Willowswood Match

by Gayle Buck

  Miranda knelt beside her small cousin, not heeding the water that soaked her riding skirt. Brushing aside his tumbled hair, she laid a cool hand against his forehead. “He is burning with fever,” she said quietly.

  Lord Townsend ruthlessly ripped his expensive neckcloth into lengths. “He will be fortunate if he does not die from exposure,” he said grimly.

  The groom returned with two long branches that he had trimmed clean. The viscount nodded to him and without a word exchanged the two men prepared to set the broken limb. Miranda took firm hold of Robert’s shoulders, dreading the moment that the leg was straightened. It was as bad as she thought possible. The boy’s body rose under her straining hands. He cried out in a succession of rising screams and his hands tore frantically at her restraining arms. At last it was done. The boy went limp, sobbing pitifully.

  Miranda sat back on her heels, shaken in every nerve. Lord Townsend wrapped his nephew in his coat, throwing a glance at her as he did so. “Are you all right, Miss Wainwright?” She nodded and got to her feet, turning away toward her horse. The viscount jerked his head at his groom, who hurried to aid the lady into her saddle.

  With the boy held against his chest, Lord Townsend walked to his mount. He waited for the groom and gave his nephew into the man’s hold. Then he stepped into the saddle and reached down to once more take the boy. Lord Townsend settled Robert as comfortably as he could before him in the saddle before he started the horse into a walk.

  The boy sighed. He knew that somehow he had been found and he was safe. He burrowed closer against the reassuring security of his uncle’s body. “Uncle Andrew,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. But you didn’t say anything about trees.”

  Lord Townsend looked down at the top of his unruly head. The worry he felt sharpened his voice to anger. “My God, boy, what were you thinking of?”

  The boy’s eyes flew open and in a passing shaft of moonlight they were quite lucid. “Papa. I was thinking of Papa.” His lashes drooped once more and his chin sank onto his chest.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  When the search party returned to Willowswood the dinner hour had already come and gone. The viscount carried his nephew inside the house, leaving his mount to his groom’s care. Miranda followed him, pausing only long enough to give instructions to Crumpet, who met them at the door. The butler nodded and went at once to carry out her orders.

  As Lord Townsend strode through the hall, Anne came out of the drawing room at a rush. Her face was white and her eyes were large pools of anxiety. She exclaimed incoherently at sight of her son lying limp and unmoving in his uncle’s arms. His head had fallen back over Lord Townsend’s arm and Anne realized that he was unconscious. The maid who accompanied her laid a calming hand on her arm, but Anne shook her off. She caught up with Lord Townsend at the stairs. “Andrew! What has happened? Is he…Oh dear God.”

  “No, he is not dead! Out of my way, Anne. He needs to be put to bed,” said the viscount impatiently. He brushed past his sister-in-law and quickly took the stairs.

  Miranda and the maid converged on Anne, who stood immobile, staring after her son. Unheeded tears slipped down her face. Miranda put an arm around her cousin’s fragile shoulders. “Robert has suffered a broken leg, Anne, and he was horribly chilled by the night air. Once he is warm and comfortable he will be fine,” she said soothingly.

  Anne clutched her arm. “With Richard gone and wondering every day if he is safe, alive…Miranda, I could not bear it if anything should happen to Robert. He and I are all either of us have right now.”

  Miranda met the maid’s eyes and the woman nodded slightly. “I understand, Anne. I think it best if you go with Grace now. It would not do for you to appear at Robert’s bedside just yet. Your tears would frighten him.”

  Anne dashed her hands across her eyes. “You are right, of course. How incredibly silly of me. But Miranda—the doctor! He must be sent for.”

  “I have already requested Crumpet to send someone for the good doctor. Do go on, Anne. I shall look in on Robert myself and after I have seen him I shall come at once to you,” said Miranda.

  Anne nodded. “Very well, I shall do as you ask.” She allowed the maid to lend her support for the climb up the stairs.

  Miranda did not match her cousin’s slower steps but went swiftly up to the nursery. She pushed open the door. Lord Townsend looked up at her entrance but he did not address her. He was holding his nephew while Constance Graves swiftly put a clean nightshirt on the boy. Robert was conscious. His lips were compressed and his small face tight. His limbs were nearly rigid and his body jumped at the least jar to his leg. At last the task was done and the viscount gently laid him down on the pillows. Robert sighed in relief and turned his head aside to the wall.

