Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6)

by Sally Britton

  Why did her face seem so familiar?

  Moving carefully, Silas got his legs beneath him and stood, holding the young woman in his arms. He looked around, seeing white stones scattered about the pavement, white powder everywhere with it. A white foot, a face with staring eyes, helped him put enough of the pieces together to realize what had happened. He looked upward, where men were looking over an iron rail and gesturing wildly.

  The woman in his arms stirred and groaned. Silas’s eyes swept the crowd closing in upon them, then went to the house before which they stood. Lady Sparton stood on the steps, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hands pressed to her cheeks.

  Silas acted. Standing about and waiting for someone to explain things to him would not do. He barreled toward the lady, up her steps, and past her into the elegant house. He ignored her startled gasp, looking about for a door. He went to the first he saw and kicked it open, entering what appeared to be a receiving room of sorts. There was a couch, and that was all he needed.

  Silas took the young woman there and laid her down, as gently as possible, and as he eased his arm from beneath her head, he saw at last the blood the man on the street had spoken of. The gray sleeves of his jacket were coated in red where he had cradled the back of her head.

  “Lord Inglewood, what happened?” a breathy voice asked from the doorway.

  He looked up to see Lady Sparton, still pale, staring at him in horror. “Make certain the doctor knows where to come,” he said, unwilling to admit he was still attempting to figure out all that had occurred. She nodded and started to withdraw. “And send a maid in—and her friend from the street.”

  “Of course, Lord Inglewood.” She disappeared to do his bidding, no further questions asked.

  Silas found a cushion for the young woman’s head and attempted to reposition her on her side, keeping the injured place free of pressure. He inspected the wound himself, which was somewhat difficult given the abundance of brown curls in his way. Why did women wear their hair in such ridiculous twists upon their heads?

  The sound of sobbing reached his ears, growing louder. He looked up as a young woman, the same who had been wailing outside, came forward. Two other girls, dressed in the plainer clothing of servants, appeared directly behind her, clutching each other’s hands. Silas stood, but did not move from the unconscious woman’s side.

  “Miss, is this woman your friend? Do you know her?”

  The weeping girl nodded, raising her hands to cover her mouth, completely overcome with her distress. Silas turned to the maids, fixing them with a stern glare.

  “Who is this woman?” he demanded, pointing to her inert figure.

  One of the maids stepped forward and bobbed a curtsy, as though maintaining proper forms was important in a moment such as this, and spoke in a near-whisper. “If you please, sir, she’s my mistress. Miss Fox. Sister of Sir Isaac Fox. She must’ve seen the statue falling and she tried to help you….”

  The rest of the maid’s words were unimportant. Silas stopped listening and turned to look down at Esther Fox, the younger sister of one of his oldest friends. That explained the familiarity of her face, the feeling that he ought to know her. How many times had he seen little Essie trailing along behind Isaac, pleading to be included in their games? When was the last time he had seen her? Four years ago, perhaps. She hadn’t been out yet.

  And she had saved him from a falling statue.

  “I found a doctor, right on the street,” a man said, pulling Silas from his thoughts. It was the same man from before, holding a cap and twisting it, staring at Esther.

  The doctor, a gentleman with gray hair and a narrow face, came inside with all haste. He knelt beside the couch, completely ignoring Silas except to ask, “How long since the accident?”

  Silas did not know. Everything had happened too quickly, had been too confusing. He looked behind him at the largely unhelpful gathering.

  “Not more’n ten minutes, sir,” the laborer said.

  Silas nodded his thanks to the man, then turned his attention to the doctor. He hated everyone standing about, gaping, intruding upon Esther’s privacy. He opened his arms and waved, as though herding geese, to move everyone toward the door.

  “Come, out into the hall. We must let the doctor work, and I have questions.”

  The sniffling young lady was the first to move away, then the maids, then the man from the walk. Lady Sparton joined them in the entryway, wringing her hands. Several of her servants stood about as well, though one did slip inside the room Silas had just exited, holding a bucket and a stack of towels. Good. Any indication of someone using their head in this situation could only be appreciated.

