A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  “Dear God,” he breathed, looking away from her and staring up at the faded blue canopy again. An accident would explain everything, of course—the sticky dampness of his clothes, his parched throat, the terrible weakness in his body. “May I have a little water?”

  “Thirsty?” she asked.

  “Terribly.”

  She rose, and from a pitcher close at hand poured him a glass, then held it to his lips. He struggled to lift his head, but she slid an arm under his neck to support him and with some skill positioned the glass just so. Before long he had finished it all.

  “Much better,” he murmured. “I thank you.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “You will forgive me if I force a little broth into you. Dr. Kent was very clear about this.”

  He smiled. “Kent, is it, eh? From London?”

  “The very one. You have heard of him?”

  “He probably doesn’t recall, but my aunt consulted him once regarding her son. I thought he gave her quite sage advice, which she promptly ignored. I probably wouldn’t even be in this scrape had she followed his recommendations. Therefore, I shall drink your broth, with gratitude.”

  He could see she seemed a little puzzled by what he had said, but her shoulders relaxed suddenly. “Good,” she said. He hadn’t realized how tense she had been until that moment.

  She propped a pillow under his shoulders, again with great care. She overlaid his arm and chest with a large square of linen. From the fire, she withdrew a steaming pot and ladled out what was a weak vegetable and chicken broth into a bowl, which she let cool sufficiently before feeding him. She had an excellent technique as she spoon-fed him. He told her so.

  “Thank you. I am an old hand at this, I will confess. Mother suffered a fit of apoplexy some few years past and never regained the use of her limbs. I and my sisters have cared for her since.”

  He nodded as she lifted another spoonful to his lips. He had told her he wasn’t hungry, but every sip of the broth seemed to awaken him to his body’s need, and he couldn’t get enough of it. But the energy required in the simple act of swallowing soon overtook him, and he found himself ready to resume his slumbers.

  “We must change your nightshirt and sheets first, though you won’t like it a bit,” she said sympathetically. “But Marchand is here. I would have awakened him sooner, for he has been in such a state, but I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. We have taken turns caring for you and he only recently drifted off. He’s very devoted, you know.”

  He was surprised. How could his valet be here? “Marchand is here?” he asked. “But how, when?”

  “I sent for him some time ago. He has been at Lady Brook for a sennight now.”

  “What?” he said. “Good God, how long have I been—have I been unconscious all this time? And how much time would that be?”

  “Ten days in all. You’ve been very ill. Surely you know that by now.”

  He considered just how weak he felt and how much he ached from head to foot. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Let me send for your valet.”

  She left the room, and he had the devil of a time remaining awake until Marchand and two other men quite unfamiliar to him returned to help him. Their hands and movements were not nearly so gentle as the young woman’s, whose name he realized he hadn’t learned in their brief conversation. He longed to be back in her tender care, but the delicacy of the current occasion prohibited her presence. When fresh, dry sheets were surrounding him and a clean nightshirt cloaking his sore body, he asked Marchand if she had gone to bed.

  “Miss Pamberley? No. She is waiting in the hall. Shall I fetch her, m’lord?”

  “Yes, if you please.” So, she was Miss Pamberley, one of the five sisters whom the landlord at the Turtle had referred to.

  Marchand turned away, his face lined with care. His silence bespoke the serious nature of the situation. Only a brush with death could have stolen his valet’s tongue as it had.

  “Marchand,” he called to him.

  His valet turned back, and he saw that tears were brimming in his eyes.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Marchand made a strange swiping movement with his hand and uttered a choking sound as he quickly left the sickroom.

  A moment later, Miss Pamberley returned and again took up her place beside the bed. “I am instructed to give you a dose of laudanum and water.” Her shoulders tensed and she waited as she looked down at him.

  “Kent’s orders?”

  She nodded.

  “Very well.” He was a trifle confused by what he could see was her apprehension. Again he watched her shoulders relax, and this time she smiled fully.

  “What is it?” he asked, smiling with her. “I vow I am convinced you expected me to refuse the draft.”

  She chuckled. He heard her chuckle, a delightful sound that again drew a tug of affection from deep within his chest. How strange to feel that way when he didn’t even know this woman.

  She explained. “This is the first time you have agreed to anything that has been suggested to you over the past ten days.”

  He was aghast. “I must have been delirious.”

  “Very much so. You argued with me and fought everything until the fever sunk you into unconsciousness two days past. I was relieved for a time, but then you were far too ill and far too silent. After a few hours, I found I wanted you battling me more than anything.” She chuckled again and he saw that tears shimmered in her eyes. “We were all so frightened, you see, and—”

  She started to rise from her chair, but he leaned over and caught her arm with his right hand and prevented her from doing so. “Poor child,” he said. “You’re fagged to death.”

  She nodded and blinked away her tears. “I am.”

  “Thank you, Miss Pamberley.”

  As he released her hand, she rose from her chair and prepared the laudanum. Again, she gently slid her arm behind his neck and supported him while he drank the bitter liquid. By then he was beyond exhaustion.