  Miranda came up to the bed. As best she could without touching the leg she studied the wound. It was inflamed and filthy and swollen. Sight of the fractured bone was almost obliterated by the traumatized flesh around it, but it looked to have been cleanly set. When she retreated from the bedside, the viscount took her place, dragging a chair close so that he could sit beside his nephew. He took Robert’s limp hand in his own.

  Constance, who had observed her mistress’s frown, moved a little away from the bed to join Miranda. “What think you, Miss Miranda?” asked Constance quietly.

  Miranda turned to her. Her low voice was crisp. “It must be cleaned immediately. Already infection has set in. I shall have to gather some fresh herbs. The medicinal cabinet is woefully inadequate. Pray ask Mrs. Crumpet to heat some water, Constance. I shall need it to steep the comfrey and for the catnip tea,” she said. The maid nodded and departed from the room.

  Miranda was about to follow her when her arm was taken in a strong grip. She looked up, startled.

  “What are you intending, Miss Wainwright? I warn you, I’ll not have my nephew quacked,” said Lord Townsend harshly.

  Miranda raised her brows. “I do not intend quackery, my lord. That wound must be cleaned as soon as possible if we are to prevent blood poisoning. I intend to apply a poultice of comfrey, commonly known as knitbone. Comfrey has been used since the Middle Ages to promote the mending of bones and reduce the swelling of wounds. As for the catnip tea, it will aid in reducing the boy’s fever. Believe me, Robert will be much more comfortable for it.” She glanced down at the viscount’s hand. “If you will release me, my lord, I shall be about my task.”

  Lord Townsend stared at her, frowning. Vaguely he recalled from his childhood his nurse extolling the virtues of knitbone and other herbs. He was not certain that he placed as much value in herbal remedies as others did, but there was no denying that the teas Miss Wainwright made up for Anne had been of benefit to his sister-in-law’s nerves. And he also had recognized the insidious signs of infection in the flesh torn by the fractured bone. The very thought of blood poisoning left him cold, but he was helpless to do anything for his nephew except wait for the doctor to arrive. Miss Wainwright at least offered some sort of action. Slowly he let go of her arm. “Very well, Miss Wainwright. I bow to your superior experience.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Miranda. After collecting a cloak from her bedroom, she went downstairs and let herself out into the herb garden. The rain was coming down harder, making it difficult to see. Miranda held her lantern high, peering through the drumming rain. When she found the beds she wanted, she knelt on the wet flagstones and placed the lantern beside her. Taking scissors out of the small basket she carried, she clipped good measures of each of the herbs she needed.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she found that Mrs. Crumpet had hot water standing ready. Thin cotton strips were laid on the table near the pots. She stripped off her streaming cloak, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Crumpet. It will take but a few minutes to make the poultice.” She brushed back her damp hair. The cloak had not completely protected her from the weather, but Miranda ignored the unpleasant sensation of wet, dragging skirts. She washed the comfrey leaves quickly and pres
sed them dry between linen cloths so that it would be easier to chop them up.

  “Aye, miss. Mrs. Graves tells me that you were wanting a catnip tea as well. My own mother always recommended a bit of chamomile and peppermint be added, with a touch of honey for taste. That will relax the poor lad as well as work on his fever. I would be happy to make it up for you whilst you are busy,” said Mrs. Crumpet.

  “Of course, Mrs. Crumpet! I have brought in peppermint but I did not think of the chamomile,” said Miranda, gesturing with her knife at the basket of fresh herbs.

  The cook picked up the lantern that Miranda had set on the table. “We’ll have chamomile in the medicinal cabinet. I won’t be a moment, miss.” She left the kitchen.

  Constance smiled across the table at Miranda. She was getting together on a tray a basin containing soft clean cloths and a kettle of hot water. “Mrs. Crumpet approves of the old remedies, Miss Miranda. You have risen high in her esteem.”

  “Lord Townsend has far different feelings, however. He disapproves of what he terms my quackery. Actually, I am somewhat surprised that he did not refuse to allow me to treat the boy,” said Miranda. She swept the chopped comfrey into boiling water and mixed the brew.

