so they returned straight to Meysey in very good spirits, even if Lord Levedale’s hand was aching. Lord Mardham took the opportunity to thank the viscount for his efforts the previous evening, which left Lord Levedale feeling embarrassed. It did, however, encourage him to think that if he presented himself as a suitor for Miss Mardham’s hand, his actions, which had been instinctive, would count for something to offset his modest wealth.
*
Celia was watching from the drawing room window in some eagerness, and wondering if her father and Lord Levedale had been successful. She was also able to watch as the fallen trunk of the stricken tree was sawn into lengths and dragged away by one of the farm horses. She was rather sad to see it go, for it had been part of her view from the house all her life, and the jagged remnant pointed accusingly at the sky from whence had come its doom. A ladder was once again giving access to the billiards room roof, and two workmen were replacing damaged tiles.
Eventually she saw the carriage coming along the curving drive. She went to the drawing room door and waited as they entered the house.
‘Well?’
‘A good sale, Miss Mardham. Excellent selection of Old Spot and Tamworth gilts, I thought, did not you, my lord?’ Lord Levedale looked at Lord Mardham, who picked up the theme.
‘Indeed, and that Devon bull would have won prizes.’
‘But what about my ponies?’ Celia almost shouted.
‘Your ponies?’ Her father managed to look as though he had not looked at a pony all morning.
‘You remember, my lord, the two really quiet old ones.’ Levedale’s lips twitched.
‘Quiet? Old? You are roasting me, Say you are, Papa?’ Celia’s face was a picture. Her father laughed.
‘Of course we are, my dear. Levedale’s groom is bringing them over this afternoon, and as tidy a little pair as you would wish.’
‘May I see them, or must they remain a surprise until my birthday?’ She looked from her father to Lord Levedale and back again.
Bless Thine Inheritance Page 17