by L G Rollins
“Yes, that’s true.” Because she’d purposely waited until he was gone before leaving Mr. Scrooge’s office. She suspected he’d guessed as much. “Still, you must excuse me. As I said, I have work to do.”
“But a lady of your loveliness should not have to work at all.”
“Loveliness doesn’t pay for a cook or a maid,” Martha said dryly, and then immediately regretted it. She shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have even hinted at how near destitution they’d sunk.
“But it could,” Lord Comerford said, his gloved hand coming up and gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face.
Martha jerked away, stumbling against the well behind her. Her foot, still a bit sore from her fall the other day, gave out and she reached for the stone wall around the well. The water in the bucket sloshed up, spilling all down her front.
Lord Comerford laughed, the harsh boisterous sound grating against her ears. “See what I mean? You were never made for this.” He held his arms out, indicating the stables and cheap rooms around them.
Martha, shaking from his undesired touch as well as the cold, righted herself. “If you don’t mind, sir, I wish you would leave.” Her words were neither strong nor loud, but she was done standing here allowing him to belittle her.
His laughter stopped, but his smirk only grew. “And what if I don’t care to leave?”
Martha tightened her hold on the bucket and hurled the remaining water inside it at him. Her aim was true, and icy well-water splashed all down his front. From his cravat to his knees, water stained his clothes dark.
Lord Comerford didn’t move; she wasn’t even sure he breathed for several seconds. Then his eyes narrowed, and his hands balled into fists.
“How dare—” he took a step forward.
Martha took a hasty step back, lifting the now-empty bucket up, showing him she would hit him as easily as douse him.
His gaze flitted to the bucket and back to her. With a sneer and a few words she was certain no proper gentleman should ever say in the presence of a lady, he spun about and marched off.
Chapter Ten
The racking sound of a cough woke Martha.
She lay in bed, listening. She knew it had been a cough that had awoken her, but she couldn’t remember much more than that.
It came again.
And it sounded worse than she’d originally realized. Martha pulled back the blankets. Frigid night air wrapped around her legs and sent goose flesh over her skin. With a shudder, she pulled the blanket off the bed and tugged it close around her shoulders. No light shone in from the windows; it must still be the earliest hours of the day, perhaps not long after midnight.
She moved out of her bedchamber and toward the room Grandfather shared with the boys. A third cough told her it wasn’t coming from there but from the front room.
Oh, dear. Tim.
She hurried to him. He lay on the couch, his face furrowed in discomfort. The fire in the hearth was low but still shone enough light for Martha to see the redness of his cheeks and his brow, scrunching with pain.
Martha knelt down beside him and lifted a hand to his face. Even before she pressed her palm against his cheek she could feel the heat radiating off him. Gracious, he was burning up.
But he’d been fine when he’d gone to sleep. His nose had run a bit more as the evening had worn on, but she’d only thought he was tired from a long day waging battle with Peter.
He needed a doctor, and she didn’t think it wise to wait until morning. Martha quickly got back up and hurried to Grandfather’s room. It took some work to rouse him, but once he was awake, she quickly explained. Groggy though he still was, Grandfather quickly got up and said he’d go get Doctor Lock.
Thankfully, Peter seemed to sleep through their rushed conversation. There was no need to alarm him, too. Martha hurried back to Tim’s side, grabbing an old rag and the bucket of water left after dinner as she went. As she dabbed Tim’s forehead, Grandfather changed and soon had left.
Midnight stillness settled in around Martha once more. Tim slept fitfully, tossing and turning, but making hardly a sound. Often, his brow creased—in pain or confusion, she wasn’t sure. She patted the damp cloth down his cheeks, then took to cooling his chest and even his arms. She wasn’t confident it was helping, but she had to do something. If only she’d taken to keeping a bit of white willow bark on hand. But they certainly didn’t have the funds for such things when there was no guarantee they’d need it.
Martha let the damp rag fall away and pressed her palm against Tim’s forehead. He was getting worse.
The door finally opened, and Grandfather stepped in.
But only Grandfather.
“Where’s Doctor Lock?” Martha said, standing up. Her legs ached from kneeling beside the couch for so long.
Grandfather shook his head. “Not home. His manservant said he was needed urgently in the next town over. A Mr. Fallow summoned him. He won’t be back before midday.”
Midday? “Tim can’t wait that long.”
Grandfather’s face crumpled as he slipped off his worn-out greatcoat. “I can’t see how we can get to him. We’d need a buggy, or a horse at the very least.”
They hadn’t kept any sort of conveyance for years. They’d finally sold their last horse last winter. Martha could go begging at their neighbor’s house. But after her cold reception last time she’d knocked on Bridget’s door, she doubted anyone would even answer to her. Especially in the dead of night like this.
Martha looked down at Tim. But he needed a doctor now. If they waited until Doctor Lock returned, it might be too late. Martha marched forward and pressed the damp cloth into Grandfather’s hand. “You keep him as cool and comfortable as you can.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
Martha hurried back toward her bedchamber. “To pull on some warmer clothes.”