  Constance picked up the tray. “His lordship is very attached to Master Robert. Perhaps he felt some help is better than none. I shall go up and clean the wound.”

  “Enlist the viscount’s aid, Constance. It will give him something useful to do and you will need him to calm Robert, who I suspect will object strenuously to the entire process,” said Miranda, not looking up as she took the pot of comfrey out of the heat.

  “Yes, miss,” said Constance with grim amusement as she left the kitchen.

  Miranda tentatively tested the temperature of the boiled concoction. It was too hot and she sighed impatiently. She turned to the basket of herbs and took out the catnip and peppermint. The pungent scents wafted up as she stripped the leaves from the stems and prepared them for making of the tea.

  Mrs. Crumpet returned. She set down the lantern with a clank on the table. “What with the mistress’s chamomile tea each night, the supply in the medicinal cabinet is low. We’ll need to gather fresh very soon,” she said. She dropped the chamomile into a steaming kettle.

  Miranda handed the chopped peppermint and catnip over to her. “Here you are, Mrs. Crumpet. The comfrey is cooled enough now for the poultice. I will take it up immediately. Whenever you have the tea ready, pray be so kind as to bring it up.”

  “Aye, Miss Wainwright.”

  Miranda returned to Robert’s bedroom with the poultice, a sandwich of thin cloths containing the boiled comfrey leaves. She was not surprised by Lord Townsend’s grim expression or the sound of whimpering from the bed. It could not have been a pleasant experience for Robert to have the tender wound cleaned, and certainly his uncle appeared the worse for wear from enduring the sight and sound of his nephew’s torment.

  Miranda went over to the bed. Without a word she positioned the poultice over the open wound and gently pressed it into place. Robert jumped and then lay tensed in every muscle, but when there was no additional pain and instead a soothing warmth, he slowly relaxed. “It is only a poultice, Robert, that will help take down the swelling,” said Miranda quietly. With swift fingers she securely bandaged the poultice across the wound. The boy nodded and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  The bedroom door opened and Mrs. Crumpet entered. The cup of tea she carried was greenish in color. “Here is Mrs. Crumpet, Master Robert, with a nice cup of warm tea with a bit of honey to sweeten it. Drink it up, there’s a good lad,” she said.

  “I don’t want any tea,” protested Robert.

  “You shall drink it, however. Mrs. Crumpet has gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare it and you are in need of fluids, my boy,” said Lord Townsend sternly. He slipped his arm under the boy’s shoulders to raise him up, then took the cup from Mrs. Crumpet with a nod of thanks. Placing the cup to his nephew’s lips he encouraged him to drain the tea. When Robert had finished, coughing a little, the viscount laid him down gently again on the pillows. He looked up at the women. “Pray go about your usual schedules, ladies. I shall sit with Robert myself tonight.”

  Miranda hid her astonishment. “Very well, my lord. I shall look in again in an hour or so,” she said. She would not have thought Lord Townsend capable of such an expression of concern. Certainly he was fond of the boy, but that was vastly different from taking on duty in a sickroom.

  Miranda once again was struck that such compassion existed in a gentleman who had at first impressed her as more interested in his own concerns than those of his family. Lord Townsend had been going to a great deal of trouble to bring the estate under proper management and restore order, thought Miranda. Perhaps he had always had a stronger concern for the welfare of his family than he had led her to believe.

  The women quietly left the bedroom. Lord Townsend did not look around, but remained sitting at his nephew’s side. His large hand engulfed the boy’s smaller one and his eyes never wavered from Robert’s small, flushed face.

  Miranda went at once to her cousin’s apartment. Grace let her in and at the sight of her, Anne sprang up from her chair. “Miranda! I have grown positively distracted waiting for you. Tell me how Robert is, I beg you.”

  “He is much more comfortable than previously, Anne. The bone is cleanly set and I have put on a poultice to reduce the swelling. Mrs. Crumpet made up some chamomile tea to soothe his nerves and he will probably sleep for some time. He was exhausted by the ordeal, poor little boy,” said Miranda.

  Relief eased Anne’s tight expression. “I am so glad that he is all right. Has the doctor been in to see him yet?” she asked.

