“That’s what Sir Philip said when I suggested it,” Mr. Perriflyn said glumly.
“I have some experience with injured persons,” Philip added, hoping neither woman would think him utterly incompetent.
“Hmph. If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Perriflyn, I’d just as soon have the doctor cast his eyes over me. Not that I don’t trust you; it’s only that I’m used to Dr. March’s ways. He’s very nearly as good as his dear old father was.”
“I’ll send Merridew for him as soon as we’ve got you home,” Philip promised.
“Wait ‘til Nanny and I are inside before you tell him,” Miss Twainsbury said. “His language will be something appalling, I’m sure.”
Philip was struck anew by the contrast between Miss Twainsbury’s voice and her eyes. Her voice, though pleasing enough for a girl, neither too sharp nor too low, never changed very much. The inflections and cadences remained placid, cool, and colorless. Her eyes, however, snapped, twinkled, and laughed. They expressed a thousand shades of meaning to which her voice never gave a clue.
They were pretty eyes, too; brown shot through with amber lights. Slightly almond-shaped between rows of lengthy lashes, they gave an exotic touch to an otherwise typically English face: good skin, slightly round cheeks and chin, and ash blond hair springing rather wildly from a hastily devised knot on the back of her head. He believed Miss Twainsbury, for whatever reason, worked quite hard at remaining unanimated, but she was betrayed time and again by her expressive eyes.
“Is the fire out in the kitchen, dear?” Nanny Mallow asked.
“I’ll check again,” Miss Twainsbury said.
Whereas Philip had felt strong and alive while carrying Miss Twainsbury into his house, gathering up Nanny Mallow gave him the sensation of being a callous brute. The more he tried to carry her gently, without jarring her injured leg, the more obvious her attempts to conceal her pain became. It was undoubtedly a relief to them all when she fell unconscious before he’d carried her all the way through the main room of the cottage.
“Has she done this before?” Perriflyn asked.
“Yes, several times,” Miss Twainsbury said, hurrying to cradle the gray head before it knocked into the door frame.
“Not good,” the apothecary muttered.
‘Does the doctor live far?” Miss Twainsbury asked.
“I don’t like these spells of fainting any more than you do.”
“Perhaps it’s better this way for now,” Philip said, his boots crunching through the snow. It came up to their tops, and some sifted in. “I’d rather she be unconscious and out of pain during the carriage ride. The road isn’t going to be good.”
Merridew had opened the carriage door, though he’d then climbed back onto the box. His breath and the horses’ steamed like fog in the frigid air.
After they’d tucked her carefully into the carriage, wrapping her round with blankets and propping her into the corner with the fat round sausage of a pillow that Mavis had dredged up, Mr. Perriflyn climbed in, sitting beside Nanny to hold her upright.
Miss Twainsbury hesitated before entering. “The dog?” she asked, turning back.
“Oh, yes. Come on, boy,” Philip called. “Come on.”
Rex danced forward, one ear inside out, flipped over the top of his square head. While Philip called to him again, patting the carriage step, he wiggled backward, forefeet splayed out in the snow, his back end higher than the front. He seemed perfectly willing to join in this game, as soon as someone explained the rules to him.
“Come on, ye daft beast,” Merridew called. “It’s cold as a witch’s—”
“Merridew!” Philip said crossly, and the coachman folded his arms across his chest and stared off into the silent afternoon. The snow muffled every sound; even their voices sounded muted.
“Maybe if we drive off, he’ll follow,” Mr. Perriflyn suggested, tucking his thin hands into his armpits.
One glance at Miss Twainsbury’s vividly reproving eyes and Philip made up his mind.
Climbing down, he approached the dog slowly, his hands spread out at his sides. “Good boy,” he said soothingly. “Time to get in the carriage.”
Rex looked at him out of one eye, his head tilted to one side. Philip came closer and closer. Then Rex dashed left. Philip swerved right and came down full-length in the snow. With a cheer-fid bark, Rex scampered over the snow and, hip-hop, into the carriage.
Rising up on his hands, spitting to clear his mouth, he glared across to where Miss Twainsbury choked, her gloved hand tight over her enchanting mouth.
