He was living in the past. And his children were suffering.
There was nothing Marguerite could do. She had reasoned with him, argued with him and lost her temper with him. That was as far as she was prepared to go.
Or it would be, if she didn’t feel so bad for the children.
She passed the nursery door.
All was quiet.
They were such good girls. Yes, Lizzie had been a little difficult to begin with, but she was coming around. Marguerite was already fond of both of them. They made her laugh with their antics. And they deserved more than to be shut up in this house.
If she did not need Lord Compton’s money so badly, she’d be handing in her notice first thing in the morning. Following his rules made her feel like an accomplice in his misguided actions.
She entered her chamber and turned the key in the lock. After her argument with His Lordship, she did not think she had any reason to fear he would come to visit her in the night, but old habits died hard. Not that she’d been able to lock Neville out of her bedroom, but she had kept it locked against his horrible friends, more than one of whom had leered at her and made improper suggestions. All because of those drawings.
A fire burned merrily in the grate and she crossed the room and held her hands out to its warmth. She had not had a fire in her chamber all winter and this felt like an extravagant luxury, but, oh, so lovely.
A luxury that could be hers, if she married again. Marry whom? Oh, no, that she would never do. Nor would she consent to live under Red’s roof as a poor relation. She and Red’s intended did not see eye to eye on anything, as far as Marguerite could tell. In her opinion, Red was making a terrible mistake. She toyed with the idea of writing to him and telling him he ought to reconsider his choice of a bride, but that would be interfering. If she did not want Red interfering in her life, she certainly could not interfere in his. And while either of her sisters would willingly take her in, she would not admit defeat and throw herself on their generosity.
No, once she had dealt with her blackmailer, she would manage perfectly well on the income from her drawings.
Marguerite let go of a breath and removed her cap. She pulled the pins from her hair and set them on the dressing table. Lucy had set out a brush and comb for her. She had told the maid that she would not need help readying for bed and was glad the young woman had taken her at her word. Marguerite wasn’t in the mood for polite chatter.
Marguerite had become used to doing for herself. She had decided she preferred solitude to inane gossip. And not having a maid at home, she had invested in front-closing stays. Fortunately, the borrowed gown was of the sort that had ties at the neckline and waist, meaning she did not have laces down her back. She undressed and slipped on the nightgown that belonged to Lord Compton’s aunt. It fitted a little more snugly than she normally preferred and had a few too many lace frills and ribbons. She smiled as she recalled the negligees she and her sisters had designed. They had been so very popular with the ladies. Mrs Thrumby, who had taken over the millinery shop, had been shocked by the overt sensuality of the garments and immediately ceased selling them. It was likely why the shop had not been as successful as when she, Carrie and Petra had owned it.
She sat down at the dressing table and brushed her hair from root to tip. One hundred strokes of the brush. If she did not do this, it would be impossible to get it under control in the morning. Fortunately, she had washed it yesterday, so she did not have to worry about trying to do that here.
The slow strokes of the brush, the sheer pleasure of feeling her hair free from its pins and coming into some sort of order, dissolved what remained of her tension after her argument with Lord Compton. This was one of the best parts of her day. As usual, the soothing rhythm of the brush made her sleepy.
A loud thump.
A wailing cry. From a baby.
She jerked upright.
The sounds were coming from the nursery.
She waited for Nanny to pick up the child and comfort it.
The crying continued. And continued. Another voice added to the racket. It sounded like Janey.
Unable to bear the noise or the upset any longer, she pulled on the dressing gown put out for her use and went out into the hallway. The noise was quieter out here. The baby’s bedroom must back on to the one assigned to Marguerite. Why did Nanny not comfort the child? In bare feet, she padded along the hallway and turned the handle to the nursery.
The door did not open.
She banged on it.
‘Nanny!’ she shouted.
‘Lady Marguerite?’ a small scared voice responded on the other side.
‘Lizzie. Open this door.’
‘I cannot,’ the child said. ‘Nanny has the key.’
‘Fetch her.’
‘She is sleeping.’ There were tears in the child’s voice. ‘I cannot wake her. I don’t know where the key is.’
How could anyone sleep through the baby’s screams? Marguerite rattled the door, but there was no possible way she could force it open.
‘Netty banged her head,’ Lizzie said. ‘She has a big bump.’
Marguerite glanced around for some means of opening the door. Nothing. There really was only one option. If only she could find him. ‘Try to comfort her. I’ll be back in a moment or two.’
She ran down the hall to the top of the stairs, down one floor and along the other wing of the house. She recalled His Lordship had told her he slept on this side of the house. There were several chamber doors opening into the corridor. She banged on the first and got no reply. Dashed to the second and banged again. A door further along opened and Lord Compton strode out in his dressing gown, clearly not yet in bed. ‘What the devil is going on?’
Marguerite almost sagged in relief. ‘Netty has had a fall and she is crying. Lizzie says she is hurt. You must come at once.’ She turned and ran back the way she had come.
Lord Compton caught her up. ‘Where is Nanny?’
