In the distance, she could see the tower of a tall, slender brick structure built in the outcropping of the cliff. “Is that the mine in the distance?” Caroline hoped they had arrived as her bottom hurt from sitting on a hard leather saddle.
“Yes,” he replied. “Keep to the path and follow me,” he ordered.
The path meandered closer to the cliff. As she peered down at the waves, she gasped at the distance between her and the rocky shore below. A few minutes later, they had arrived. Bramwell led her to one of the buildings and stopped. After he dismounted and tethered his horse, he came over to her side.
“Hand me the reins,” he said.
She obeyed, and he led the horse a few feet forward and tethered it as well. When he came to help her dismount, Caroline took note of his countenance. His facial expression had not changed. The same miserable look remained. Compared to her fancy riding habit, Bramwell had dressed in rather plain clothes, and the strands of his long hair blew about his face from the sea breeze. She understood Georgina’s comment about Bramwell’s unkempt appearance.
“Thank you,” she said. She steadied her footing and glanced around. “Well, now, tell me about your mine, Mr. Croft.”
He thoughtfully hesitated for a moment and then began. “My father established the mine in the early eighteen hundreds,” he said with little emotion. “He made his wealth early in life.” Bramwell paused for a moment and with a somber voice added a shocking revelation. “He died in a mining accident when I was sixteen. Afterward, I took over the business and have worked the mine ever since.”
Caroline halted in her step. Just a few days ago, they had made comments regarding the dangerous line of work, and he failed to mention the death of his father. She felt dreadful over the revelation.
“I am very sorry to hear of it,” she said.
“It has been eighteen years since the incident,” Mr. Croft replied, as if to shrug off its significance.
Caroline pondered the astonishing fact that he had inherited such overwhelming responsibilities at a young age. How did he manage to take over the mining operations? At that moment, she thought him to be a courageous and industrious person to accomplish such a monumental task. At last, she had found a positive quality amidst his negative traits.
As they rounded the corner of the brick building, Caroline caught her first glimpse of workers. Young children and women were breaking up rocks with large hammers while others loaded them into trolley cars.
“The workers split the rock into smaller sizes so that they can be pushed into crushing machines,” he said.
A few of the women and children raised their heads and nodded toward Mr. Croft as they walked by but quickly returned to their duties. Caroline wondered if he treated them as grumpily as he did his servants and acquaintances. Perhaps his wretched character carried over into his work as well.
“Do the women and children work many hours?” Caroline asked. She glanced at the young lads and lasses toiling amid the dusty ground.
“Most work ten hours a day, six days a week,” he replied. Outwardly, the long hours of toil meant nothing to him.
“That’s terrible,” Caroline remarked with a scowl. “And those in the mine, do they work the same?”
“Yes,” he said, walking toward another small building. “Follow me to my office. I must speak with my foreman.”
Caroline shuffled along behind him as he took large strides toward his destination. The workers occasionally lifted their heads and looked at her, no doubt wondering what in the world she was doing there dressed in an expensive riding habit. They arrived, and he led her into a small dirty office that made her want to sneeze.
“Would you mind waiting here? I need to take a moment to speak with my foreman about a new dig.”
“Yes, of course,” she answered.
“I won’t be long,” he said in an apologetic tone.
Caroline watched him depart. When he was out of sight, she turned around to investigate her surroundings. A small desk strewn with a disarray of papers sat in the middle. Two wooden chairs were nearby, but Caroline hesitated to sit because of the dust.
She meandered over to the desk and gazed at the papers filled with numbers and names. None of it made any sense to her, and she wondered if it was a list of employees and wages. After a few minutes of perusing his desktop, the office door flew open. Mr. Croft stormed into the room and glared at her.
“I told you to wait, not look at my private matters on my desk,” he snarled.
Caroline, indignant over his scolding, drew away. “I could care less about your private matters,” she replied, knowing it was a bold-faced lie.
