by Deborah Hale
Hannah glanced at her clock. Eight hours!
She sprang from her bed as if slumber were a crime. She could not recall sleeping so long in years. Perhaps the earl had been right after all, much as it pained her to admit it. Even after eight hours, she still felt tired, though not so bone-weary. If his lordship had not commanded her to sleep so long, she would have felt unbearably self-indulgent. Instead she was able to place the blame squarely on his broad shoulders.
The thought of being beholden to him for anything irritated her.
Might he feel the same way about being tended by her during the past few nights? Hannah resented the possibility that they might have something in common.
Now that she was awake, she must see to the duties she had neglected for the past eight hours. As she donned fresh clothes, then plaited and pinned her hair in its usual plain, trouble-free style, Hannah chided herself for her preoccupation with the earl.
She tried not to dwell on her reflection in the looking glass, but she could not ignore her pasty complexion, hollow cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes. Unchivalrous as his remark might have been, the earl had not exaggerated when he had claimed she looked worse than he did. It was vastly unfair that a man with a gaunt face, disheveled hair and a bristle of dark whiskers on his jaw could still appear ruggedly handsome, while a few late nights had left her looking a perfect wreck.
Once she had made herself presentable, Hannah considered going to check on his lordship. Who knew how badly he might have set back his recovery by overeating or fretting himself about the war news? She did not relish the prospect of another confrontation with the earl, but she had made his dying wife a promise and she intended to keep it.
She was about to head toward the sick room when a plaintive wail rose from the nursery, which adjoined her bed chamber. “Why can I not see Miss Hannah? Has she gone away like Mama? If she has, I want to go, too!”
As the nursery maid tried to quiet little Lord Edgecombe, Hannah flew in the direction of the ruckus. The earl was old enough to fend for himself, and her first responsibility was to the children. His lordship’s well-being only concerned her so far as it affected them.
“Here I am.” She stooped to catch the child, who pelted toward her the instant she appeared. “You mustn’t fret anymore. Everything will be all right.”
Peter hurled himself into her embrace and buried his face against her shoulder, where he proceeded to weep his small heart out. It was all Hannah could do to keep from joining him. For days she had held back her grief, afraid it would prevent her from carrying out her duties. Now it threatened to overwhelm her.
“I am not going anywhere.” She stroked the child’s dark hair, which she suddenly realized was the very color of his father’s. “You could not get rid of me if you tried.”
Peter would never try any such thing, but what about his father? It occurred to Hannah that she should make an effort not to antagonize the earl. She wouldn’t put it past him to dismiss her if she disobliged him once too often. How would it affect the children if she were forced out of their lives—especially sensitive little Peter?
“I th-thought you went away!” the boy sobbed. “I d-didn’t see you all day.”
Holding him tight, Hannah backed toward the nearest chair and sank down upon it. “I had some matters to see to, and I thought you would have such jolly times with Maisie and Matthew and Mr. Jennings that you wouldn’t miss me at all.”
Speaking in a soft, soothing voice, she rubbed Peter’s back and pressed her cheek against his hair. She found it difficult to show affection, except with children.
The child’s weeping eased to sniffles. “Couldn’t Papa look after those things now that he is home from the war? I heard Jane tell Edgar he was back.”
Hannah stifled an exasperated sigh. How often must she remind the maids and footmen that little pitchers had big ears? Lord Edgecombe was a clever child for his age. He took in more than people realized. What could she tell him about the earl? She did not want to make him worry that his father might soon join his mother in Heaven.
At the same time, she did not want her young pupil to wonder why his father had failed to look in on him and assume it was because the earl did not care. Hannah was far from certain if that might be true, though she prayed it was not.
“Your papa is very tired out from the war, and he must rest a good long while.” No doubt her excuse would sound ridiculous to anyone over the age of five, but her young pupil did not question Hannah. “Until then, I must take care of some matters for him, the way I used to for your mama.”
She hoped her mention of the countess would not upset the boy just when he had grown calmer. Clearly they could both use a diversion. “Would you like to go visit the babies to see if they have gotten any bigger since last time?”
A glance and a tilt of her head signaled the nursemaid to fetch a handkerchief. When the girl brought it, Hannah thanked her and set about wiping Peter’s eyes.
“Visit them now?” The child gave a doubtful frown. “But it is nearly time for tea.”
“We won’t stay long.” Hannah held the handkerchief for him to blow his nose. “And the fresh air may give us an appetite.”
Peter seemed prepared to accept the change in routine. “When will the babies get big enough to play with me?”
“Not for a while.” Hannah helped him on with his little blue jacket and cap. “But it won’t be long until they begin to smile at you.”
She fetched her bonnet, then they headed off to a nearby tenant farm where little Alice had been sent to nurse. All the while Hannah told her young pupil of the changes he could expect to see in his brother and sister, how they would learn to hold up their heads, roll over, sit, crawl, stand and walk. By the time they neared the cottage, Peter was skipping along at her side, asking all sorts of questions.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Miller,” Hannah called to the farmer’s wife, who was removing washing from her clothesline. “I hope we are not disturbing you. We wanted to look in on the baby, if we may.”
“It’s no trouble,” the woman replied. “Go right on inside. Our Bessie is rocking the wee one in her cradle. She does love to be rocked. A sweet-tempered lamb she is and growing prettier by the day.”
Hannah led Peter into the clean, snug cottage, where a fair-haired girl only a little older than he was rocking the cradle and singing to the baby.
