An Inconvenient Wife

by Constance Hussey

  “He likes the horses, you understand, and the time with Blackwell,” Danielle said, as if no one had realized it.

  “Yes, he does.” Anne had to smile at the girl’s earnest demeanor. So serious, but improving every day, she reminded herself, thinking of the earlier giggling.

  “I like the stables, too,” Sarah said, hunching a shoulder, the laughter fading from her face. “But I hardly ever get to go.”

  There was an unusual petulance in her voice. Anne gave her a sympathetic smile. Anne truly believed the viscount was putting unnecessary limits on Sarah’s activities, out of fear perhaps, but it was harmful nevertheless. Neither she nor Sarah enjoyed the carefully private session of exercise they endured most mornings. It is not cruel, Anne, and there is improvement. You are more concerned about Westcott’s reaction if he finds out what you are doing. But he is wrong in this.

  “If you want to go to the stables, Sarah, think of it every time you are tempted to quit.” Anne pushed Sarah’s chair to her bedchamber, settled her on the bed, and removed the stocking from her injured foot. Whereupon Nurse Timmons promptly disappeared, as she always did, not able to see her charge in pain, and Mary Caxton entered with the small pot of warm oil she had heated in her room. The woman was an excellent governess. Anne made a mental note to increase her wage. She really should try to learn more about the young woman’s background, too, other than the fact that she has a large family. Maybe you can do something for her, rather than see the poor woman attend to other people’s children the rest of her life. Like you.

  Anne dismissed the derisive thought and applied herself to rubbing the oil onto Sarah’s leg with firm, steady strokes, as Bill Fenton had taught her. She at least had a comfortable home of her own, and a husband, of sorts. Dismissing her grumps, Anne recalled her conversation with Bill Fenton, some weeks ago.

  ~* * *~

  “That child is going to get worse, sitting around in a chair all day.”

  Anne jerked around at Bill’s muttered comment and glared at him, eyes narrowed. He was watching as Danielle pushed Sarah’s chair along the path to the garden, a frown furrowing his forehead.

  “What do you mean, get worse?” Anne snapped out the question, her gaze going to the girls, even though they were too distant to have heard them.

  Fenton studied her face for a moment, and then, seeming to make up his mind, took Anne’s arm and steered her into another part of the garden. “Mrs. Fenton told me to be minding my own business, my lady, but I reckon I know when to speak up or not.” He looked around, spied a nearby bench, and led her to it. “Bide a minute, Miss Anne, and tell me exactly what is wrong with Miss Sarah. You can tell me to go to the devil later if you don’t like what I have to say.”

  Anne looked at the determined set of his face—and the nervous tic on one side of his mouth that told her how uncomfortable he was—which his lapse into calling her ‘Miss Anne’ had already done, and she gave him a sharp nod of agreement.

  “You will have heard gossip amongst the staff about the carriage accident, I suppose. When the vehicle overturned, Sarah’s foot was caught under one of the wheels.” Anne lifted her hands and dropped them back into her lap in a resigned gesture. “I believe they tried to straighten the bones, but I understand the injuries were too severe and they healed badly. Her ankle is twisted and the top of her foot knobby and painful.”

  “This is just the one leg? The other is normal?” Bill questioned with an unusual intensity.

  “Yes, although not strong, no bones were broken in the other leg. Why, Bill? What are you thinking? I assure you Westcott has had myriad medical opinions by some well-respected physicians and they all agree there is nothing to be done.”

  Fenton hesitated, his broad hands twisting his hat as he prepared his words. “When I was with your father in Egypt—your mama went to Scotland with you that year, which you mayn’t remember, being as you were pretty young. I met a man there. A healer, he called himself, who had this way to strengthen limbs that hadn’t been used for a long time. He let me come with him to visit some of his patients, seeing that I was interested, and taught me a bit about it. I think it would help Miss Sarah.”

  “Bill….”

  “Now don’t say no right off. It’s nothing strange or bad, and if it don’t do any good, neither would it do any harm.”

  Anne pursed her lips. “All right, explain it to me, and for gracious sakes, sit down.”

