A Particular Circumstance

by Shirley Smith

  Hugo knew that he hadn’t the strength to mount his horse and could only cling on to Gypsy’s reins. He could feel the warm trickle of blood under his clothes and as he stumbled on some uneven ground, the trickle became a sudden hot gush and in spite of the support of his horse, he staggered and nearly fell. The wound was beginning to hurt him now and the pain increased with every step he took. As he paused for a moment to let his head clear, he thought suddenly that he was nearer to Felbrook Manor than he was to St Paul’s Church. He might be better to try to make his way there and seek assistance.

  He turned Gypsy’s head in the direction of the Graysons’ home and although he hadn’t the strength to guide the horse along the footpath, Gypsy seemed to know his intention and walked slowly in the right direction. The pain in Hugo’s side was even more insistent and he bit his lip in an effort not to groan. He closed his eyes as his head began to swim.

  ‘Mr Westbury?’

  He forced himself to open his eyes. She was standing before him, the soft glow of the sunlight making a halo of her shining hair. She was so dashed beautiful, she almost dazzled him. He felt suddenly dizzy and needed to lie down. At the same time, he had an insane impulse to keep the knowledge of his injury from her. If she knew about the attack, she’d feel vindicated in her criticism of his foolhardy actions, he thought. Then the swirling blackness which he had fought for the last few minutes overcame him and he clung even more fiercely to Gypsy as his legs buckled and he tried not to swoon.

  ‘Mr Westbury, what is it? You are hurt?’ Her voice quivered and she stepped forward anxiously. ‘May I help you?’ she began again and he straightened up from his position against Gypsy and pressed his elbow even harder into the painfully burning wound in his side.

  Summoning up all his strength, he took another step, staggered and was about to fall, when suddenly, miraculously, she was beside him, supporting him with her slim body.

  ‘You are hurt,’ she said softly, but there was no accusation or reproach in her beautiful low voice as she lifted his good arm and draped it round her shoulders. Looking into his ashen face, she made a swift decision to take him back to her mama. He was obviously badly hurt and she would need someone to help her.

  Speechless and dizzy, he allowed her to guide him slowly and painfully along the footpath to Felbrook Manor.

  It was less than five minutes later when they were met by the Felbrook party who were on their way to morning service. Almost weeping with relief, Charlotte relinquished Hugo to the strong support of Robert and Phoebe while Kitty led Gypsy back along the path to Felbrook.

  Seeing Charlotte’s white face and stricken expression, Mrs Grayson thought at first that it was the shock of Hugo Westbury’s injuries and put a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Only then, in the safe haven of her mama’s love, was Charlotte able to gasp out the story of Alfred Westbury’s attack on her. She sobbed as she described the horror of the accident and her determination to run away.

  ‘And then … and then, Mama … Oh, Mr Westbury is also hurt … and oh … my head hurts…. What is happening to us?’

  ‘Hush, my darling. See, we are home now. You are safe. Alfred Westbury is wicked and evil, but he will be dealt with by Sir Benjamin. Let us first attend to Mr Westbury and then we may deal with your own wounds in a little while.’

  Once home, they summoned the help of the groom to carry Hugo upstairs to Mrs Grayson’s own bedchamber. ‘For it is already aired and made up and he may be comfortable until the doctor has seen him,’ she said airily. She and Robert eased him on to the bed and then Jane Grayson directed Kitty to send up Phoebe with some hot water and she despatched the groom to the church to interrupt the doctor at his Sunday worship and to inform Sir Benjamin Westbury of Hugo’s whereabouts.

  ‘Now, if you are feeling a little better, give me a hand with Mr Westbury’s jacket, my dear,’ she said to Charlotte, but her mother’s busy hands were suddenly stilled at what was revealed when the jacket was removed. Jane Grayson had seen many distressing and unfortunate sights in her life as a parson’s wife among the rural poor, but even she gave a shocked gasp at the amount of blood which was still oozing from the cruel wound in his side. Nevertheless, only the trembling of her fingers revealed the extent of her horror and anxiety. She merely said calmly, ‘Now, slip downstairs and tell Phoebe to bring up some bandage strips from the linen press, my love. If your shoulder is not too painful, you can carry the water for her and then we will make Mr Westbury comfortable.’