  “I want to know exactly what happened,” Silas said slowly, searching each of the faces before him. He let his gaze rest upon the man strangling his cap. “Why did that statue fall?”

  The man shook his head, the lines of his face deep with worry. The man appeared to be young, his clothing well-worn. “We checked the ropes, sir—”

  “Lord Inglewood,” the woman of the house snapped.

  Silas cast her a baleful glare. “Niceties are less important than this story, madam.”

  She turned red and crossed her arms over her dressing gown.

  “We checked the ropes, my lord, and I thought one of them didn’t look right. Mr. Lampton, he’s the one in charge, said it would hold and we ought to use it. We didn’t bring more rope and he didn’t want no more delays.”

  “The statue ought to have been delivered last week,” Lady Sparton added. Silas gave her another warning glance and she bit her lip.

  “The sun was in our eyes, my lord. We didn’t see the rope had frayed past saving or we would’ve lowered it carefully.” He shuddered. “That girl—I’m sorry for it. I truly am.”

  “And where is the man who told you to use the faulty rope?” Silas asked with a growl.

  The other man shook his head. “He left, my lord, before the accident even happened.”

  “Give information for contacting that man to—” Silas glanced around and settled on a footman. “To this man. I want his name, address, and place of business if he has one. He can expect to hear from me in regards to his negligent business practices. After you have given the information, you may deal with Lady Sparton. I am certain she has words she would like to say about the unfortunate loss of her statue.” Each word concerning the lady’s misplaced worry dripped with disdain. He had no use for the Spartons. They had always been more concerned with outward appearances than any matter of substance.

  He turned to the trembling young woman, now being consoled by one of the maids while the other stared at the room where her mistress lay.

  “What did Miss Fox do, exactly?”

  “We were watching with everyone else, my lord.” The young lady sniffled. “But she made us stand so close.”

  “Miss Fox is always daring,” the most agitated maid said. “She was talking about Hermes.”

  Silas reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly. “Names, please.”

  "Miss Linton,” the young woman said with a nod. “And this is my maid, Sarah. And this is Mary.”

  “Mary,” Silas said while the maid dipped a curtsy. “You seem the most composed at the moment. Did you see everything that happened?”

  She nodded. “Miss Fox ran out and knocked you out of the way. The statue would’ve hit you otherwise. When the statue hit the ground, pieces flew everywhere. One hit my ankle, though I was far back. Miss Fox slumped over like she was hit, too.”

  The account now fit correctly in Silas’s mind. It seemed he owed Isaac’s sister his life. “Very well. The doctor is with her now. I will stay with the young lady and I think it is best she is not moved until the doctor gives other instructions. Miss Linton, I suggest you return to Miss Hawke’s family, with the very helpful Mary, and tell them what has happened. I am certain someone will wish to come see to her well-being. Are you far from Miss Hawke’s residence?”


  “It’s a street over, my lord,” Mary said, lowering her head.

  “Then walking will be faster than ordering a carriage.” He pointed to another Sparton footman. “You, lad. Go with them.” The women were all obviously rattled, and the footman could return with whatever relative came in search of Esther.

  Orders given, Silas turned and went back into the room occupied by the wounded young savior. He took in a deep breath as he approached the couch. The doctor knelt beside the couch, and a servant stood against the wall waiting for orders.

  “You have had a nasty bump on the head,” the doctor was saying, his voice low. Silas’s eyebrows lifted. Had she wakened? “But it isn’t so bad as it seems. Head wounds bleed excessively, even with the smallest of wounds.”

  The tightness in Silas’s chest eased.

  “Where am I?” the young woman’s voice, a pleasant alto, asked. From his angle, Silas could not see her face from behind the arm of the couch.

  “Lord and Lady Stanton’s home,” the doctor answered. “How does your head feel?”

  “As though it has been cleaved with an axe.”