Mr. Croft walked behind his desk and sat down. “Take a seat, if you care to,” he offered.
“I would not want to sully Lady Bellingham’s riding habit,” she countered.
In a contemptuous glare, he looked at her from the tip of her head to the hem of her skirt. “Is there anything else you need to know about my livelihood, Miss Woodard, or are we done here?”
Caroline took a step toward him and glowered. “Is it your desire that we end this excursion, Mr. Croft?”
He leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you were a male, I would allow you to climb down the shaft and look around. Since that is out of the question, then my suggestion is that we return to the manor and you return to your aunt’s residence.”
A surge of anger flushed through Caroline. The man possessed an unbearable and rude personality. She couldn’t care less about spending another minute at his precious mine. He had not attempted to be civil and hold a decent conversation with her the entire time. All he cared to do was grumble, complain, and gaze at her with a look that sent chills down her spine.
“Fine,” she bellowed. She headed for the door, flung it open, and marched out of the office, heading for her horse. On her way, she heard the door slam behind her and heavy footsteps following.
When she reached her ride, she stood rigid with her hands balled into a fist. “If it isn’t too much trouble, Mr. Croft, will you please help me onto the saddle?”
He said nothing except to grab her tightly about the waist, roughly hoist her up, and walk away. Caroline, having had enough of his attitude, grasped the reins and turned her horse around. She jabbed her heel in the animal’s ribcage, and the steed bolted forward, trotting up the pathway.
Caroline, caught off guard and situated awkwardly upon the saddle, began to feel herself slip. In her haste, she did not have time to secure her foot in the stirrup. Because of the incline of the trail and the speeding horse, she lost her balance. A moment later, she landed on her back hitting the hard ground. The horse bolted and his left rear foot landed upon her shin. She heard the bone in her left leg snap like a branch of a tree. Instantaneously, searing pain gripped her leg and pulled her into an agonizing hell. Overcome by shock, she lost consciousness.
Insult to Injury
Bramwell could not believe his eyes. One minute Miss Woodard had stormed off in a huff, and the next she lay on the ground. Before he had a chance to catch up to her after her impulsive departure, she had fallen and the horse had trampled her leg.
Swiftly he dismounted, ran to her side, and knelt down. “Miss Woodard,” he frantically called. “Can you hear me?” Her eyes fluttered opened, and she let out a piercing scream.
“My leg… my leg…” She groaned. Tears poured down her red cheeks.
“Please forgive me for lifting your skirt, but I must examine you,” he announced. Without waiting for her permission, he lifted the hem to her knee and immediately detected a broken leg by the displacement of the bone. Thankfully, it had not pierced her skin.
“Oh, dear God,” he bemoaned. “The weight of the horse has broken your leg.”
“I can feel it!”
The bellowing of her voice caught his foreman’s attention, and he ran up the path to see what had happened.
“Sir, is everything all right?” he asked.
“Indeed not
. It appears Miss Woodard has broken her leg.” Bramwell stood to his feet. “I’ll need to get her back to the manor as soon as possible and fetch the surgeon.”
He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration as he listened to Caroline’s wailing. “Fetch the donkey and cart, Dawson. It is crude transportation, but at least we can lay her down and keep her as immobile as possible until the leg can be set.”
Bramwell knelt by her side feeling quite sorry for the young lady. His rudeness had caused her to make an impulsive getaway with an unfortunate end. Nevertheless, as far as he was concerned, her rash attitude had contributed much to her current state of affairs.
“It hurts,” she cried, reaching out and clutching his hand. “I cannot bear the pain.”
Bramwell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to wipe the tears from her face. “As soon as we fetch the surgeon, he will set the leg and give you something for the pain.”
“If you hadn’t been such a horrible host, I would have not stormed away. It is your fault that I am lying here with a broken leg,” she gasped in sobs. “I hold you fully responsible!”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “If you feel better blaming me for your predicament, then by all means do so.” Dawson returned leading the donkey up the pathway with a cart they normally used to haul rock.