  Charlotte, as shocked and horrified as her mother, forgot her own injuries and hastened to do her bidding, as Hugo sank gratefully into the softness of the double bed.

  Charlotte picked up the discarded jacket and looked on anxiously as Jane Grayson placed a folded pad of dressing on the dreadful wound and with Phoebe’s help, bound it in place.

  Hugo winced and groaned, but before subsiding into unconsciousness he became aware that he desperately wanted to tell her something. As he tried ineffectually to cling on to sentient thought, he wondered wildly whether he would ever get that opportunity. Now, as he drifted off, his eyes were heavy and beginning to close, but he opened them as widely as he could, in order to try to remember what it was he wanted to say to her before it was too late. Yes. That was it! He must tell Charlotte Grayson that he loved her … truly … madly … passionately…. He must insist … insist … that she should love him in return….

  He awoke very painfully with the sting of Doctor Armstrong’s needle, as the good doctor proceeded to clean up the wound and put in the stitches that would enable it to heal. Charlotte and her mother seemed to have been banished from the room, for which he was profoundly thankful. He clenched his jaw at the pain of his side and then used a strategy which had always seemed to work when he was but a lad at Eton and had dealt with the agony of a caning. It consisted of resolutely thinking of something else. At that time, he had thought only of his mother. Of her soft gentleness. Her perfume as she used to bend over him and kiss him goodnight. The feel of her caressing hand as she smoothed the hair back from his face before pressing her lips to his cheek and her low American drawl, as she whispered a final endearment before leaving him to settle into a contented sleep.

  Now, instead of the memory of his mama, he allowed thoughts of Charlotte to invade his senses. The smoothness of her skin as her arm had brushed across his cheek when she was untangling the Bakers’ kitten. The pink, ripe softness of her lips whenever she spoke, be it sweetly, angrily, calmly. In whatever mood she was in, her lips were always voluptuously beautiful. He remembered particularly the moment when he had opened his eyes to see her mouth so near his own. He had wanted so desperately to kiss her….

  Through the miasma of his pain, he was aware that she had come back into the room and with a supreme effort he overcame the acute discomfort, and even the effect of the morphine draught administered by Doctor Armstrong, so that he could open his eyes again and look at her. As though she felt the intensity of his gaze, Charlotte looked directly back at him and smiled and only then did he let his eyes close once more.

  ‘Lie still,’ she said softly. She touched his hand as it lay on the coverlet. ‘Close your eyes. Doctor Armstrong says that your wound will be easier in the morning.’

  He nodded as he obediently allowed his eyelids to close, and his hand momentarily tightened over hers. She was afraid that he would slip into unconsciousness, but it was obvious by his restless movements that he was not unconscious, or even asleep, and she continued softly, ‘What happened to you?’

  When Mama had taken off his jacket, there had been so much blood. She glanced down at the dried stains on the pristine whiteness of Mama’s bed linen and she was afraid. She bent her head closer to him, to hear what he would say.

  ‘A few ruffians with a knife….’

  He lapsed into silence and appeared to be dozing. His grasp on her hand loosened and his breathing became more even and relaxed. It seemed that he was not going to reveal any more for the tim
e being, at least.

  Doctor Armstrong was stowing away the various instruments and medicines into his case and her mama bustled in with a tray containing water and a glass for the invalid. Charlotte moved her hand away from his and went to sit in a chair by the window. For the first time in her life, she felt most terribly frightened. She wished more than anything that Doctor Armstrong would stay, that he would continue to minister to Hugo’s needs, that he would heal the dreadful wound in his side. But the doctor was calm and merely said, ‘I hear you met with an accident of your own, Miss Grayson. A collision with Squire Perkins’ gig, was it not?’

