So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  He relaxed. “Too kind.”

  “Should I send for Bernard? He’s not a physician, but he’s a very capable man.”

  “To hell with Bernard,” Grey muttered. How he managed to sound so vigorous when his skin was the color of wet ash was beyond Fanny. “I’ll be fine. Had worse. Probably won’t be the last time, either.”

  “True,” she said thoughtfully. “I suspect there are an awful lot of people who want to hit you.”

  “They try.” He smiled with a touch of conceit she found bizarrely endearing.

  “Close your eyes.” He obliged, though she thought he had no choice, as his eyes had rolled back again before his lids fluttered shut.

  Ridiculous waste of sooty lashes on a man like Sheffield. Black as his hair, thick as a painter’s brush. Tentatively, she brushed a few locks from his brow with her free hand. He didn’t move. Emboldened, she gingerly combed the hair from his uninjured temple.

  She’d never touched a man with this much latitude before. It was quite…stirring. In unexpected contrast to the warm scalp beneath, Grey’s hair was thick and glossy and cool. A nice clip would do wonders for his looks. And a shave.

  She was still toying with Grey’s hair when Amelie reappeared carrying a tray, Violet and Ploddy trudging dolefully in her wake. Guiltily, she snatched back her hand.

  “Here, Fanny.” Amelie set the tray down, her eyes locked on Grey’s face. “Is he dead?”

  “No, he’s not dead,” Fanny replied, shocked by Amelie’s unhealthily fascinated tone. “He’s simply passed out.”

  “What do you want us to do about it?” Violet asked, nodding toward the blood next to Fanny. “I s’pose I will ’ave to clean up that mess, won’t I?”

  “Yes,” Fanny said, eyeing Grey’s wound. The bleeding had slowed, and she was relieved to see that the cut wasn’t very deep, though still long and with a jagged edge. It was a pity, but he’d have a scar. On the other hand, he’d probably like that.

  She dampened one of the bandages in the bowl of water Amelie had brought and dabbed gingerly at the cut. His continued unconsciousness worried her. What should she do if he didn’t wake on his own? Should one attempt to rouse the insensate?

  She didn’t know. A sense of powerlessness and ineptitude filled her, bringing with it feelings of frustration and helplessness. And fear. She’d felt the same way this winter when Amelie had fallen so ill.

  She finished cleaning his wound and began dabbing it with iodine.

  His eyes shot open. “Bloody hell!”

  Ah! She smiled down at him, relief washing through her. He sounded almost like his old self. “You oughtn’t swear.”

  “Bloody. Hell,” he repeated succinctly.

  Ah, yes, quite himself. She eased his head from her lap and stood up. At the chorus of gasps greeting her, she looked around. Her companions were staring in horror at her.

  She looked down at her skirts and sighed. She had to admit there was a lot of very red blood on her very white dress.

  Amelie was blinking as though she had sand in her eyes, and even Ploddy had turned a distinct shade of green.

  She didn’t have the patience for such nonsense.

  “If any of you faint, I will cradle your head in this very same lap,” she warned.

  Both Violet and Amelie gulped and stared resolutely at a place on her forehead. Ploddy slunk into the background.

  “Come, Fan,” Grey said. “Don’t threaten them. You look a horror. I’ve seen battlefield surgeons covered with less gore than you.”

  “Hmm,” she said, unconvinced. “What good in an emergency is a person who cannot stomach the sight of a little blood?”

  “I don’t intend to be in no emergencies, thank you very much.” Violet sniffed with the peculiar dignity with which she occasionally armed herself. “Now, what do you want us all here for? I hope you don’t think we’re going to lug the likes of him anywheres. I don’t get paid for ’eavy liftin’.”

  “You don’t get paid at all. You get meals and the opportunity to lurk to your heart’s content,” Fanny reminded her.

  “Not content enough to break me back over,” she declared stubbornly. Fanny’s gaze slewed toward Ploddy.

  “Don’t look to me,” Ploddy said. “My sciatica’s been a bastard these past weeks. Besides, I’m an old, old man, and he must go fourteen stone, lad his size.”