‘Nanny is sleeping. The door is locked and Lizzie cannot wake her.’
He muttered a curse. At the top of the stairs, he caught her arm. ‘Tell Lizzie I am on my way.’
She stared at him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get an axe.’
He tore down the stairs. Marguerite went back to the nursery door. Netty was no longer screaming, but she was sobbing between hiccups. Lizzie was murmuring comforting words. She must be holding the child on the other side of the door.
‘Your papa is coming,’ Marguerite said.
At that, Lizzie started crying. ‘It’s not Nanny’s fault,’ she said. ‘Her rheumatics were paining her something bad.’
Oh. The woman had taken something for the pain. No wonder she hadn’t heard the baby crying. She winced. His Lordship was not going to be pleased. ‘Is Netty all right?’
‘She was sick. Her face is white.’
Marguerite swallowed. That did not sound good. ‘Try to keep her awake.’
Lord Compton came running down the hall, his dressing gown flapping around his legs, a grim look on his face. ‘Stand clear.’
‘Get away from the door, Lizzie,’ Marguerite called out and stepped back.
One swing of the axe and the door swung open, revealing Lizzie’s tear-stained face as she held Netty in her arms, and a scared-looking Janey with her arms around her older sister’s waist.
‘Well done, Lizzie,’ Marguerite said. She took Netty from her arms. The poor little thing had a hugely swollen eyelid that had turned bright red and she was hiccupping sobs.
‘Bloody hell,’ said His Lordship. ‘Where the devil is Nanny?’
‘Fetch a cloth and iced water,’ Marguerite said.
‘Will she lose her eye?’ Compton asked.
Lizzie squeaked.
‘I don’t know,’ Marguerite said far more calmly tha
n she felt. ‘Fetch the water, then go for the doctor.’
He rushed off. A footman appeared a few moments later with the requested items.
Marguerite soaked the cloth and dabbed at the swelling.
A few seconds later Mrs York arrived in her dressing gown. ‘Oh, the poor wee bairn,’ she said, peering over Marguerite’s shoulder.
‘If you could take the girls down to the kitchen and give them some milk and biscuits, Mrs York, I think that would be helpful.’ The children’s eyes were huge and brimming with tears.
Mrs York nodded. ‘Very well, my lady. Come along, my ladies. Cook made shortbread yesterday and I think there are a few left in the biscuit barrel.’
Janey took Mrs York’s hand and gave a little skip. ‘I love shortbread.’
Lizzie looked less sure, though Marguerite could see the longing in her eyes for the offered treat.
‘There is nothing more you can do, Lizzie,’ Marguerite said. ‘I will look after Netty, I promise. And I will let you know what the doctor says as soon as he has been.’ She glanced over their heads at the housekeeper, a signal that she wanted to speak to the woman as soon as the girls were settled. The woman nodded her understanding.
* * *
Jack urged his horse to greater speed even as he was mindful of the mud splashing up from its hooves and splattering the carriage. How the devil could his child be hurt when she was in her own little bed?
Jack cursed. He still hadn’t received a proper explanation, but like a lamb had gone off to fetch the doctor. He’d gone himself, because the man would likely not come out in the middle of the night unless he realised the severity of the situation.
The doctor had certainly come willingly enough when he saw who was banging on his door in the pouring rain and had received a quick explanation. And now they were heading for Bedwell Hall at a rapid clip.
The doctor clung on to the side of the phaeton with one hand and pulled the hood of his oilskin cloak close with the other. ‘It won’t help your daughter if we end up in the ditch,’ he mumbled.
‘We won’t.’ Jack was so worried he didn’t take umbrage at the doctor’s implied slight on his driving. He was soaked to the skin, but he felt nothing but the urgency to get the doctor to see his daughter as quickly as possible. He turned into the gate.
It wasn’t the bruise that had terrified him, though it had looked awful and he feared she might lose her eye—it was the paleness of her skin and its slightly greenish tinge. He felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it. How could this happen?
He pulled up at the front door and the doctor leapt out. A groom ran forward to take the horses and Jack followed the doctor inside. A footman was already leading the doctor upstairs, not even waiting to take the man’s dripping coat. Thank God, his servants had some sense. And Lady Marguerite. Her presence of mind, her generosity of spirit in caring for his children...
But why was she the one to take care of them? Where on earth was Nanny?
He caught up to the doctor at the nursery door. His gaze sought out his child. She was still in Lady Marguerite’s arms and had ceased sobbing. One brown eye was peeping up at the woman who held her, the other side of her face was ugly and swollen. Marguerite looked up at the doctor. ‘I am worried she might be concussed,’ she said. ‘She fell out of bed and hit her head on something. She vomited before I got here. I have been keeping her awake.’
Dr Walker took the child from her arms and laid her on the sofa and proceeded with an examination.
‘Where are Lizzie and Janey?’ Jack demanded.
‘I had Mrs York take them to the kitchen for hot milk and biscuits. A maid is looking after them.’ There was an odd look on her face.
‘I don’t understand how you came to be involved,’ he said.