  What had Mama told him? She wondered what he would think of her if he knew how stupid she had been in her encouragement of the evil Alfred Westbury and her foolishness in not taking Phoebe with her on her walk. Not that Phoebe would have been any protection against Jim Butler and Alfred, she thought. In spite of Mama’s special salve on her bruised head and shoulder, she was still painfully aware of her own folly in taking such risks. Her mind was buzzing with the turmoil of her thoughts. She liked and respected Doctor Armstrong and was tempted to confide in him and ask him if he thought the two incidents were connected.

  Instead, she answered rather tremulously, ‘Yes, sir. After the accident, I … I was going to get help for him when I met with Mr Westbury and … and….’

  ‘Never fear, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘Squire Perkins was able to summon his farmhands and neither he nor Mr Alfred Westbury seem any the worse for their adventure. But while I am here, I will take a look at your own cuts and bruises.’

  Afterwards, the doctor took his leave of them very quietly, as though there was no danger, no emergency, and yet Charlotte still wanted to scream at him to stay. She felt as though Hugo were about to die and that she was powerless to do anything about it.

  As he was shown out by Phoebe, Doctor Armstrong smiled reassuringly at her mother and said, ‘As I thought. Miss Charlotte has only minor bruising which will soon disappear.’

  Her mother gave Charlotte a searching look, but said merely, ‘Doctor Armstrong will call again tomorrow and Sir Benjamin has been informed of the attack on Mr Westbury. I expect he may wish to visit.’

  Charlotte was left feeling that not only was she powerless to help the wounded Hugo Westbury, but also that nothing was going to be revealed to her about his investigations into the death of his grandfather. In fact, Hugo might not even survive the night, given the grievous injury that he had sustained. She clasped her arms around herself as tightly as she could and took a deep breath. She knew that she desperately wanted him to live.

  With the help of Doctor Armstrong’s sleeping draught, Hugo slept all through the rest of Sunday and well into Monday. Sir Benjamin visited early on Sunday afternoon and suggested to Harry Bunfield that notices could be given out at evensong in St Paul’s requesting information as to the whereabouts of Butler and Alfred Westbury. Bunfield replied cautiously that he had already instigated a search for Hugo’s attackers and a substantial reward had been offered among the criminal underworld of Norwich and King’s Lynn for any relevant information.

  ‘It might be best to keep low at the moment, sir,’ he said simply. ‘Sometimes it’s the best way to flush ’em out.’

  Sir Benjamin bowed to his superior judgement. He was assured by Doctor Armstrong that Hugo was stable and was holding his own, even though there was a chance he might develop a fever. Charlotte and Kitty were taking turns with Jane Grayson at sitting by him, although Jane had insisted that she should be the one to sit up with him at night, as long as Phoebe was on hand to help with changing the dressing on his wound. Sir Benjamin was suitably comforted by the standard of care that Hugo was receiving and came every day to see his beloved great-nephew.

  But Mrs Grayson’s care of Hugo ended abruptly on the third evening when she herself was laid low with a violent headache and was forced to seek rest in one of the guest bedrooms. Even through her own pain, Jane Grayson was adamant that if Charlotte were worried or unsure, she must send Phoebe to fetch her.

  Charlotte sat in a chair near the bed, reading by the light of a single candle, but she was totally unable to concentrate. Phoebe dozed quietly on the day bed, but Hugo seemed restless and unable to settle. As fast as Charlotte covered him up, he threw the covers back, muttering unintelligibly all the while. She tried in vain to bathe his temples with the lavender water set there by her mama. It was useless. He pushed her hand away with surprising force, and she bit her lip and looked across at the still-sleeping Phoebe. No help there. Poor Phoebe deserved her rest after all the work she’d put in. She felt hopeless. She’d never done any nursing before and had certainly never looked after a helpless man. Even during Papa’s fatal illness, it was always Mama and a woman from the village who sat up with him.