  “Thirteen, actually,” Grey said. “And no one need worry about hauling me anywhere.” Before Fanny could stop him, he’d rolled over and climbed to his hands and knees. “For the love of God, Greyson, sit back down at once!” she said, alarmed.

  This command achieving exactly the result she expected—none—she crouched down beside him and, linking her arm around his waist, helped him stagger to his feet. She angled her shoulder beneath his arm, taking as much of his weight as he’d allow. He didn’t object, and this, coupled with his deep, ragged breaths, told her the price rising to his feet had cost him. He was a cursedly independent man.

  He looked down into her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t find anyone, but there was some sort of large beast in the shrubbery beneath the balcony.” Hayden appeared breathless at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the balcony. His gaze swept past his uncle, found Fanny, and dropped abruptly to her skirt. He stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Dear Lord,” he muttered thickly. “Is all that…Grey’s”—he stopped, swallowing audibly and continued—“blood?”

  Fanny didn’t bother to answer.

  Hayden had already fainted.

  Chapter 22

  Amelie looked up at Fanny, Hayden’s head in her lap. “You’ll have to change your dress before he wakes up, Fanny,” she said. “Hayden is obviously more sensitive than the rest of the common herd.”

  Fanny, still supporting Lord Sheffield, regarded her narrowly. “While I understand that certain sentiments raise the consequence of another in our eyes,” she said, “I draw the line at being grouped with the bovine community. Pray remember yourself, Amelie. And I see no reason why I should change my garments in order to attend Lord Sheffield.”

  The resurrection of the pontifical tones Fanny had once used when Amelie was in the schoolroom made her flush with resentment. She was not a child. She had always ceded to Fanny’s opinions and looked to her for counsel as someone wise and worldly. But in reality, Fanny was not so much older than her, and having been in Little Firkin as long as Amelie, Fanny’s knowledge of the world would have to be somewhat curtailed.

  Amelie regarded her with the bittersweet sensation of stepping across a line that could never be recrossed, one separating her childhood from adulthood. It was difficult to be at odds with one you loved, to realize she was not the paragon you’d always imagined her to be. But it was time Amelie established herself as Fanny’s equal, and one who would not hesitate to go her own way. As long as it was the same way as Hayden’s.

  “I’m asking you, for Hayden’s sake, to change out of that dress before he awakes.”

  Fanny hesitated.

  “And do not look at him so,” Amelie said, straightening his limbs. “It’s not his fault you’re covered in blood. And I’m certain most decent, civilized people would be appalled at such a spectacle as you are at present. It’s not as if it were a spot of gravy.”

  She couldn’t help but cast an accusing glance at Lord Sheffield, who’d shed all the trouble-causing blood. He was still leaning heavily on Fanny, a situation neither seemed in any hurry to remedy, Fanny because she was stubborn, and Lord Sheffield because he obviously delighted in making others uncomfortable. Well, he had his work cut out for him with Fan. She’d be driven three feet into the ground beneath his weight before she’d give a hint of discomfort.

  Amelie supposed she was being ungrateful. Lord Sheffield had saved her from being squashed by the urn. But that had been trumped by bleeding all over Fanny, thus causing Hayden to faint. When Hayden awoke, he would likely feel something of a weak sister. And he wasn’t!

&
nbsp; She’d been quite thrilled at the heroic way he’d raced to the balcony to do battle with her phantom enemy. And lots of fine people couldn’t abide the sight of blood. In fact, she wished she were so afflicted. It only bespoke a lofty nature. She sniffed.

  “Please, Fan. I’ll wait here with Hayden. And Lord Sheffield.”

  “Best do as she says,” Grey agreed. “She won’t stop until she’s had her way. She has been under your influence for too long. You’ve only yourself to blame.”

  “Oh, all right.” Fanny agreed. “Violet, bring a chair over here. Ploddy, help me get Lord Sheffield into it.”

  Violet dragged a wrought-iron chair screeching and bumping over the flagstones. “There,” she said, puffing. “Now I’ll gets the garden cart and we can haul him—”

  “I am not sitting in a garden cart to be lugged about like an enormous cabbage,” Lord Sheffield said, making no visible effort to transfer his weight from Fanny’s shoulders. “Or a turnip. Or a marrow.”