“And then?”
She’d already shut the door but could still hear Grandfather. She didn’t bother stopping as she called back, “To find someone with a horse.”
Martha stomped through the snow. She’d passed the Grove’s house first. She’d even hesitated near the turn-off which led to their house for several minutes. Even from the road, she could see the house was dark. The staff would be sleeping by now. Somehow, she just could not see Mr. Grove being understanding enough, after being awoken in the middle of the night, to send one of his manservants after Doctor Lock. No, he’d barely sent a few men out with her to find Tim. The situation had been far more grim then, and he’d been awake and in a pleasant mood.
Her time would be better spent searching elsewhere. She walked toward the vicarage next. But it was all dark there too. Moreover, their dear Mr. Jakob was quite elderly. She’d hate to give him a midnight fright. At his age, he might pass from the shock alone. Besides, once she stopped to think, she could not recall him ever riding a horse. Did he even keep one? Most vicars did not make much—a situation she could fully understand—so keeping a horse may not be something he did.
And so, she soon found her feet carrying her down a road she’d never foreseen herself traveling.
Stonewell Castle certainly lived up to its name. The place was monstrous. It was every bit as foreboding as its master.
She’d been wrong to come here. Martha stopped several paces away from the door. What had she been thinking? Just because they’d shared a few pleasant conversations did not mean the man would welcome a midnight disruption. Who was she to him, after all?
A humble woman who’d sunk so low as to work as a maid.
She shook her head.
Then again, if she didn’t knock, where else would she go? She had to get Doctor Lock to Tim as soon as possible. Pulling her shoulder’s back, she moved up into the shadow of the front door.
Her hand closed around the ice-cold metal knocker.
Martha banged it against the door as loudly as she could. She pulled her hand back, tugging her sleeve down over her hand to warm it as she w
aited.
As luck would have it, she didn’t have to wait long.
The door swung open, and a displeased butler stood on the other side.
“If you please, sir, I must speak with the duke.”
The man’s cross expression only turned colder. She did notice that he looked as though he hadn’t yet retired for the night. That surely would help her cause.
“It is most urgent,” she pressed. “If you would only tell him that Miss Cratchit needs to speak with him.”
How she prayed that once his grace heard that it was she who’d come, he would grant her a few minutes of his time. They’d agreed they were friends. If ever she needed a friend, it was now.
The butler finally relented, opening the door wider and allowing her to step inside. The moment the door closed, she felt warmth slowly seeping back into her hands and feet.
“Wait here, please.” The butler left, climbing the stairs slowly.
Martha took the time alone to look about. The entryway was surprisingly well lit. Perhaps because of the guests the duke had told her of? It rather shocked her that a room no one was using would have so many lit candles in it. The cost was surely extravagant. And no one was even here to enjoy it.
Footsteps brought her gaze back to the stairs. The Duke of Pembroke hurried down them, the butler trailing far behind.
He’d come. Relief washed over her.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said. Like his butler, his grace did not appear to have yet retired for the night. He looked exhausted, all the same. Exhausted and concerned.
The sight did as much to warm her as being inside once more.
“It’s Tim,” she said. “When I went to bed, I thought he was fine. But I woke up to him coughing, terribly so. Grandfather went for Doctor Lock, but he’s not at home. He’s been summoned by a Mr. Fallow in the next town.”
The duke nodded—it seemed he knew of the man.
“I really don’t think Tim can wait until tomorrow afternoon to be seen. He’s quite feverish.”
The duke turned back to the butler and waved him over.
“Shall I have a man go for the doctor, Your Grace?” he asked.
It seemed the duke’s staff was quite comfortable with their master’s affinity for silence.
He nodded, but then added, “Have a carriage readied.”
The butler bowed and then hurried off.
“My housekeeper—” the duke paused, took a breath, then continued, “is quite skilled at dealing with fevers. I p-p-propose we bring your brother here. She can see to him until Doctor Lock can be brought.”
Martha felt her eyes welling with tears, not from worry or fear this time, but from gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said. Those two little words felt frightfully inadequate.
His grace only shrugged. She was starting to grow quite fond of his wordless gestures.
Loud, masculine laughter echoed from upstairs, from the direction the duke had first come.
“But what of your guests?” she asked.
His lips tugged reproachfully to one side. “They’re so far into their cups, they’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
“I appreciate you sacrificing time away from them to help Tim.”
“Sacrificing? I—I’d grow feverish myself if I thought the lot of them would take their leave.”
The front door opened, and a manservant stepped inside. “The carriage is ready, Your Grace.”
The duke motioned for her to lead the way out. “You should come as well.”
“You mean, you’re going to get him?” She’d assumed he’d send a manservant.
“We’re going. I’m sure Tim will travel better if he can—hear your voice.”
Another wave of relief, mixed with no small amount of gratitude, filled Martha. “Thank you,” she whispered again. Reaching out, she clasped her hand around his arm, willing him to understand just how immensely she appreciated what he was doing.
His lips ticked upward as though he was fighting a smile, just as they had during their conversation in the church house yesterday morning.