  Hugo’s head was tossing about wildly on the pillow, which was now burning hot. She tried to moisten his lips with a little water, but he refused even a trickle into his mouth. Finally, in desperation, she reached both of her arms across the bed, trying to hold down the covers at each side of him and make him be still. But she wasn’t strong enough. With one forceful lunge, he dragged her down on top of him, pinioning her arms so that she couldn’t escape and all the time muttering incoherently, but louder now. And as he pulled her even closer to him, she could make out broken, disjointed sentences which at first seemed to have no meaning.

  Then, quite out of the blue, he declared very clearly, ‘I love you, Charlotte.’

  She gasped and tried to draw away from him, but he held her tighter still and she couldn’t move. All of a sudden, he put his good arm on the back of her neck and drew her lips to his in a long and sensual kiss.

  Horrified, she made another desperate effort to pull away but she knew she wasn’t strong enough to fight him off and part of her didn’t want to. She was enjoying his kiss too much. But this would not do. At any moment, Phoebe might wake up and in any case she needed Robert to help her to hold him still. There was quiet in the bedroom now, and suddenly his head fell back and his grip loosened as though he slept. She was desperately worried that his exertions would pull out the stitches in his side.

  Very gently, she disengaged herself and stood up guiltily, smoothing down her dress with trembling hands. Phoebe still seemed to be sleeping peacefully. It would be hours before morning and she knew she would be unable to sleep. Her feelings were so tumultuous that she felt as though she herself were the feverish patient and not Hugo Westbury. She took a sip of his water and moved back to her chair by the side of the bed, trying to make sense of what had just happened to her, but she found it impossible. Impossible also to make head or tail of her feelings. She was confused and unable to sort out her thoughts, and in spite of feeling terribly tired, her emotions were still in turmoil. At least Phoebe would soon be awake and ready to take her turn at caring for Hugo. She sighed and leaned back against her chair, trying to get comfortable. The house was very silent now. Phoebe snored softly and Charlotte took another sip of water in order to ease the pain of her parched throat. Then she closed her eyes again, trying to calm herself, and managed to doze off.

  But even the longest night must have a dawn and it seemed that she’d only just fallen asleep at last when Phoebe brought in some hot chocolate and toast. She managed to eat and drink a little and then, after bathing Hugo’s still-sleeping face, she went to her own room to wash and change her clothes.

  She and Phoebe said very little to each other. Although it was daylight, the household was barely awake and when Charlotte at last reached her room, she drew the heavy curtains and stretched herself out on her bed and closed her eyes. In spite of her body being bone-weary, her brain would not let her rest. She went over again and again her meeting with Hugo, when she’d found him so badly injured and, as she had thought, likely to die. Yet Doctor Armstrong had been quite positive that he was strong and would recover. Unless he died of a fever, that is.

  Tears began to run down her face in the dimness of the bedroom
, but even as they flowed, she was reliving the soft, sensuous feel of his mouth as it had moved so seductively over her own. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips in an effort not to cry and whispered, ‘Oh, Hugo, darling Hugo, I love you. I love you….’

  Finally, her exhausted body was unable to keep going any longer and she slept fitfully, to be awakened by the arrival of her sister Kitty. Mrs Grayson was still confined to her room, but Kitty knocked gently on her door and came to tell her that Doctor Armstrong had arrived.

  Somehow, as though she had managed to shut off reality for a few minutes, she hastily washed and dressed and quickly tidied her hair before going to join her sister in Mama’s bedroom. Her eyes immediately sought the restless figure on the bed. His own eyes were still tightly closed, his hands clutching the edge of the blankets as he tossed first one way, then the other.

  Noticing her glance and the heavy pallor of her face, Doctor Armstrong said sympathetically, ‘I am so sorry your mama is still indisposed, Miss Grayson, but at least our invalid seems to have turned the corner.’

  ‘T … turned the corner?’ she said in a bemused voice.

  ‘Well, almost,’ he said. ‘Mr Westbury is still restless and a little feverish, but wounds that are inflicted by knives often look very much worse than they are. The stitches are mending nicely and will probably be removed by the end of the week. God willing, by then, he should be on the mend. I think when Sir Benjamin visits tomorrow, he will find him much improved.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN