His fingers told him he had been right, and it was only a sprain, if a bad one. Good. No breaks at all.
“My apologies, Miss Brooke.” He met her eyes. “I shall apply an ointment that will help the pain and, to some extent, the swelling.” Will got up and went to the corridor outside the parlor. He’d thought he’d heard Marcus wandering about. The man was not a quiet walker due to his size. “Marcus?”
He could still, however, appear out of nowhere, which was always mildly impressive. He did so, now, probably using one of the servants’ passages that led between rooms. His ruddy, massive face appeared in Will’s sights before the rest of him did.
“Your Grace?” Marcus asked.
“Fetch the green pot of balm that is in my bedroom on the dressing table.”
“Certainly.”
Marcus stomped off and Will returned to Miss Brooke. “I make it myself and use it on my cheeks.” He motioned to the hollows of his cheekbones. “They still pain me, sometimes.”
There was a question in her eyes.
“How long have I been this way?”
She inclined her head in an affirmative.
“Months. But there was some damage to the muscles, of course, so I think that’s why there is a lingering ache.”
If he was not mistaken, Miss Brooke then looked at him with sympathy.
“No, Miss Brooke, you must not feel sorry for me,” he said, with a bravado he did not feel. “It could have been much worse. There was a time when I did not know if I’d ever be able to see again.”
Her expression turned horrified.
“Well, as I said, I can, now.” He winced a little as he briefly and unwillingly recalled his trajectory from blind man, to a slightly less blind, scuttling creature, to someone with half his previous sense of sight, to his ability now.
It was Peter who suggested that the blindness had been more mental than physical, and Will could not provide evidence that Peter was off the mark. His eyes, so far as he had been told, had miraculously not been physically marred. Ergo, Peter maintained, the blindness had to be mostly, if not entirely, a trick. It amounted to the same thing.
He was saved from making further conversation on the subject when Marcus arrived in the parlor doorway. “Thank you, Marcus.” Will took the ceramic pot and went back to the chaise.
Marcus gave him a little salute paired with a smile. “Your Grace.”
Miss Brooke stared at the giant man as he lumbered away, then glanced back at Will with a raised eyebrow.
“He’s much scarier than he looks. But as my aunt has told you, that is something he and I have in common.”
Softly, he began to pat the ointment onto her ankle as he spoke. Touching her bare skin this way felt very intimate, especially as the ointment turned oily and warm. He felt a small amount of alarm at the tingle that spread through his arm. It was completely unprofessional, as well as ridiculous. It’s just because you haven’t treated anyone in months, much less touched a woman, he chided himself. He ignored the sensation and continued to focus his attention on the task at hand.
She didn’t utter a noise as he spread the substance thickly onto her ankle, but he caught her grimaces of pain when he glanced up toward her face.
When he was done, he placed the pot of ointment alongside the paper, quill, and ink. His arm still tingled and his heart was fluttering within him. He did his best to disregard it.
Will cleared his throat. “You have seen the way I applied this to your ankle. I recommend that you do the same every morning and evening. The swelling should go down sooner. You are quite fortunate not to have broken any bones during the fall that I presume you must have had by the brook.”
Again, she ignored his reference to last night’s incident.
Lips half-parted, Miss Brooke observed him in an open manner that he was beginning to see was characteristic of her nature. This time, however, there was some regret in her eyes, along with the evidence of pain and a measure of gratitude. He wondered at the combination, but dared not mention it for fear he would shatter her comfort. If he was to be utterly truthful with himself, he also did not want to make things any more disarming for him than they already were.
She nodded, and he nearly believed that, in that moment, she might express her thanks out loud. But she was quick to recollect herself and, instead, gave another half-bow from her position on the chaise.
Will was very weary despite the fact that it was only just four in the afternoon.
“I bid you a good day, Miss Brooke,” he said. Then he took his leave of her.
*
Jane could not be any happier at the scene she had just observed, undetected at the parlor door. Unlike Marcus, she should hide efficiently. She thought she would have to sneak most expediently away, lest she be discovered by William, but he was lingering in the room.
Having despaired deeply of William’s trenchant practice of isolating himself, she could not be more thankful for God’s benevolence in sending the young woman William had christened “Brooke” for the lack of any information.
She had been on her way to wait upon their guest after being notified that she was awake. She had already sent down some clothing for Miss Brooke with her lady’s maid, Lucy. Jane had spent all morning after breakfast in the delightful chore of rummaging through her wardrobe to find some suitable clothes for Miss Brooke.
Jane considered herself to be an excellent judge of character, and she did not need to hear Miss Brooke speak to infer the strength of the young woman. Her eyes were full of a steely determination, and they were also inquisitive. Many others who had suffered her fate, as well as presumably the hand life had dealt her in general, would have been truly cowed. Miss Brooke did not seem to have a meek bone in her body.