  Fenton gave her a dubious look, his unwillingness to join her on the bench evident, but bent enough to crouch beside her and rest his hat on his knees. “The way it was told to me, when you don’t use your muscles, they start to wither and get weaker all the time. I’ve seen it in horses when an injury keeps them on three legs any length of time.”

  “Sarah is not a horse!”

  “Course she isn’t,” Fenton said impatiently, “but that don’t mean her muscles act any different. She needs to be exercising both legs until she gets some strength back in them. If she could use her good leg, she could get around a little with a pair of crutches.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Not saying it would be easy. You’d have some things to do; massaging her legs and helping her do some simple exercises. Might be I could contrive some type of brace or support for her foot, enough so she has something to help her balance.”

  Anne considered it for a time, weighing the chance of raising the child’s hopes with so risky a practice, but what if Sarah was able to stand, move around a little? Was it worth the risk? Did she dare go behind Westcott’s back? She could not see him agreeing to try this, but what a difference it might make in Sarah’s life!

  “Very well, Bill. I will speak to Miss Sarah about it and if she agrees, you will show me what to do. But please do not mention this to anyone else.” She smiled. “Except Maggie, who no doubt already knows.”

  Bill grinned and heaved himself up. “She won’t be too happy I said anything to you, but she’ll help if you need her.”

  Anne stood and placed a hand on his arm. “I know she will. Thank you for caring, Bill.”

  ~* * *~

  Sarah had agreed, albeit with little expectation of success. Anne suspected the child feared to hope, not being able to bear the disappointment should they fail.

  Painstakingly, and it was at times painful, prodding unused muscles to life, they followed Bill’s instructions, massaging and working her legs. “I am just like a bug on its back, Mother Anne,” Sarah said one day, a particularly successful day, when she was able to lift both legs and wobble them above her.

  “You are a very pretty bug, if so,” Anne said, beaming almost as much as Sarah. “Enough now. You don’t want to get overtired.”

  Sarah’s legs flopped onto the bed and she let out a noisy huff. “No, we plan to practice our skit after luncheon.” She looked at Anne, her smile fading. “But I don’t get as tired now, so it is working, isn’t it? Do you think I am almost ready to try standing up?” Sarah held out her hands for Anne to help her sit up. “I want to do it, but I think I am a little afraid, too.”

  Anne sat on the edge of the bed and put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “I agree. You are much better, sweetheart, but let’s give it just a little longer before you try, shall we?” Anne nursed a similar fear and was not inclined to rush. Although the longer this went on, the more chances Westcott would suspect something. So you will simply need to assert yourself, Anne, and tell him he cannot keep his daughter an invalid all her life. Since Anne was uncomfortable even thinking about confronting her husband thusly, she gave a mental shrug. Sarah’s wellbeing was what counted, and Westcott be dammed. It was time he climbed out of his shell in any case. Of course, if you are wise, you will manage to be elsewhere when he does.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blue skies and a light breeze carrying the scents of spring encouraged everyone to spend more and more time outdoors. Anne picked up her hat and gloves before going to ascertain that Danielle and Sarah were settled in the garden with Miss Caxto
n. She paused at the gate to survey the “pocket” garden, as Sarah called it. Although the vine-covered stone walls gave it the appearance of intimacy, the area held a small pond, meandering stone paths winding in a seemingly haphazard fashion, and several apple trees just coming into bud.

  The girls were seated by the pond today; Danielle curled up on a blanket laid out beside Sarah’s chair and Miss Caxton on a nearby bench. Several flutes lay beside Danielle, but no practice had begun as yet. Conversation, interspersed with giggles, drifted across to Anne, and she slipped away without disturbing them. Westcott and Guy were no doubt already waiting for her at the stables.

  The viscount was delayed, a groom informed her, but Guy was feeding his pony her daily sugar cube. “You are spoiling Polly dreadfully, young man,” Anne said.

  Guy grinned at her and looked slyly at the piece of apple in Anne’s hand. “I do just as you do, Mother Anne. You also spoil Belle, oui?”

  “Yes, you wretched boy.” Anne laughed and ruffled his hair. She turned then, as another groom approached with her mare. Head up and nostrils flaring, Belle appeared eager to relish the fine day as well.

