by Jaima Fixsen
“James, bring a dressing gown for Mr. Bagshot,” the butler commanded.
It was, Tom knew, unusual for gentleman to strip down in the front hall. It didn’t bother him to fret his servants; after all, they knew what kind of people they worked for. And if it pleased them to find more congenial employment elsewhere, that didn’t bother him either. It was his mother who suffered agonies of humiliation when the servants explained to her how things should be done, or gave up and left. He wished she would let up, but had lost hope long ago.
“Thank you, James,” Tom said, exchanging his waistcoat for a brocaded silk dressing gown. Lord, it felt good to pull on something warm and dry. Pity he had to keep on his wet shirt and trousers. He didn’t mind upsetting the servants, but his mother would be mortified if he removed shirt and breeches down here.
“I’m for the bath,” he said. “I’ll be down in two ticks.”
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
He winced. Chippenstone would never be home. Two years since his father’s death, and his mother still hadn’t given up this pile of brick, the evidence of her husband’s last, failed dream. She was lonely here, but nothing Tom said could persuade her to leave. Visiting her was no hardship; he would ride twice as far, in any weather. But when she joined his father, he knew he would sell this place.
“I missed you, mum,” he said and chucked her under the chin, before bounding up the stairs three at a time. Behind him, he heard the butler tell James to take his wet clothes away. Then he heard a knock. He stopped. His mother never had visitors. And who would call in this weather, at this time of night?
Turning round, he saw a dark wraith framed in the open doorway. Without thinking, he descended the stairs and crossed the hall. The creature was clutching one arm and shivering uncontrollably—no wonder, for water streamed from her skirts onto the floor. Her face was white as wax, her lips a ghastly purple. Muddy war paint smudged her cheeks and leaves stuck to her skirts.
“Forgive me for b-b-begging your assistance,” she said through chattering teeth.
“You’re hurt.” Tom frowned, moving closer.
“Yes.” She gulped. “But my horse . . .” She glanced worriedly behind her, out the open door. “He needs tending.”
Looking past her, Tom saw a huge animal standing on the gravel drive.
“He’s chilled,” the girl explained, her voice close to breaking. “If he gets sick in the lungs, he’ll never race again.”
“See to her horse,” Tom ordered, to no one in particular. “You must come inside.” She wasn’t thinking straight, he thought. Probably had the wits knocked out of her.
He offered his arm, but she hesitated, biting her lip. “The pain is too great to let go of my arm. If you will lead me—”
She attempted a step forward, her face contorting with pain.
“Wait,” Tom said, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her. Cold water seeped through the sleeves of his dressing gown. She must be half-frozen. “I’ll carry you.”
Probably he should wait for her permission, but that seemed foolish in the circumstances. She looked ready to fall to the floor. Scooping her up, he saw her wince though he had tried not to jar her shoulder. Every step he took, her teeth cut deeper into her lip. How in Hades had she managed to walk to the house?
His mother reappeared, burdened with a stack of towels. “We must get you warm,” she said, bustling ahead of them into the drawing room.
“I’m going to set you down here,” he said, indicating a large sofa by the fire with a jerk of his chin. “Ready?”
She nodded. He tried to lower her smoothly, but she was no featherweight, despite being so slight. Laying back, she let out a sigh. “I’m ruining the silk of your sofa.”
He supposed she was. No matter. “What happened?” he asked, as his mother tended to her with the towels.
“I was riding across the fields, trying to hurry home.”
“Oh?” his mother looked up, but the girl didn’t elaborate.
“Ajax lost his footing jumping over a stream and I fell.” Her lips shook.
“Let me see the arm,” Tom said, moving closer. “You can’t move it at all?”
She shook her head, shrinking away from him. “It doesn’t work. When I try the pain in my shoulder is unbearable.” Her reedy voice betrayed suppressed panic. Frowning, he studied her. The arm was straight and didn’t appear swollen. “Did you land on it?”
She shook her head. “My hand tangled in the reins.”
“Pulled your arm?”
She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.
He considered only a moment. “I can help,” he said.
“Are you a doctor?” Her gaze was desperate, but suspicious.
“No.” He smiled. “I’m a sailor. I think you’ve pulled your arm out of your shoulder. I have a surgeon friend, who I’ve seen fix injuries like this a time or two. You won’t feel a thing.” That’s what Jack told his patients anyways. He hoped it was true.
She tensed, drawing away from him.
“I’m just going to hold your hand and your elbow,” he said, reaching forward. “Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt you.”
Moving slowly and maintaining a soothing patter of words, he cupped her elbow with one hand and clasped her wrist with the other. Her hands were like ice, the skin under her nails matching her purple lips.
“Wretched weather you choose to ride in,” he said.
“You’ve been outside too,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re hair is all wet.” He saw her eyes flick to his dressing gown, but she didn’t mention it.
“That’s how I know it’s so awful. I thought I was cold. How long were you out there?”
She didn’t reply, just sucked in a breath as he lifted away her uninjured hand. Inch by inch, he bent the elbow of her injured arm until it was square, then turned her forearm, bringing her hand down to the seat of the sofa. When her hand was almost to the cushion, he felt her shoulder catch. She gasped, her eyes popping open.
“Leave it,” she commanded. “I want to see a doctor.”
“Breathe out,” he said. “You’ll be all right.” It was nearly done. Jack said dislocations were best treated quickly, before the muscles could spasm. He nudged her upper arm forward, feeling it slide into place. He released her and sat back on his heels. “Try to move it now.”
She lifted her arm tentatively, closing her eyes and letting out a wavering sigh. “Thank God.” Relief crumbled her fragile control and her shaking returned. Staring past him with huge, catlike eyes, she let out a half-smothered sob.
“Can you lift your arm all the way up?” She seemed past hearing, so he took her arm and circled it around. The joint moved freely, and he felt his anxiety ebb away.
“We must get you warm,” he said.
“You go make sure the surgeon’s been sent for,” his mother said. When he didn’t move, she took his arm and steered him to the door. “I’ve got to get her out of those wet things. It’s all right to move her arm?”
He blinked. “I don’t see why not, though I imagine she’s pretty sore.”
His mother frowned. “If it’s too difficult, we can cut them off. See if Sarah’s bringing laudanum, like I asked. And don’t forget to put on dry clothes yourself. I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything.”
“Rheum, more like,” he said, winking as he closed the door. “I’m likely to cause you the most amount of trouble.”
In the drafty hallway, away from the fire, cold pierced him again. He’d forgotten how chilled he was. Nights like this, no one should be out, certainly not lone girls. Jack had told him how terrifying a dislocated shoulder was and both times he’d seen him treat one, the patients had panicked.
He wouldn’t soon forget her woebegone, desperate figure standing in his doorway and shrinking in pain on his sofa. He wondered how she had come to be riding in such weather, alone. Her speech, her horse and her clothing indicated she was too well bred to be allowe
d out without an escort.
Remembering his bath, and that the water would soon cool, he loped up the stairs. She would explain soon enough.
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