Shortly after seeing the welts on her person, Jane concluded that Miss Brooke was being mistreated by someone—she did not know who, but it was likely someone close to her. That was the sad way of things. Then when they had gazed at one another in the parlor after Miss Brooke had woken, Jane realized that the young woman was trying to protect herself with silence. Besides that, she was obviously exhausted.
But Jane had recognized a spirit in need of healing, much like William.
She began to nurse the hope that, perhaps, they had been made to heal each other, despite not knowing exactly how it would happen. She knew nothing about Miss Brooke, after all.
But upon seeing how gently William tended to her just now, Jane wondered if the process had already started. She was not a betting woman, but she would be prepared to bet that it had. William had always been and still was a caring man, even though this tendency had withered since he’d come home to England. There were still glimpses of it to be found, but he hid it with distance. Distance from the villagers who depended on their duke in numerous ways, distance from her, and distance from his friends. Why, the only person he corresponded with regularly was Peter that she knew of.
He did not seem able to maintain that distance, emotionally or physically, with Miss Brooke. Jane might be a widow and it had been a long while since her youthful escapades, of which she’d had many, but she could still read the signs of early attraction. It was, perhaps, a little daring to hope that something might come of it, especially since Miss Brooke was very much still a mystery, but hope entered Jane’s heart.
William was lonely. It was turning him sour. She would not force something, but she could watch and potentially coax.
As for the prospect of Miss Brooke being common, which she almost certainly was judging by her hands… what did it matter?
With Will and Jane being the last of the Ainsworths, there was hardly anybody who could raise a fuss. Regardless, the world was changing. She had noticed that the aristocracy did not always favor itself when it came to matrimony, now, especially where younger or youngest sons were concerned.
That is probably for the better, she thought. We need some new blood.
Yes, whether or not marriage was in the offing, Jane sense
d that her nephew might just be brought back to a better state through caring for Miss Brooke. Even she had to admit that trying to get him back into the whirl of the ton was probably not the best tactic.
How silly she had been not to suggest that he return to practicing his profession as soon as his sight had recovered enough, when it was obvious from her clandestine observations that it was possibly what he needed.
And she was going to do some investigating of her own: a local had to know Miss Brooke by appearance, and Jane knew that even if nobody could do anything to help her, more than one someone had most likely noticed the marks of abuse on her person. Whoever had beaten her was evidently not very clever, for the welts were all along her arms and neck. Poor Miss Brooke had scarring, too—probably from similar past events.
Someone must know something, thought Jane.
She turned away from the parlor door just as William began to take his leave. It would not look strange for her to be on the ground floor because she often took tea in the airy second parlor. Satisfied by her suppositions and scheming, she walked steadily through the corridor even when she could hear William coming from behind her.
*
No sooner had Lord Ainsworth gone before Augusta flopped miserably back onto the chaise. Her ankle hurt fiercely, but the ointment was soothing and cooling. It was helping a little.
But how was it that he had her feeling so… odd? It was not just his face. She had seen enough of it recently to be used to its appearance. He seemed to be warring with himself. Friendly one moment, even vulnerable, then peevish the next. Before he had come in to see her, she was thinking almost charitably of him.
Until she witnessed the maid, Lucy, she was called, scurry out of the parlor like an animal of prey.
Did Lord Ainsworth mistreat her? His staff? Did he do worse?
She did not think he would take any liberties with his aunt under the same roof, but she was no stranger to abuses that happened where no one else could see or hear them. It was possible that he did and nobody knew. Lucy had been chattering away before he arrived. Augusta was almost compelled to speak to the girl. They were not of very different statuses in life, as Lucy assumed, and when Augusta remained so quiet, Lucy happily took up her half of the conversation.
Lucy had informed Augusta that Lord Ainsworth had certainly never brought home a lady before, and as she helped Augusta dress, she went on endlessly. Augusta—who was “my lady” to Lucy—must be his betrothed, and she was on a visit, and how terrible that she had suffered some kind of accident.
Lucy was bubbly and kind, but not terribly bright.
Augusta was having a fine time holding on to her silence and clamping down on the laughter that threatened upon hearing the maid’s supposition that she might be Lord Ainsworth’s betrothed. Lucy had shown such considerable excitement and almost shock at the very idea that Augusta nearly put her out of her misery by dispelling her belief.
Then, in strolled Lord Ainsworth, and Lucy clammed up so quickly that Augusta had to wonder at the cause of her sudden withdrawal.
“He can’t be a brute, can he?” she murmured to herself.
She thought back to the moment, not at all long past, when he realized he carried a corset between his fingers, and giggled. She would not have ever expected a man of his age, and he was probably several years older than her, to look so mortified. But she supposed it was due in part to their differences in status. She had heard that if a titled man was not absolutely lecherous, he was absolutely prudish. There seemed to be no middle ground with them, or so gossips said.
She could not call him ugly names. Though his manners were, from what she had experienced, gruff because they seemed disused—and in all honesty, Augusta was not making anything easy for him, something she took an odd pleasure in because it gave her a sense of power over someone who was, in every other way, more powerful than she was—his hands were surprisingly tender as he administered the ointment to her skin. He was clearly very adept at what he did. But she sensed that he also actually cared about whether or not she recovered.