Philip tried to look angry but couldn’t resist the smile that took over his control. “Funny, is it?” he demanded. With deliberate speed, he stood up, bringing with him a double handful of snow which, while holding her gaze, he compacted into a ball.
“Sir Philip,” she said warningly. She reached to one side, still keeping her watchful gaze fixed on his, and scooped some snow off the fender.
For an extended moment, they stood, weapons at the ready. Even Merridew made no comment. Then, recollecting that this young woman was a stranger and gently born, Philip let his snowball drop, where it instantly blended into that already fallen. Her eyes still twinkling, Miss Twainsbury did the same. ‘You are right, sir. It isn’t really the time for frolicking.”
“I shall challenge you again, by and by.”
“I shall accept,” she said with a proud tilt of her chin. Her head still up, she entered the carriage without another word.
Philip stood by, his hand on the door until she was seated. “Merridew, drive with extra care.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” came the grumbling answer.
“No, I don’t, do I? After we reach the Manor, you’ll have to go bring Dr. March.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Merridew said without further complaint.
The lurch as the carriage set off was hardly perceptible, yet Nanny Mallow groaned. “Was it wise to move her?” Miss Twainsbury asked. “Wouldn’t it have been wiser to bring the doctor to her home?”
“She couldn’t stay there alone in any case,” Philip said.
“I would have stayed with her.”
“Are you experienced as a sick nurse? You would have to do everything for her, and you are not strong enough to lift her. There are many unpleasant details associated with the sickroom that a young lady cannot be expected to—”
“I have nursed my mother through a bad bout of grippe,” she answered as though applying for a position. “Believe me, Sir Philip, no one could be a more demanding patient than Mother. Who will care for Nanny Mallow at the Manor?”
“Mavis’s mother is an accomplished nurse,” he said.
Mr. Perriflyn brightened. “Mrs. Duke? An excellent choice.”
“She has helped my sister-in-law through all four of her confinements.”
“Four? Then, those children I saw today are your nieces and nephews?”
“Only nieces,” Philip said, hoping his rue wasn’t too apparent. Mr. Perriflyn was a notorious gossip. Half his patients called him in only to hear the details of every other one’s life. “Else there would be some other baronet installed at the Manor, even if only a very young one.”
“Oh, of course,” she said. “How stupid of me.”
“How could you know?” he asked reasonably. She didn’t pursue the conversation. Someone must have told her once to be seen and not heard and she’d taken the censure to heart. Or perhaps she noticed how Mr. Perriflyn’s gaze flickered between them in fascination. Any innocent word or gesture could be twisted into something greater than a first meeting’s delicate give-and-take. He didn’t even know her given name.
Nanny Mallow raised her head from where it rested on Mr. Perriflyn’s buckram-padded shoulder. “How long does it take to reach the Manor, anyway? I could have walked it by now, bad leg and all”
“It has taken rather longer than I expected,” Philip said.
After suggesting that the others bundle up as warmly a
s possible, Philip lowered the top panel of the window. “Merridew?” he shouted up at the driver. “Is there a problem?”
“None, sir, but that a tree fell ‘cross the road. I’m going by Shallcross.”
‘Very good. Carry on.”
He closed the window and turned to the women. “The snow will be bringing down trees all over these valleys. It’s so heavy and we’ve had such a dry fall, there’s nothing for the roots to cling to.”
The coach shook and swayed as Merridew fought for every foot of road. Rex, huddled on the floor, kept; his thoughtful brown gaze fixed on his mistress, only occasionally casting a glance at Philip. He had no difficulty interpreting that look, despite the difference in their species. It was reproachful, full of disappointment that he, one of the Lords of Creation, couldn’t do a better job. Except for a few minor details, it was identical to the look Mr. Perriflyn kept giving him.
Miss Twainsbury bore up uncomplainingly, never even to the extent of a mournful glance, despite a return of the bluish tinge around her mouth and a tendency for her soft pink lips to quiver. Philip wondered at himself. It wasn’t like him to notice things like that.