  Violet’s face puckered with contempt as she shoved the chair behind him. “We don’t use the cart to haul marrows. We use it for dung.”

  For a second, no one said a word; no one moved. Then Fanny burst out laughing.

  Amelie stared at her in shock. Lord Sheffield was about to collapse from a head wound, Hayden was still unconscious, Fanny was covered with blood, and she was laughing. And Lord Sheffield, taking one look down into Fanny’s upturned face, began laughing, too.

  The exertion proved too much. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped in Fanny’s arms, abruptly ending Fanny’s hilarity. Ploddy grabbed Lord Sheffield about the waist and together he and Fanny lowered him into the chair.

  “Knock on the noggin like that,” Violet said, putting her hands on her hips. “He ain’t going nowheres today. Likely should stay abed tomorrow, too.”

  “You know something about medicine?” Fanny asked interestedly.

  Violet snorted. “I’m Grammy Beadle’s granddaughter, ain’t I? Course I do. Any self-respecting witch knows a bit of physicking. Don’t you?”

  “No,” Fanny answered. “But then, I’m not a witch.”

  “Her ought to, then.” Violet jerked her chin in Amelie’s direction.

  “She’s not a witch, either.”

  Violet snorted again, one of her favorite conversational rejoinders, as Hayden began stirring.

  “Fanny, please,” Amelie said, “before he sees you and we have two men once again unconscious on our terrace.”

  “Well,” said Fanny, “since you put it that way. It does seem a little outré, even for a witch’s house.”

  Without further comment, she piled the tea things from the table onto the terrace, whisked the lace tablecloth off, and tied it neatly around her waist. One could still see the red stain under the openwork pattern, but at least it wasn’t so obvious.

  “There. This will do for now. I promise to change into other garments as soon as we’ve seen to the fallen. Now, wake the boy up, Amelie, so he can help us walk Lord Sheffield into the house.”

  “Throw a cup o’ water on ’im,” Violet suggested.

  “Smell of cat piss’ll wake ’im up without soaking ’is clothes,” Ploddy added.

  “And where we gonna get cat piss, you disgusting old wart?” Violet demanded. “Mrs. Walcott won’t abide the things anywhere near the house, let alone in’t. Throw water on him. It’s a warm day. His clothes’ll dry.”

  “No!” Amelie said forcefully. “No one is going to throw anything on him, whether from a well or a cat.”

  “Didn’t say nuthin’ about throwin’ it on ’im,” Ploddy grumbled. “Use it in place of smellin’ salts—”

  “That will be enough,” Fanny said. “Amelie, wake him or I will.”

  Amelie bent over Hayden and softly blew into his face. “Lord Hayden. Lord Hayden? Please wake up.”

  She heard Ploddy make some sort of vulgar sound, and Violet muttered, “I’ll fill a cup, just in case.”

  “Wake up, Hayden,” she whispered. “The nasty bloody lady is gone.”

  She heard the sound of fluttering wings and looked up to see a bird—a plump rock dove, it looked like—land on a flagstone terrace halfway between Fanny and her. The bird cocked its head inquiringly. Pretty thing. “Look,” she told Hayden. “Even the dove is wondering what you’re about.”

  “Amelie?” he said, his eyelids opening.

  He was so handsome. So perfect. She secured his hand tightly in hers, giving it a squeeze. She didn’t care who was watching. Fie on decorum! She loved him.

  “What happened? Oh. Oh!” He scrambled upright, his face red. “I am mortified. But ever since I was a child—”

  Unfortunately, in rising he’d faced Fanny. His gaze fell unwillingly to the red-and-white pattern on her skirt. He teetered once, then slowly, but exceedingly gracefully, slid back to the ground.

  “Oh, for the…” Fanny muttered, shaking her head. She looked around and found Violet hovering hopefully beside the water carafe. “Violet, get the garden cart.”

  Chapter 23

  “What a wonderful day,” Hayden said, drawing Amelie’s hand more closely into the crook of his arm. They strolled along the footpath bisecting the small kitchen garden next to the house.