“We are going to lift you. The movement will hurt, but we will try and do our best to be gentle.”
Dawson and Bramwell slipped their arms underneath her frame and carried her to the cart. Caroline screamed, glaring at him with hatred. After they had laid her down, Bramwell removed his wool coat and covered her body to keep her warm.
“Tether both horses to the rear of the cart, Dawson, and I will lead the donkey to my home.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“No, your duties are back at the mine. Allow me to deal with this on my own.”
Bramwell came to the side of the cart and looked down upon Miss Woodard whose tears continued to stream down her face.
“I will endeavor to traverse the path slowly,” he said. “Hopefully, we can do this with minimal movement to your broken leg.”
Caroline nodded and grimaced in pain. Bramwell began the slow procession of the wounded guest and two horses back to his manor. Upon their arrival, Pearson rushed out of the door to greet the menagerie.
“Good Lord, Mr. Croft, what happened?”
“An unfortunate accident, I’m afraid. Miss Woodard fell off her horse and broke her leg. We need to get her into the house.” Bramwell walked to the back of the cart showing Pearson the body in tow. “Go fetch Millie to turn down the bed in Lady Bellingham’s suite. Then I need you to take the horse and fetch Dr. Grey in the village.”
“Yes, sir, right away.”
Pearson scurried off to carry out his orders. “I fear this will hurt, Miss Woodard, but nothing can be done about it.”
“Fine, do as you must,” she tearfully replied.
Bramwell slipped his arms underneath her body. “Wrap your arms securely around my neck and shoulders,” he ordered. She did so, and as soon as he lifted her, Caroline let out a scream that pierced his ears.
“I hate you,” she grimaced.
“Fine, hate me then,” he replied without emotion. Irritated over her continual blame for her situation, he entered the house and proceeded to the staircase. “Brace yourself for further discomfort,” he snarled.
With each step he took, her leg slightly bounced no matter how carefully he ascended the stairs. A flood of tears dripped down her cheeks, spilling onto his coat sleeve. Millie met them at the landing.
“Have you pulled back the covers?” Bramwell asked panting.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, staring at Caroline draped in his arms.
Bramwell set her tenderly upon the bed while Millie assisted in situating the pillow underneath her head.
“I need to remove your shoes,” he said, unlacing the short leather boots that once belonged to Rebecca. “We will need whiskey and plenty of it,” he said to Millie. “Go downstairs and get a bottle from Mrs. Williams and a glass.”
Millie left the room, and Bramwell leaned over his injured guest, giving her a sorrowful gaze. “I hope you do not mind whiskey, Miss Woodard, but a few good swigs will take the edge off before the surgeon arrives to set your leg.”
“Will it hurt?” she blubbered.
“Yes, it will hurt like hell. If you must swear at me, I give you permission to do so,” he smirked.
“I would like to slap you instead,” she said, raising her hand.
Bramwell stood up and out of her palm’s reach. “Well, now, would you,” he stated, amused. Millie returned with the bottle, and Bramwell poured a generous amount into the glass.
“Raise her up a bit, Millie, while I help her drink,” he ordered. She did so until Caroline was in a position to swallow. “Drink it all, Miss Woodard,” he ordered. After her first taste, she gagged and stuck out her tongue. He chuckled over her reaction to the alcohol. “First taste of Irish whiskey, I see.”
“Oh, God, it’s horrid,” she lamented, glaring at the glass in his hand.
“Perhaps, but after a few more gulps, you will feel very little, if anything.”
* * * *
Caroline had never experienced the sensation of intoxication. By the time the surgeon had arrived to set her leg, she had become an incoherent, blubbering drunk thanks to Mr. Croft. The world around her had transformed into a blur of inebriated bliss. Everything made her giggle like a child. Even the concerned look of the surgeon as he examined her leg looked amusing.