In spite of Mr. Perriflyn’s flapping ears, Philip committed himself as the temperature in the carriage continued to drop. ‘There’s no doubt, Miss Twainsbury, that you will pass at least this one night under the Manor roof.”
“I’m afraid you are right. I haven’t anywhere else to go, have I?”
“Not that I can see. The inn is very fine, but hardly fitting for a young lady.”
‘Very well,” she said, folding her hands. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Rex was the first out of the carriage as they arrived at the Manor. He gave one bark to show his appreciation, then set off, his nose close to the ground. Snuffling up the snow made him break stride, sneezing.
Merridew came up to the door. “These beasts are done,” he said bluntly.
“Then please saddle Paladin and Icarus.”
“Two?”
“I’ll have Perriflyn ride home and then I’ll bring the doctor back on Icarus. Riding horses will get through where carriage horses cannot.”
“But young Dr. March goes in fear of horses. He can’t ride,” Merridew said in protest.
“Well, it’s a grand day for learning, don’t you think?”
* * * *
Rather soggily, Camilla squelched up the staircase behind Sir Philip, who carried the now awake but silent Nanny Mallow. The Manor had the air of a house that had settled peaceably into middle age. The walls could have used a new wash of distemper, but the mellow biscuit color flattered the white-painted woodwork. The carpet runner was a trifle worn over the edges of the steps, but not seriously so. Yet there were fine paintings on the walls, and several tables interspersed down the length of the hall bore ornaments Camilla felt she’d like to investigate. The combination confused her.
To Camilla, used to scrubbing and painting their smaller home every spring in a rigorous regime, as well as dusting daily with great care the curiosities her mother kept locked up the rest of the time in a tall cabinet, it seemed both comfortable and welcoming.
With no more introduction than “Miss Twainsbury, my niece, Tinarose,” Sir Philip laid his burden on the bed and left on his mission.
Mavis had just that instant withdrawn a gleaming brass bed warmer from between the sheets. She laid it on the hearth and crept closer. “Who’s that?” Nanny asked crisply. “Mavis? Mavis Duke?”
“Yes’m,” Mavis said, strangely cowed.
“Well, don’t stand there, girl. Help me off with m’bonnet.”
“Yes’m.”
Camilla turned to the other girl as she turned aside from the fireplace, hanging up the bellows with which she’d been encouraging the flames.
“How do you do, Miss LaCorte?”
The girl’s dark eyes flashed over her in one all-encompassing glance. “What did Uncle Philip say your name was?”
‘Twainsbury; Camilla Twainsbury. I’m a friend of Nanny Mallow’s.”
“Oh, you must be the one who found her. Mavis told me.”
That’s right”
“I’m glad you did,” Tinarose said with a sudden smile. ‘”We all like Nanny Mallow, but we’re not often allowed to go see her. My mother...” She caught herself before she could utter a criticism. Even in the dimness of the bedroom, Camilla could see the color that stained her cheeks.
“Certainly not in the middle of a snowstorm, I’m sure.” Camilla approached the fire, holding out her hands to the blaze. “Goodness, I’m cold sheer through. I don’t think I’ve been out in weather like that since I was a little girl. My father used to take us sledding down the big hill behind our house in Devon.”
“Merridew says it’ll blow over by tomorrow. My sisters are hoping for a white Christmas.”
Nanny’s croak came from the bed. “A white Christmas means a white spring.”
“What’s that?” Tinarose asked. “A white spring?”
“Weddings, child. Many weddings. And after, many children, I only hope I’ll be there to see it.”
“And why not?” Camilla challenged. “You heard Mr. Perriflyn say that there wasn’t much the matter—merely a sprain.”
“It’s not the same when you’re old,” she said, her voice shaking. Camilla realized that now Nanny Mallow felt herself to be safe and cared for, she could give in to the fear that she had fought so valiantly while lying alone in her cottage.
Before the tears she saw in Nanny Mallow’s eyes could slip over the wrinkled cheeks, she turned to the other two girls. In the light of the candles beside the bed, she saw that they were of an age, Tinarose LaCorte perhaps only a year or so older than her servant.