He motioned for her to precede him, and they hurried out into the night.
Chapter Eleven
Hugh moved heavily up the stairs. Getting Martha’s family and removing them to Stonewell Castle had not been hard, despite the early hour of the morning. The family of four didn’t have much which needed packing. The smallest, little Tim, had been so bundled up during the carriage ride over, Hugh wouldn’t have known there was a boy inside all those blankets if he hadn’t seen the stockinged feet dangling out of the bottom.
Luckily, he arrived home to learn his guests had finally gone off to bed and, once Martha and her family were settled, he was free to sleep as well.
However, after only a few hours of rest, Hugh had arisen once more. Doctor Lock had just arrived and was seeing to the boy. Hugh pressed hard against his eyes, trying to rub the grogginess away. He reached the top stair and peered down the hall.
Martha paced back and forth in front of Tim’s bedchamber. With her head bent low, he couldn’t see her face. If her slumped shoulders and agitated gait were any indication, she was quickly reaching the end of what her nerves could bear.
He strode toward her. “Is Doctor Lock—with him now?”
She glanced up. Her eyes were wide and rimmed by red. She didn’t appear to be crying at the moment, but clearly, she had been.
“He’s been in there for nearly a quarter of an hour,” Martha said in a soft voice. She turned and paced away. “What if it’s too late? What if there’s nothing to be done?” She faced him, coming closer.
“He will be fine,” Hugh said. “He’s young and strong. Moreover, you got him help as soon as he turned worse. He’ll come around. You’ll see.” It was no small surprise to him that he had been able to say so many words at once. Especially when Hugh not only saw her moving closer to him but felt it as well. The air seemed to ignite as she drew near. His skin tingling with awareness as she stopped just shy of him and turned back the other direction.
She gave him another glance over her shoulder, uncertainty etched across her forehead, then paced away.
It was as though she pulled the air in the corridor away with her, as though the connection between them grew more and more stretched; whether the connection was more likely to catapult him toward her or simply snap, he couldn’t say.
Slowly, she turned back toward him. “I was so certain when we all retired last night that he was well.” Each step she took toward him made it easier for Hugh to breathe again. “He and Peter had been playing all afternoon. Perhaps I let him overdo it?”
Her lips tugged to the side in self-doubt, and she made to walk away once more.
Hugh reached out and wrapped both arms around her, keeping her close. Her head snapped up, clearly surprised. He was no less so—he hadn’t exactly intended to hold her. But he couldn’t stand to watch her wade through doubt and self-blame on her own.
“He will be all right,” Hugh said, slowly but firmly.
Martha’s eyes filled with tears, and she leaned her head against his chest. “I hope you are right.”
He hugged her closer.
“It is only,” she began, “that I cannot imagine our situation improving—truly improving—enough that either my brothers or my grandfather will be all right. I feel we are on a horrid road, one I cannot drive us off of. It’s taking us down to an even more miserable place, one we will never escape.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. For all the solitude and gloom he’d endured, he’d never known distress like Martha spoke of.
“But,” she pressed on, “present occurrences and situations are not unchangeable indications of the future, surely?” The hope which filled her tone only further drove home to Hugh the untenable state of her current position.
Martha drew herself up, wiping a hand over first one and then her other cheek. “Certainly things can change. Certainly what I fear is only what may happe
n, not what will happen?” She looked up at him.
He could see her need for comfort and encouragement as easily as he could see the golden-yellow dress she wore, as easily as he could see several curls escaping from their pins and hanging about her face, as easily as he could see her dark eyes looking to him for help.
She waited for him to respond, her gaze not leaving him.
“All will be well,” he said, though he instantly regretted the words.
Such a phrase was merely something one repeated when one didn’t know what else to say. It was a phrase bandied about by uncaring neighbors or insincere family members. That one phrase had been used when he was a child and his mother had worried over his speech impediment, and his father had been too embarrassed to call Hugh his son.
He’d heard it when she had died, too. Again, when his father had passed.
It was a pitiful, indifferent response.
He hadn’t meant it like that, though. He truly wanted to help. He wished only to encourage and cheer her. How did one do that?
Martha gave him a quick smile, one more sincere than his ridiculous phrase but not one holding much more confidence. She pulled back, her arms dropping to her side.
He hadn’t helped in the least. Blast him and his complete lack of experience in such matters. No one had ever looked to him for a kind, supporting word. Now, he wished they had. Perhaps then, he might know what to say to Martha.
She took a few steps away and resumed her pacing. This time, the connection between them felt far closer to breaking clean in two. She was a brilliant, determined woman and had managed much on her own. Regardless, she still needed someone she could count on, someone to hear her struggles and support her.
Hugh could never be that man. He’d been a loner for too long. He didn’t know the first thing about strengthening another.
The bedchamber door swung open.
Martha hurried over even as Doctor Lock stepped out of the room. He looked exhausted, with his shoulders slumped and his steps dragging. Hugh searched his face for signs of misgivings, but his head hung too low for Hugh to see.