  “Thank you, Peter.” Anne fed Belle her apple and brushed the silky black mane aside to scratch lightly at the sensitive skin on the horses’s neck. There was a spot right there, and Belle snuffled her appreciation and butted her head against Anne’s arm.

  “I know you like that but don’t be slobbering over my new habit, girl.” Anne left the mare to Peter to finish bridling while they waited for Westcott. She stood beside Guy, chatting idly, one part of her mind on the boy, whose adaptation to his new home and language was remarkable, and the other on Westcott, striding toward them. He was dressed in the fawn and brown colours he favored; breeches that clung to his strongly muscled legs; glossy, high black boots; and a creamy white shirt, opened a little at his neck, that was a sharp contrast to the form-fitting jacket of dark brown superfine. She liked looking at him when he was unaware of it. He was not a handsome man in the manner of the detested Major whose pursuit still haunted her dreams, but there was a pleasing strength in the firm chin and mouth. A mouth that, although infrequently, could soften into a warm smile. Was she deluding herself to think she had seen that smile more often this past week? More likely it is a combination of your imagination and the pleasant weather. Nothing has changed.

  Shaking off the moment of discouragement, Anne turned to her horse and took the reins from the groom. “Have a good ride, my lady.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure we will. It is such a splendid day.”

  “A very pleasant day,” Westcott agreed, as he lifted Anne into the saddle. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. Mr. Atkinson caught me just as I was leaving the house.”

  His hand lingered, resting on her waist while she placed her feet in the stirrups, and a rush of heat flashed through her. Anne bent her head, attending to the reins with pretended care, lest he see the blush she knew stained her cheeks, and the longing she feared showed in her eyes.

  He waited until she was settled securely, then took Maximus’ reins from the waiting groom, and mounted. Anne felt his gaze sweep over her in what she had come to realize was a careful assessment of her well-being, and warmed by this evidence of concern, looked up and touched her heel to Belle’s flank.

  Westcott still had it in his head that she was an inexperienced rider, the evidence of the past weeks’ rides notwithstanding, and Anne hid a smile. She may not be one to careen about the countryside, but she had years of riding behind her, under sometimes difficult conditions.

  “No apology necessary, sir. Watching your mares and foals is always an enjoyable pastime.” She guided Belle to fall in beside him, Guy on his other side, and asked, “Where do we ride today?” They had been over much of the estate already, Anne and Guy being punctiliously introduced to every tenant. She knew little of farming, but the snug, well-cared-for cottages and wide acres, touched now with the green of spring crops, spoke of a prosperous land. Not that she expected anything less of Westcott. A man willing to shoulder the responsibility of two orphaned children and a troublesome, unwanted wife, would keep his home in good heart.

  “The north woods. My forester feels some areas need to be thinned. I thought to take a look before approving, although Marker knows his job.”

  “How much woodland do you have?”

  “Not a great deal, but since it adjoins St. Clair’s woodland, it appears larger and both parcels stretch the length of our borders, which is a good mile,” Westcott said, and then looked toward Guy and raised his brows. “What say you, lad? Shall we trot a way?”

  Guy grinned, banged a heel against Polly’s plump flank, and took off as fast as he could coax the pony into moving. Maximus needed no encouragement, being, Anne felt sure, bored with the slow pace. She followed leisurely, gazing at the landscape around her with interest. When her companions disappeared over a low rise, Anne realized she had lagged behind and urged Belle into a slow canter.

  By the time she paused on the top of the hill, they were some little distance ahead. The trees, a sweeping expanse of browns and spring greens, with the mauve buds of the alders scattered like paint splashes over a canvas, lay below. A beautiful scene, but since it was seemingly unappreciated by the two ahead, she chirped to Belle and rode on. She had almost come to the place where they awaited her, Westcott half-turned to look back over his shoulder, when a loud crack sounded and she saw him lurch sideways in the saddle. A gunshot? Surely not, but Anne knew that sound all too well. Fear surged through her as she raced forward, barely aware of Westcott’s shout.

  “Get into the trees, Guy, now! Anne, go!”