“Mavis, will you fetch Nanny’s valise? I last saw it in the entry hall. And if you would, could you ask someone to bring up some hot water for tea?”
“Tea,” Nanny Mallow sighed, as if offered a ticket into heaven. “Did I tell you to pack my herbs and infusions, Camilla?”
“No, but I’m sure someone here has some of your making. Am I right, Miss LaCorte?”
“I might know where to put my hand on some,” Tinarose said with a sideways glance and half a smile. She was pretty in her youth and health, though her nose was too long for beauty and her eyes bore dark circles. The unadorned frock of a schoolroom miss did nothing to increase her charms. With her dark hair and slightly olive skin, she would have been dramatic and fascinating in deep red. But even when she made her debut, such shades would be forbidden to her.
“Let’s be about it, then,” Camilla said, dismissing her troop.
Before the girls returned, Mavis’s mother came bustling in. Shorter even than her half-grown daughter, she bore herself with great pride, her black hair as elaborately set and curled as any grand lady making her curtsey before the king.
“If I’m not wanted, Miss ...” she began as soon as she put her foot over the threshold.
“Don’t be so daft,” Nanny Mallow said with a return of spirit. “I can’t help myself, so there’s only you to do it. You’re almost as good a nurse as you think you are, so get on with it. And you...,” she said, catching Camilla’s hand. “There’s no words under my tongue to tell you what my gratitude is.”
“Hush now....”
“No, people should speak of such things. I owe you much and what I owe I pay. Now along with you. Tell one of those girls to fill you a bath and get out of those wet boots before you catch your death.”
Suddenly, as the image of a brass tub appeared in her mind, complete with curls of steam rising from the verbena-scented depths, Camilla couldn’t bear her damp and bedraggled condition another instant. Pausing only to squeeze Nanny Mallow’s hand, she hurried to the door. “Oh, please, which room is mine?”
“You might as well take the one next door,” Mrs. Duke said grudgingly. “It’s not as fine as this, but considering you’re a lady born and not an old witchwoman, it’ll have to do.”
“Save the soft words, you old besom,” Nanny Mallow said, “and come over here to get me out of these clothes. Youngsters don’t need to see what they’ll be coming to by ‘n’ by.”
A peek in the room next door was not encouraging. No fire, no warming pan, and a slight smell of mold made it seem dank and neglected. By the light of the low-held candle in her hand, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Pale, drawn, with tangles of hair falling snakily about her face, she looked like a bloodless ghost. She also bore a stain of mud on the bodice of her dress, large enough to run over her like a sash. Camilla decided to search for a warmer corner before she made repairs.
It was in her mind that if she hurried, she could regain her presentability before Sir Philip returned home. She didn’t want his next impression of her to be that of the dilapidated Gorgon she saw before her.
“Vanity, all is vanity,” she said and sneezed twice.
Still squinching along in her too-large, damp boots, Camilla sought the warmer regions below stairs. Of course in this unconventional household, she did not know what she would find. Anything from bacchanalian revels to a quiet spot of tree worship, she imagined.
The house breathed quietly. A pleasant scent like fresh flowers filled the air, odd in winter. As she walked down the stairs, the scent was slowly replaced by that of baking apples. Her mouth watered as she realized how long it had been since she’d eaten, Except for a little pink cake, she’d not tasted anything substantial since the slice of bread and butter with which she’d started her day. Hard to believe that it had only been this morning that she’d left her home.
If the Manor were anything like Sir John Fuster’s house in her own village, the door to the servants’ quarters should be under and behind this staircase. She made a sharp turn, and to her pleased surprise, the green baize door was exactly where she’d surmised.
In Mrs. Twainsbury’s phrase, it was not “done” for a lady to enter another house’s servants’ quarters without the express permission of and possible accompaniment of the hostess. But the beckoning fragrance of baked apples was impossible to resist, and Camilla did not hesitate to push open the door. A deep voice upraised in song, so deep that she wasn’t certain at first if it was a man’s or a woman’s, reached her along with a stronger scent of cinnamon and cloves.
A Yuletide Treasure Page 4