  “Except for your nearly being hit by an urn, of course,” he hastily added, sobering. If anything happened to Amelie…he couldn’t bear to think of it. Thank God, from the look of things the urn falling had been an accident.

  He’d not only been quick to look around the house, but afterward he’d questioned Ploddy, Violet, and Miss Oglethorpe. None of them had seen anyone else, and they had all been in different areas of the house. Amelie certainly did not seem frightened or anxious. Brave girl.

  “Yes,” she said. “A most unfortunate accident. But it is a lovely day.”

  “Bloody hell, that hurts!” a male voice bellowed from an open window above.

  “It’s a shame about Lord Sheffield, of course,” she amended guiltily.

  “Of course,” he concurred, trying to appear subdued lest Amelie think him unfeeling. But everyone, including his uncle, agreed that though he’d received a nasty knock on the noggin, Grey had sustained only temporary damage. A day or so abed and he’d be right as rain.

  In the meantime, Hayden had every excuse to hover close by his beloved Amelie. A wonderful day, indeed.

  Overhead, dozens of swallows slipped through the air, somersaulting and diving in breathtaking displays of aerial artistry. A tabby cat the size of a small dog, lean and raggedy and missing most of one ear, lounged in the sun on the path ahead of them.

  “I suspect there lies the author of Grey’s headache,” Hayden said.

  “I wager you’re right,” Amelie said. “That’s the carriage tom. Generally he stays off the balcony, because, well, Fanny chases him off.”

  There it was, then. A big old cat, playing where he knew better, and something startled him and he jumped, knocking into an urn and… Yes, an all-around satisfactory explanation.

  “Do you really own a motorcar?” Amelie asked.

  “Yes. A Milord Phaeton,” he told her. “You will love motoring.”

  “I went with my father once, when we lived in London, before…” A shadow dimmed her radiance. “Before we moved here.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, yes! All the noise!” She laughed.

  “I must add ‘thrilling’ to my list of things you like,” he said, his gaze on her.

  “You have a list of things I like?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t believe you. Where is this list?” she demanded pertly.

  He looked down into her lovely, upturned face and was overwhelmed by a desire to kiss her again. Instead, he contented himself with squeezing the hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm. A man did not importune the woman he loved. With his free hand, he touched his chest. “Here. In my heart.”

  She dipped her head, adorably shy. He considered teasing h
er, but resisted, pulling her gently back into step beside him.

  After a moment, she asked, “Have you seen Macbeth performed onstage?”

  He nodded. “With Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth.”

  “Oh!” she enthused. “And I suspect you have seen the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Indeed, I have had the opportunity.”

  “What is it like?” Her face shone, avid and entranced. “How did you feel when you saw it?”

  At the time, he hadn’t actually felt anything about the structure, his senses being otherwise engaged with an armful of the fair coquette who’d accompanied him, but he couldn’t tell Amelie that. What had he thought? Surely he must have had some impression of the greatest engine— Ah, yes. “It is the greatest engineering feat since the pharaohs built the pyramids.”

  Amelie nodded, as if this were just what she would have thought herself. She would, of course. They were so perfectly in tune with each other. “I’ve seen pictures. And read about it. But it’s not the same as seeing a thing for oneself, is it?”

  “You’ll see it someday,” he promised. He wanted to say more, but he hadn’t the right. He would have to speak to…well, he supposed he had to speak to his father to ask his permission to propose first. How convenient!

  Still, it was agony wanting to ask her to marry him and not being able to. But this was Amelie, and everything must be done in perfect accordance with the rules of decorum, and those rules insisted that he speak to her guardian before asking her. She deserved no less.

  He smiled at the thought. Who amongst his cronies would ever believe Hayden Collier could become such a stickler?

  “I know I will,” she said in an odd tone, and then abruptly added, “Do you think your father will invite me to live with him, under the circumstances?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We shall have to wait until he returns. But I shall certainly advise it.”

  She smiled so warmly at him that his heart felt as though it were flipping over in his chest. “I should like that,” she said.

  He smiled at her pretty puckered brow. Poor lamb, she needn’t worry over whether his father invited her to his home. She would live with him, as his wife.