  Guy’s pony plunged forward. Anne began to halt Belle when she reached Westcott, but his horse was following Guy’s, and she stayed alongside, ignoring his terse, “Go ahead, you fool. Some idiot is in there with a gun.”

  Anne slid from her horse the instant she got to the tree line and tossed the reins to Guy. “You are the idiot if you think I don’t know the sound of a gun. Dear heavens, Nicholas. You’ve been hit!”

  Ashen-faced, the viscount slumped over and half-slid, half fell, into her arms. “Stand, Max,” Anne commanded. She had heard and seen the stallion obey this order often enough and gave silent thanks to his willingness to mind her. She eased Westcott to the ground.

  “It’s nothing,” he protested, but his eyes were glazed with shock and blood seeped from underneath his coat, staining the white shirt a sickening red. Swallowing the bile flooding her throat, Anne sank to her knees.

  “Idiot. It certainly is something. You are bleeding like a stuck pig!” She jerked her hat from her head, pulled off the decorative feathers, and wadded it into a pad. Thank God it was made of felt.

  “You should not call your husband an idiot,” Westcott said between clenched teeth.

  “Then do not act as one,” she said shortly, folding back the viscount’s lapel to thrust her crushed hat hard against the wound.

  “Dammit, Anne. What the hell are you doing?”

  A grunt of pain escaped him and she winced. “I am sorry, so sorry, Nicholas. I don’t know how else to stop the bleeding.” Blood soaked through the hat into her glove and her stomach clenched. She knew so little! You know enough to understand the importance of stopping the blood flow and to get help. This is not the place for the vapors.

  “Mother Anne? What has happened? Est-il mort?”

  Reminded of their situation by Guy’s tremulous voice, Anne spared him a glance. The boy was pale, but not panicked, which was a blessing, since it depended upon him now. “Of course he is not dead. Wounded by some crazed poacher, but not dead.” It had to be a poacher. To think otherwise meant someone intentionally attacked….Were they being watched?

  “Guy, I need you to be very brave and ride for help. If I help you mount, do you think you can take Belle? Don’t agree if you have doubts. Better to go more slowly than to risk a fall.”

  She was glad he hesitated before replying, thinking it
over. The mare traveled faster, it was true, but a fall along the way could be disastrous.

  “I can do it. I won’t fall, Mother Anne. I promise.” He dismounted, gripping Belle’s reins as if fearing she would run away, and tied Polly to a low-hanging branch.

  “Just do your best.” Reluctant to ease the pressure on the wound, Anne beckoned to the boy. “I’m sorry to ask it, but I need you to hold this for a few moments and lend me your pocketknife.” She knew Westcott had given one to the lad, along with instructions as to its use, and the boy slept with it under his pillow, so much did he treasure it.

  Gingerly, his lips trembling just a little, Guy took her place while Anne cut several lengths of fabric from her petticoat. The fine lawn fabric parted under the sharp blade more easily than she expected. Quickly folding one piece, she used it to replace the blood-soaked hat, and was able, with Guy’s help, to drag Westcott further under the cover of the trees. An exercise that left her shivering with horror, but had the blessed effect of putting the viscount into a semi-conscious state. Anne removed her jacket and put it under his head before she boosted Guy into the saddle and adjusted the stirrups.

  “Belle has a very smooth gait but hold onto the pommel if you feel unsteady, although I don’t believe you will. You are a good rider, Guy, and I trust you to get to Westhorp as swiftly and safely as you can.” She put a strong emphasis on the safety, and praying he would be successful, returned to her husband.

  Anne sat beside him, eased his head and uninjured shoulder onto her lap, and with one hand pressed against the wound, laid her jacket across him. She thought the blood flow less, the petticoat bandage not yet soaked through, but the effort of each strained breath made her sick with fear. Dear, sweet heaven. He could not die, not her Nicholas. She smoothed his white forehead with shaking fingers, oblivious to the tears on her cheeks. “Don’t you leave me, Nicholas Blackwell. We all need you. I need you.” Who could have done this? Was it truly an accident, some careless poacher, or was someone lurking nearby, waiting to see if they were successful?