He also seemed to care about her father’s abuses. He had asked questions of her, in any event, which no one in Brookfield had ever bothered to do. Not even the old apothecary, whom she’d visited for treatment several times. She hated them for it, especially those whose eyes fully registered the meaning of her recurrent bruises and cuts. True ignorance was excusable, but when she saw the spark of recognition in someone’s eyes, anyone’s eyes, be it a shopkeeper, the butcher, or the baker, she abhorred them for failing to act. It was ridiculous, she knew. What could they do? Nobody had the right to interfere with her father’s treatment of her.
Cowards, she thought, despite knowing there was not much anyone could do for her.
And her feelings toward Lord Ainsworth were so jumbled and new to her that she found herself at a loss until the moment he quit the room. Long after he was gone, her gaze remained steadfast on the doors.
Why did he drive her to both disdain and intrigue?
Ultimately, Augusta had no answers to the questions roaming in her mind, and she was more preoccupied by the question of what would happen once her ankle healed. She would not go home. Lord Ainsworth could turn her out, but she would just run away once he was back inside his manor.
Faking the injury after it was gone would not work to extend the time she had in which to plan. Lord Ainsworth was a physician, after all. Even if she purposefully ruined her ankle again, which was something she had considered, he would know that she had done it. She highly doubted that he would let her get away with the ruse and it would probably just infuriate him.
Interrupting her thoughts, Lady Jane poked her head between the double doors. “A good afternoon to you, Miss Brooke.”
Oh Lord, not that name again. She had only acquiesced to move Lord Ainsworth on in conversation. She did not want to be called “Brooke” when they should be calling her “Gussie” or at the very least, “Augusta”.
And not a soul had called her “Miss” in her entire life.
Lady Jane’s steps toward the chaise were spry, and there was a look of such pleasant gaiety upon her face that Augusta grinned at her.
Then she realized that she was growing tired of her own reticence.
When she was with her father, she was so afraid of his fists that she could scarcely utter a sound in his presence. She refused to live such a life now that she was away from him. Perhaps she could relent. She truly wished to ask questions – largely about Lord Ainsworth and his condition. She was not quite ready or willing to share her origins or her predicament.
She was still not sure if she trusted the duke enough.
But Lady Jane, though, seemed to be a hardy and sensible woman. More to the point, she did hold sway over Lord Ainsworth, which was a little comical given their wholly disparate appearances.
Augusta opened her mouth to speak to another human soul for the first time since she had entered the manor.
Chapter Four
Jane eyed William from her perch in the garden, confident that they were far enough away from any of the open windows in the manor for Miss Brooke not to overhear their conversation. She did not want to be seen as someone who might break confidences, and although she had not openly promised the young woman that she would hold her tongue about anything, Miss Brooke clearly did not have many people she could trust.
It was early morning, a strange time for her nephew to be out of doors, but he humored her all the same. His long hair was rumpled and his cravat was tied sloppily. It looked as though he had just been for a ride, but she knew he really couldn’t be bothered to rouse Marcus on such short notice. It mattered little. What mattered most was that he was here, now, and taking her seriously. “Has she said anything to you?” William asked.
“Yes, Nephew, that is what I have just told you. She has spoken to me.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Very well,” Jane said, with a small grin. “She has not said
anything of import to me in the single conversation we had yesterday afternoon.” She sat back against the stone. “She was merely dealing in pleasantries. But I think she is very lonely.”
“That is of no use to me,” muttered William.
Stubborn lad, thought Jane. “It may take time for her to say anything you want her to, at all. If she does. She hasn’t breathed a word about where she is actually from, who her family is…”
“We need to know more about her now.”
“She is common,” said Jane in a thoughtful tone. “I can tell by her accent, never mind her hands. But she does seem to be educated.”
“Does her accent tell you where she’s from, then, oh wise Aunt?”
She shrugged and gave his question some pause. “She could be local, but as I said, I have never seen her in the village, and neither have you.”
William, as he was wont to do when he was vexed, began to pace. He took slow, deliberate steps between an ash tree and a rosebush blooming with delicate pink blossoms. “I should send Marcus down to make inquiries about a missing girl.”
“I wouldn’t do so just yet.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Even if we discover who she is, or where she is to be returned, she is in no state to be moved.”
“We could start asking in anticipation of her recovery.”
“And what if she is in danger? Could you live with that on your conscience? I couldn’t.”
William stared down at his recently-shined boots. “Of course I couldn’t.”
“She was running away,” said Jane. “I know not from what, or who. But I would stake my life on it.”
Jane conceded that she was sheltered, that she had not suffered many of life’s indignities or dangers. But she reckoned that she was old and astute enough to understand when a fellow person was suffering and desperate.
The resignation on William’s face was, despite his disfigurement, plain. Jane knew that he understood far better than she did that Miss Brooke was still invalided. Schooling her features, Jane tried not to look too smug.
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