  When he was done, he looked at her, certain there was much he needed to say to her, much he ought to say. But with the first curls of the strong opiate, his mind grew foggy with sleep. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

  He wasn’t sure, but as he drifted away, he was convinced he felt her lips pressed to his. Or perhaps the laudanum was giving him a very nice dream . . .

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Constance awoke late that afternoon, surprised that the first sensation she experienced was a strange fluttering in her stomach. She could not at first comprehend why such a pleasurable form of excitement was teasing her until her thoughts landed on Lord Ramsdell, and the sensation rose to a sharp peak.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She could not remember having felt this way in years—fourteen years to be exact, when she had developed a truly reprehensible tendre for Jaspar Vernham, her father’s stable boy.

  He had been nineteen at the time and she a tender fifteen. Tall and handsome, Jaspar had been a god walking among the horses and towering nearly half a head over her own height. She knew he had been much taken with her, and an easy familiarity had developed between them. His accent had been low, of course, but everything else about him was exceptional—he read voraciously and his everyday prose was remarkable, his conversation was intelligent, his manners unexceptionable, and though she knew he held tender feelings toward her, he never once crossed the pale. Except in birth, he was very much her equal.

  She had, however, forced a kiss from him the night before he left for India and bade him promise to write to her often, a promise he had kept quite faithfully. A friendly correspondence had ensued, and she had been apprised of his every success in the land of elephants, heat, and torrential seasonal rains. She was expecting his return to England within the next twelvemonth, at which time he hoped to purchase a snug property, take a wife, and rais
e—in his terms—a passel of lively brats.

  He had always called her a brat during her growing-up years, and even now referred to her in just such affectionate terms in his letters. She understood him, or at least thought she did—he wanted to keep their relationship in a comfortable place. For that she was grateful. She had long since forgotten the butterflies and the farewell kiss and knew Jaspar now as a dear, dear friend whose company she hoped to enjoy once he returned to England, but nothing more.

  How strange to think, however, that in all these years, and some eight, no, nine, offers of marriage later, the only man to have come close to arousing those early compelling sensations within her heart was lying across the hall in one of her bedchambers, gaunt from his vigorous battle with a near-crippling infection, and that, after having nearly gotten himself killed on her property. Because he was a peer of the realm, her interest in him seemed ridiculous in the extreme. What? Would only a nobleman do for Miss Pamberley of Lady Brook Cottage?

  As she glanced toward her windows, she noted that she had forgotten to close the shutters and the faded chintz drapes before sliding between the sheets. A warm afternoon light streamed into her bedchamber, casting the pink accents of her room into a rosy glow.

  She rolled slightly onto her side, her gaze fixed to swirling sunbeams, and sighed with deep contentment. Ramsdell would live. She sighed and smiled. She could be at ease in her mind now, and she could recover from ten rigorous days of nursing. Knowing that Ramsdell was safe had caused her mind and body to sink into a stretch of slumber that had been as peaceful as it had been long. She felt rested and alive, even though a bone-weariness still clung to her.

  From the onset of the recent raging fever, Dr. Kent had prepared her for the probability that Ramsdell would not survive the night. Yet, somehow, in the depths of his illness, his body and spirit had surprised them all—he had embraced life anew.

  The entire experience had affected her deeply but not unexpectedly. She had cared for her father in just the same way when a terrible fever had taken hold of him. He had spoken incomprehensible things to her in a delirium, he had become a hollow, unspeaking shell in his unconsciousness, he had never awakened again. She and her mother had wept over his body, and together they had buried him.

  Yet Ramsdell had lived.

  She swiped at surprising tears. She was so grateful the ordeal was over. Only why had she placed a kiss on his lips just before she had quit his bedchamber?

  In part because she was so relieved and in part because Ramsdell was in too many respects every woman’s ideal. He was quite handsome, tall, and dark. His chin bore a noble line that spoke of medieval campaigns and wars waged on the Continent in more recent centuries. His lineage could be traced back to the Conqueror. Her closest friend, the parson’s wife, had come to call during Ramsdell’s illness, and had told her all she knew of the viscount, which was significant since she was an inveterate gossip and was acquainted with all the aristocratic lines crisscrossing England.

  “You have Ramsdell in one of your bedchambers?” Sophia Spencer had said with a hand to her bosom. “But, Constance, you can have no idea! There are scarcely a handful of families who can claim to be descended from William’s conquering nobility, and the Ramsdell family is one of them!”

  Constance had been too worried at the moment to have been astonished by Sophia’s exclamations. However, the danger to his life had passed and she could now be properly impressed. According to Sophia Spencer, he was worth at least seven, possibly eight thousand per annum, a sum that was staggering to Constance, given her need to maintain her household and lands on less than six hundred per year. How much good he must accomplish on his own estate!