  The doctor chuckled, then covered the sound with his fist. He glanced up at Silas and immediately sobered. “I am told it was a stone depiction of Hermes that assaulted you, miss. And that your actions likely saved the life of another.”

  She took in a shuddering breath. “The gentleman. Is he all right?” She made as if to move, her skirts rustling and her brown curls lifting above the arm of the couch for a moment before she groaned and laid back down, assisted by the doctor.

  “He is perfectly fine, my dear. Please, lie still. I do not think you ought to move for at least an hour. Rest. You will likely have a headache, perhaps some nausea. It is best you do nothing to excite yourself for the rest of the day, at the very least.” The doctor stood. “I believe you will be well again after some rest. I suggest you clean your hair very carefully, lest you reopen that wound. But you ought not need stitches. Merely time to heal.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Her voice was soft, resigned, Silas thought.

  The doctor approached and fixed Silas with a most serious frown. “You heard my direction to the young lady. I trust you can ensure she rests peacefully and is returned home with the least possible excitement.”

  “Yes, doctor. Thank you.” Silas started to bow but the doctor interrupted the movement with a quick shake of his head.

  “I do not think you have considered all the ramifications of what has happened today, my lord. That young woman saved your life, that is certain, but I am concerned that she will pay for her kindness with more than a nasty bump on the head.”

  Silas narrowed his eyes. “I am not sure what you mean, doctor. I will see to it that Miss Fox is granted the rest and care she needs to recover from the ordeal.”

  The doctor did not look as though he believed Silas. He pulled gloves from a pocket and put them back on his bare hands. “I will call on the young lady tomorrow morning. Fox, you said?”

  Esther’s low voice came from the couch, evidence that she remained awake and alert. “I am staying at the home of my step-brother, Mr. Aubrey.”

  The doctor’s forehead wrinkled. “Then it is there I will call upon you tomorrow, Miss Fox. Good day to you.” He bowed to Silas. “And to you, my lord.” The doctor left the room, so only a servant, Silas, and Esther remained.

  Silas let out a slow breath as he moved to the couch. He looked down at Esther, whose eyes were closed, her head resting on a cushion. He traced her features with his gaze, trying to see the girl he remembered in the lines of her face. Her cheeks were not so round as they’d been in childhood, and they were pale rather than sunburned or freckled. Her hair had been a lighter brown with golden tips, but now the rich curls tumbling freely down her shoulders were dark. Little Essie had grown into something of a beauty.

  And Isaac would have Silas’s head for thinking any untoward thoughts about his sister. “Esther?” he said aloud, going down to one knee beside the couch.

  Her brow furrowed and she opened one eye to look at him, then the other came open as both went wide. “Lord Inglewood.”

  Right. They were not children any longer. He saw ample evidence of that in the changes of her features. The fact that she recognized him immediately did not escape him. “Miss Fox. Good morning.” Was it still morning? It felt more like it ought to be evening, or another day entirely.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, her lips pursing in puzzlement over the question.

  “You do not remember? I am the man you flung yourself at on the walkway.” He tried to grin at her, to adopt the teasing tone from their childhood. It made the experience a little easier to bare, thinking back on those summer days. Esther had followed her brother and his friends wherever they went, whether it was in the trees, the attics of houses, or along the sandy beaches. Despite being five years their junior, she was determined to be part of all their doings.

  Her color came back into her cheeks, but faded away again. “Truly? And you are unharmed?” Her eyes darted from the top of his head down to his knees, as though looking him over for injury.

  Silas raised his hands and turned in a circle. “It is touching that here you are, injured, and your concern is for me. I am well, Miss Fox.” He lowered his arms and bowed. “Thanks to your quick thinking.”

  “I am glad of that, my lord.” She smiled weakly and closed her eyes. “Even if my head does pound rather terribly.”

  He pulled one of the chairs in the room closer to her and gestured for the footman to bring his towels and basin nearer. “Perhaps a cool cloth will help with that.” After removing his gloves, he prepared one of the smaller cloths by dipping it in the clean water. The doctor had left a towel beneath Esther’s head, which was spotted with blood—not nearly so much as what was on Silas’s sleeve. How much of her blood had been spilled on his account?