  “I don’t think that he has arrived yet or else Crumpet would have let us know,” said Miranda.

  “I know that between you and Andrew, all that can be done has been done. Miranda, do you think I may go in to see Robert?” asked Anne.

  “Of course you may. His lordship is sitting with him now and will likely be glad of your company. Robert is not rattling along in his usual conversational style, you know,” said Miranda dryly.

  Anne gave her a swift hug of gratitude. “Oh, Miranda! I know that everything will be fine when you can joke about it,” she said. She left the bedroom without a backward glance.

  Miranda tiredly made her way to her own room. The discomfort of her damp clothing suddenly struck her and she started to rid herself of her riding dress and boots. It would be wonderful to slip into a warm bath and a comfortable well-worn dress. She pulled on the bell next to the bed and Constance answered its summons from her own quarters. “Constance, could you prevail upon Mrs. Crumpet to put on another pot of water? I should so like a bath,” she said.

  “I have already done so, Miss Miranda,” said Constance with a lurking smile. She reached behind the door and pulled a brass hipbath into view.

  “You anticipate me too well, Mrs. Graves. If I am not careful you will soon be reading my very thoughts,” said Miranda, laughing.

  Her companion positioned the hipbath in front of the fireplace and put up a screen that would protect Miranda from drafts. There was a brass pot of cool water standing beside the grate and Constance poured it into the hipbath before she left to go for the hot water.

  Miranda finished undressing and drew on a dressing gown, belting it tightly about her neat waist. Seating herself on the bench in front of her mirror, she began to take the pins from her hair. The heavy braid that made up her usual neat chignon fell down her back. She drew the plait back over her shoulder to unravel the damp braid, then shook out her loosened hair so that it could dry.

  Constance returned with a brass pot of steaming water and poured it into the hipbath. Mrs. Crumpet had followed her with an additional pot of water and put it on the fireplace grate where it would be in reach and could be added to rewarm the bathwater as it grew cool.

  Then Miranda was left alone to slip into her bath. She twisted her damp hair an
d pinned it up on the top of her head before stepping in. She lay in the water, luxuriating in the steaming warmth and letting her tense muscles relax. She had not realized how strongly Robert’s accident had affected her. It had very nearly taken all her strength to hold him down while his leg was set. Miranda thought she would never forget his agonized screams and how he had twisted to get away. “Anne is not the only one who goes to pieces over that child,” said Miranda aloud. She had grown extremely fond of her little cousin. It would be difficult to leave him behind when she returned home, for it would likely be years before she saw him again.

  Miranda stared across at the fire’s yellow flames. She wondered why she should be thinking of leaving Willowswood. Confused feelings uncoiled from her subconscious. Lord Townsend’s face arose vividly in her mind. Miranda was aghast at herself. Surely she could not actually be attracted to him. But the direction of her errant thoughts could not be denied; nor could the edge of fear that accompanied them.

  “I could not fall in love with him! How could I ever entertain so preposterous an idea after what I endured for breaking my engagement?” she exclaimed. Even now it made her shudder to recall the scandal that had followed her difficult decision. She had become almost a social outcast. But the worst had been Harrison Gregory’s alternating ravings and reproaches. It had been such a horrible experience that she had vowed to herself never to become entangled with anyone again.

  But oddly enough the thought of herself and Viscount Wythe brought a faint smile to her lips and for a moment she dreamily regarded the warm fire. Then, abruptly, she sat up in the bath. The water surged around her breasts and splashed over the side of the hipbath. “I must be mad! she exclaimed. She reached for the soap and vigorously scrubbed herself as though she could eradicate her treacherous thoughts.

  Miranda knew in her heart that what she was beginning to feel for Lord Townsend was very different from anything she had ever experienced before. But it frightened her to think what result could come from succumbing to her new passion. For all she knew, he could have been flirting with her only to enliven his stay at Willowswood. She knew that the pursuit of such amusement was not beyond the fashionable young men of the ton. It was not until she had finished with her bath and dried herself with the large towel that Constance had left draped over the screen that it occurred to her that Jeremy was still in London. She could join him there and escape from the possible heartbreak of another entanglement so soon after her last disastrous infatuation.