  Her mind drifted into a pleasant reverie. If she had such an income to lavish upon Lady Brook, what wouldn’t she do to improve the property? She would drain some of the bottom lands to the south that were invariably sloppy during the early spring months, so much so that she had come to call them the marshlands. After draining them, she would plant an orchard of peach trees, which she would harvest and sell to the voracious London markets. She would buy up the acreage she had been coveting from the old priory lands that had not been inhabited for some thirty years and plant flax or possibly wheat. She would buy more land in the coming years and rent it to a tenanted farmer of superior intelligence who had studied Coke’s progress over the years. She would restore Lady Brook to her former gentle magnificence. She would . . . She would . . . There was so much she would do.

  But these were dreams in which she did not indulge frequently, for the thought of them, however pleasant for a time, generally tended to lower her spirits. She was not in possession of such funds, and undoubtedly would not be so in the near future. Besides, all her savings were now being spent on cutting a new lane through the fir forest.

  A light scratching on the door disturbed her reverie. “Come,” she called out over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye she saw that Celeste, her middle sister, had entered the room. She looked very fetching in a white gown some few years old that bore a new pale pink ruffle about the bodice. A small spray of rosebuds and ivy adorned her white-blond hair, which was arranged becomingly in curls atop her head.

  “Good afternoon,” Celeste called to her.

  “And to you, dearest,” Constance returned.

  Celeste smiled, crossing the room to round the bed. “How are you feeling?” she asked, her smile softening into a faint expression of concern. “Are you greatly fatigued?”

  Constance sighed and shifted to sit up in bed. “To own the truth, I find I am very much refreshed, though I must confess to a certain latent fatigue. But do tell me, how is Ramsdell? Has Dr. Kent been to see him?”

  Her sister nodded. “Hours ago. He arrived shortly after nine o’clock, and when he left the viscount’s chamber he was beaming. I told him you had left strict orders that when he arrived you were to be awakened, but he was adamant that you should rest. He said he did not want another patient on his hands and that you were to be coddled for a day or two just to be sure you did not fall ill.” She settled herself on the side of the tall bed, both feet dangling toward the floor in a childlike manner.

  “Of the moment, I am grateful he rescinded my orders,” Constance said. “So tell me, how fares our other patient?”

  Celeste’s pretty face took on a glow. “Mr. Albion improves daily,” she reported.

  Constance watched her carefully. She was aware that during the past seventeen days, Mr. Albion had charmed all her sisters, for he was a handsome young man of considerable address. She had also learned his identity from Marchand. His name was Charles Kidmarsh and he was cousin and ward to Lord Ramsdell, a fact she had kept to herself, bidding Marchand to do the same. Time enough, once Ramsdell gained a little strength, to sort out precisely how the matter

  of his amnesia should be handled.

  For the present, she was more concerned that any of her sisters should tumble in love with a man whose portion was unknown to her, but which she believed to be quite small. There had been nothing on his person at the time of the accident to indicate otherwise to her.

  As for Celeste, her light blue eyes certainly gleamed when she spoke of Mr. Albion, but beyond this Constance was unable to detect a deepening of her sentiments.

  “Did Dr. Kent see him as well? Is there the smallest sign that he might be regaining his memory or at least some knowledge of his own identity?”

  “As to that,” she muttered, her face taking on a darkling aspect, “I wouldn’t know. Marianne locked me in the nursery when Dr. Kent came to speak with him. I wanted very much to pound on the door and demand she release me, but how would that appear to Mr. Albion?” Her blue eyes were wide, as though the question would make perfect sense to Constance.

  Constance, however, was alarmed. When Marianne took to such ridiculously childish stratagems in order to gain a stronghold in her pursuit of a suitor, she was also equally as likely to consent to a scandalous elopement.

  C
eleste then brightened and added. “But you cannot have heard the latest. Katherine and I have come to believe that Mr. Albion is acquainted with Lord Ramsdell in some manner. Of course we told Alby, Mr. Albion, of his arrival and of the accident but from the first, whenever Ramsdell’s name was mentioned, Alby became quite agitated. I once pressed him about Ramsdell, but he vowed the name meant nothing to him.”

  She sighed before continuing, “He possesses the sweetest, most tenderest of hearts. He always inquires after Ramsdell, you know, wanting to be informed almost hourly of the precise state of his health. He had tears in his eyes when Marianne told him this morning that Lord Ramsdell would live. But then, we had all become such watering pots that it was no wonder Alby was so moved.” Her face then grew mulish again. “It was shortly after that, when Alby had singled me out to read the next few stanzas of Byron’s ‘Corsair,’ that Marianne lured me into the nursery as though she had some great secret to tell, then locked me in!”

  “How did you get out?”

  “I called to Finch from the nursery window, of course. He sent one of the maids with the key.”

  “Ah,” Constance murmured.

  By the end of Celeste’s recital, Constance felt a little more at ease. Her middle sister seemed more interested in competing with Marianne than with actually engaging Mr. Albion in a serious flirtation. For this she was grateful. Of all her sisters, only Celeste was close to marrying.

  For the past two years, she had been courted by a well-to-do baronet by the name of Sir Henry Crowthorne. Sir Henry, bless him, had formed a deep attachment to Celeste and had made his intentions clear by attending to her quite fastidiously at every social event the Pamberley sisters attended.