  Isaac would have something to say about it, were he present.

  Silas folded the cloth over and then carefully laid it upon her forehead. She released a gentle sigh, her pale lips parting. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Does it pain you to speak?” he asked, lowering his voice to an almost-whisper. “Or for me to speak to you?” Sitting in silence for however long it took someone to come for her might be best, but curiosity over his rescuer’s circumstances nipped at him. He had not heard word of Isaac in some time, or of their family.

  “No. I would prefer to talk. It might take my mind off my stomach, if not my head.”

  Yes, the doctor said she might feel sick. He looked about for the bucket he had seen before and then pointed to it, catching the eye of the footman. The servant put the basin of water on a table, then fetched the bucket from near the hearth and brought it to Silas’s side before returning to his post against the wall.

  That precaution taken, Silas studied the woman before him. She wore a fine gown, appeared to be in good health aside from the wound recently acquired for his sake.

  “Do you hear from Isaac often?” he asked. Speaking of her brother might be best, since he hadn’t seen Esther in years. Nor had he ever really taken much time in getting to know her.

  “His letters come as regularly as the post allows.” she kept her eyes closed, though her expression tightened. “From what I can tell, his duties in the army keep him extremely busy. Thus far, he remains safe.”

  Isaac, as a baronet, had no obligation to serve in the British military. Yet he had purchased his own commission and went across the channel three years previous, to fight Bonaparte. Silas had not understood his friend’s need to take up arms, but he respected Isaac for it. “I am glad to hear it. I admit, I think of him every time the idiots in Parliament speak of the war effort.”

  “I hope that means you do what you can to aid Isaac from home.” One of her eyes opened again, fixing him with a rather stern gaze. “He will not return until it is all over and done.”

  “Which ought to be soon, since we expect France to surrender at
any time.” Everyone knew Napoleon’s defeat at the hands of Russia had crippled the French army. The self-proclaimed emperor’s own generals had begun to turn against him. Talk of war likely was not the best way to occupy her mind. Silas cleared his throat and changed the subject. “How have you amused yourself in your brother’s absence?”

  “As anyone in London does. I go to balls and card parties.” Her lips twitched slightly. “And I do my very best not to mortify my step-brother’s wife. She is determined to see me wed and is forever in despair of failing me.”

  Although the activity of seeking husbands for young ladies was not a secret, rarely had anyone spoken to Silas so openly of the pursuit. That Esther would amused him. “I suppose it is kind of her to take such an interest in you.”

  “Mm.” The sound of amused agreement made him relax. “Diana, Mrs. Aubrey that is, promised my brother she would look after me while he was away. She is quite tenacious in keeping that promise.”

  “And how is your stepbrother?” Silas recalled little of the man. He had already been at university when Esther’s mother, the widow of a baronet, married the senior Mr. Aubrey. From all accounts, the match had been a good one for both families. Isaac had been raised by a good man, though it took the Fox children away from Woodsbridge and entirely out of Suffolk, where they had grown up together.

  “He is a harried soul, or so his wife says.” Her lips parted in a grin before she winced and raised a hand to the cloth.

  “Ah, I have neglected your headache. Forgive me.” Silas reached for the cloth, his bare fingers brushed the cool, damp skin of her forehead. He swallowed, somewhat guiltily, as he damped the cloth and wrung it out again. He carefully laid it back upon her brow, arranging it to stay out of her eyes.

  Her hand came up again, gloved, and took one of his in a gentle grasp. Silas made eye contact with her, surprised to see a reassuring look to her eyes. “This is not your fault, Silas,” she said quietly, his Christian name slipping most naturally from her, causing an odd sort of prickle in his chest. But of course, how often had she shouted at him to slow down, come back, stop playing tricks on her? She had always called him Silas, until they had gone away to live with their step family. “I will be fully recovered in next to no time, and I would do it again.”