When he told her he was going to give her leg a jerk to set the bone, Bramwell sat down behind her on the bed and held her tight. She clung to his arm for fortitude, but when she felt his hard muscles through his linen shirt, she felt more than giddiness. His firm arms only led to indecent thoughts regarding the remainder of his body.
Ingeniously he caught her attention away from the surgeon just before the dastardly deed occurred.
“Miss Woodard, would you like me to fetch your mother when we are finished?”
“No, I would like you to kiss me,” she said. She leaned back and looked up at his lips. At that moment, they looked rather enticing. Usually they were in a hard, straight line of gloom. It was at that moment the surgeon gave a quick jerk of her leg, and she felt the bone move.
“I hate you!” Her screams and moans filled the room, and she dug her nails into his arms.
“Well then, if you hate me, I shall not kiss you,” he scoffed.
“It is a good thing it is not a compound fracture, Mr. Croft. Otherwise, I would have had to amputate.” The surgeon stated somberly.
“Amputate?” Caroline lifted her head and watched him splint and wrap the leg.
Bramwell placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like another swig of whiskey?”
She glared at him with glassy eyes. “No, I have had quite enough of that dreadful liquor,” she slurred.
After the surgeon completed his handiwork immobilizing her leg with plaster of Paris, Caroline felt exhausted. Bramwell continued to hold her in his arms, and she was most grateful for the comfort.
“I will leave you with an ample supply of laudanum,” the surgeon stated. “You should keep the leg immobile as much as possible for the next few days. Bed rest is paramount until the bone starts to mend.”
“Would it not be better if I transported Miss Woodard back into Pendeen to recover at her aunt’s home?” Bramwell asked.
“I wouldn’t risk the movement so soon,” the surgeon responded.
“You mean I must stay here?” Caroline lifted her head again and gazed down at her leg that throbbed in pain.
“I’m afraid so,” Bramwell said. He looked as miserable over the thought of spending time with her as she did with him.
“I need another drink,” she said, sinking her head back into his arms. She wondered what fate awaited h
er with the lord of the manor as her keeper.
Motherly Comfort
“My dearest, how did this happen?”
Caroline’s mother stood by the side of her bed wringing her hands. Bernice seemed more interested in the room’s décor than her broken leg.
“I fell off a horse, Mother. Then the horse stepped on my leg.”
“I knew I should have never allowed you to visit Mr. Croft’s mine. Did not Darby say it was no place for a woman? Now look at you—injured and confined to bed.”
“Does it hurt?” Bernice asked. She walked to the end of the bed and looked at her leg resting upon a pillow.
“Yes, it hurts, but the surgeon has provided laudanum, which minimizes the discomfort.”
“I do apologize, Mrs. Woodard, about the inconvenience. You can be assured that we are taking good care of your daughter.”
Bramwell arrived and stood in the threshold of her door. He expressed a look of concern over her welfare, but Caroline questioned his sincerity. No doubt it was merely an act to convince her mother that she would be fine under his watchful eye.
“You say the surgeon insists she stay here at least a week before being moved?” her mother asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he said. He strode in and hovered above Caroline’s body in bed. “We will take good care of her so that she properly mends.” A sly smile curled the corner of his mouth as he gazed into her helpless eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Croft has been more than accommodating, Mother. Millie, his housemaid, has been pampering me every minute of the day.”
Caroline’s mother picked up her daughter’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Well, if you need anything, do fetch me from your aunt’s house. Otherwise, I shall look forward to your return within a week.”
“I shall be bored,” protested Bernice. “Mother and auntie never want to do anything except embroidery.”
“Well, it is about time you were taught, young lady,” Mrs. Woodard said. She grabbed Bernice by the hand. “Come along and let your sister rest.”
“Let me see you to the door,” Bramwell offered. Before leaving, he turned to Caroline. “I have duties at the mine I must attend to this morning, Miss Woodard. If you need anything, Millie shall be at your service.”
Thorncroft Manor (A Novella) Page 5