‘I heard the child crying. My chamber is the other side of the wall.’
‘Thank you for coming to see what was wrong.’ Where the devil was Nanny James?
‘Do not thank me. Thank your oldest daughter. She helped enormously. Without her, I would not have known what was going on.’
He nodded, unable to stop watching the doctor listen to Netty’s heartbeat. His stomach clenched. He could scarcely breathe or think. God, please let her be all right. He could not lose another member of his family.
‘Go and get out of those wet clothes before you come down with an ague,’ Lady Marguerite said.
He pushed the suggestion aside. ‘Not until I know all is well with Netty.’
She shook her head at him. ‘You and I really need to talk.’
Unwillingly, he withdrew his gaze from his child to meet hers. ‘About?’
‘About Nanny and her methods. It may be time Nanny retired.’
‘The girls love her. To lose her would break their hearts—’ He had suggested it once before, when he had discovered some mischief they had got into. The girls had wept and begged him to let her stay. What was a poor benighted papa supposed to do?
The doctor rose to his feet.
‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’ Jack asked, his heart in his throat at what the man might say, given his serious expression.
Lady Marguerite pressed her lips together and nodded sharply. ‘First thing in the morning.’
The doctor gave her a sharp look. ‘Someone must remain with the child all night. I do not want the child slipping into an unconscious state and therefore she must be woken at intervals for the next twenty-four hours.’
Mrs York emerged from Nanny’s bedchamber. ‘She is still fast asleep,’ she said, making a helpless gesture with her arms.
‘Is she ill?’ Jack asked. Was that the reason she had not appeared to assist with Netty?
Mrs York winced and her gaze shifted away. ‘Yes. She is not well at all.’
‘I’ll take a look at her,’ the doctor said. ‘If Your Lordship would like?’
‘Yes, yes, please do, but is Netty going to recover?’
‘She’ll be fine as long as you follow my instructions. As far as I can tell, the eye itself is undamaged. The cold compress has already brought some of the swelling down, but we must be careful with regard to the bump to her head.’
They would be careful all right. He would see to it.
The doctor headed for Nanny’s chamber, followed by Mrs York. A few moments later he emerged, shaking his head. ‘I am surprised she is able to perform her duties with her hands so gnarled and twisted.’
Jack sank on to a chair. ‘How can this be? She said nothing to me.’
‘She kept her hands hidden in her mittens,’ Lady Marguerite said. ‘She loves those children. I suspect she didn’t want to hand them over to someone else. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has other joints that are similarly affected.’ Her expression softened. ‘As we agreed, we will talk more in the morning. I have a long night ahead of me if I am to keep this little mite awake.’
How could she talk so calmly when his daughter’s life hung in the balance? Besides, he wasn’t going to trust anyone else to care for his daughters. Not after tonight.
‘I will stay with her.’
Lady Marguerite’s jaw dropped. ‘You?’
‘She is my child.’
‘If I might have a word, my lord?’ the doctor said, picking up his hat and coat. His expression indicated he wished to speak in private.
Jack escorted him out of the nursery and downstairs. The butler called for the carriage. ‘What did you want to say to me, Walker?’ Jack asked while they waited.
‘Your governess seems to have a head on her shoulders. She seems to know what she is doing. Follow her advice and all will be well.’
The man had obviously not recognised Lady Marguerite and Jack was not going to correct his misapprehension.
The doctor pulled out a notebook, scribbled on a leaf and tore it out. He handed the scrap of paper to Jack. ‘Have on
e of your men fetch this from the apothecary in the morning. Call me if anything changes in the child’s condition, otherwise I will call in tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Changes?’
‘If you find you cannot wake her, for example. Despite the way it looks, I do not think the blow to her head was all that severe, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.’
‘As do I, Doctor,’ Jack said. ‘As do I.’
The carriage arrived at the front door and the doctor climbed aboard.
Jack headed for the stairs.
Mrs York came out from the back of the house. ‘Lady Lizzie is asking for you, my lord.’
He huffed out a breath. He wanted to check on Netty, but then he recalled the scared expressions on his older daughters’ faces. ‘Yes, Mrs York. Lead the way.’
He had no doubt that Lady Marguerite could manage in his absence. He stilled. It was a long time since he had trusted anyone but himself.
Chapter Seven
Marguerite glanced at the clock. It was nearly time to wake Netty again. It seemed so cruel to wake the child when she looked so peaceful. She rose from her chair and gazed down at the child. Her colour was better now and even the swelling was starting to go from translucent pink to a darker shade of red.
‘How is she?’
Lord Compton’s whisper made her start. It was his turn to keep watch, but the last time she had looked in on him he had been sound asleep on the daybed in the sitting room. He’d looked beautiful stretched out on the old chaise longue. He looked tall and imposing when standing and ordering everyone about, but lying down, with his bare feet hanging over the end, he looked younger and somehow boyish. She’d almost reached out to smooth away the frown on his brow.
‘Did you sleep at all?’ she asked.
He frowned slightly. ‘I dozed, I think.’
A Family for the Widowed Governess Page 8