“That’s a nice song.” Peter gave the girl a shy smile. “What is your name?”
“Bessie, my lord.” The child scrambled up and bobbed a hasty curtsy. “That is… my name’s Elizabeth, but Ma only calls me that when I vex her.”
Peter laughed at that, causing poor Bessie to look even more flustered. Hannah could not help thinking what a pity it was that her young pupil was cut off from the local children by his rank. No wonder he was anxious for his baby brother and sister to grow up quickly into playmates for him.
“Would you like to hold Alice and say hello to her?” Hannah asked Peter as she scooped up the baby, who was beginning to fuss. “There, there, little one. Your big brother has come to visit you.”
She lifted the precious we creature to her shoulder for a moment and rubbed her back, inhaling her sweet, milky scent. Holding a contented baby must surely be one of the most satisfying pleasures in the world! A tide of tenderness rose in Hannah’s heart as she caressed the child’s downy cheek with her forefinger.
Alice and her brothers were the closest thing she would ever have to children of her own, Hannah mused. Though her friend Rebecca Beaton was engaged to be married soon, Hannah held no such hopes for herself. She had always been guarded in her dealings with other people, men especially. Even if she could have found one who would be interested in a penniless governess, she had let down too many people she cared about and lost them as a consequence. She dared not risk her heart on marriage. But she did regret missing the opportunity to become a mother.
“Miss Hannah.” Peter gave her skirt a tug. “I thought y
ou said I could hold the baby.”
“Of course.” Hannah stirred from her maternal brooding. “I only wanted to get Alice settled first. Climb up in that chair and I will give her to you.”
Peter did as he was bid, then Hannah did as she had promised, though it cost her a pang to surrender the small, precious bundle to other arms. Even then, she hovered close, making certain Alice’s small head was supported and that she was in no danger of falling from her brother’s arms.
“You’re very pretty, Alice,” Peter informed his tiny sister with grave courtesy. “Your eyes are the same color as Mama’s. I wonder if you will look like her when you grow up.”
“She will be a fortunate girl if she does.” Hannah’s heart overflowed with love for both twins and their brother. She was relieved Peter had been able to speak about his mother without becoming upset. “You know, Alice and Arthur are too young to have any memories of your dear mama. When they get older, it will be up to you and me to tell them all about her.”
“Don’t forget Papa,” replied the boy. “He can tell them, too.”
“So he can.” Hannah strove to keep her tone from betraying any doubt. “How silly of me not to think of him.”
The earl’s children would need their father for so many things in the years to come, Hannah reminded herself. She must do everything in her power to make certain they did not lose him, too. Even if it meant standing up to him in a way no one else in his household was prepared to do.
Alice seemed very content in the arms of her big brother. She didn’t fuss at all and soon drifted off to sleep.
“Shall we go visit Arthur, then head home for tea?” Hannah whispered, so as not to wake the baby.
Peter gave a solemn nod and let Hannah gently place his sister back in her cradle.
On the way to the Wilkes’s cottage, Hannah found herself wondering if Lord Hawkehurst had spent the day resting quietly. Their confrontation that morning made her fear he might not. What if he tried to get out of bed too soon and risked compounding his injury? If he did, it was no use hoping any of the other servants would try to stop him. None of them would dare to gainsay the earl’s commands, even if his stubborn independence might cost him his life. What it might cost her young charges, Hannah could not bear to think.
If only she could persuade him not to rush his recovery. But she was the last person he would listen to. Unlike his late wife, he clearly considered her opinion of no value because she was only a woman and a governess.
“Are you feeling ill, Miss Hannah?” Peter’s question jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Ill?” She glanced down at the child. “Not at all. Only a little tired. What makes you ask?”
“The look on your face.” He twisted his own features in an imitation of hers—mouth tight and brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re not ill? Perhaps you should see the doctor.”
The doctor! Hannah felt the tension in her face ease. She smiled to reassure her anxious young pupil. “That is an excellent idea. I feel quite well but I reckon I should consult him to be certain.”
It was not for herself that she intended to consult Dr. Hodge. She was certain the physician would agree with her about Lord Hawkehurst. And his lordship might conceivably heed the doctor.
Gavin had thought nothing could make him pleased to see Miss Fletcher. But when she appeared that evening with Dr. Hodge, the earl was forced to admit he’d been wrong. Not that he had any intention to tell her so.
Since their exasperating, yet strangely invigorating, exchange that morning, he had spent the rest of the day surrounded by obliging servants who deferred to him in every particular. They never presumed to disagree with anything he said. They readily carried out his orders to the letter. He could not recall when he had last spent such a tiresome day.
It did not help that the news from France was so uncertain. Waterloo had been hailed as a great triumph, yet Gavin knew the cost of that victory in human terms had been appalling… on both sides. What a terrible waste it had been—a terrible needless waste! If only the man responsible had been dealt with properly a year ago, all those men, including his friend, might still be alive and healthy now.
It was no good casting stones at others, Gavin admitted to himself. He was as much to blame as anyone. He was a peer of the realm, after all. He should have gone up to London and demanded that Bonaparte be confined somewhere he could be properly watched and prevented from ever returning to power.
Gavin could not let the same thing happen this time.
To be certain it would not, he needed reliable information. Since that appeared to be in short supply, the void was filled with rumors instead. He must find out what was going on. But he could not do that by lying in bed and reading newspapers that printed more fiction than fact!
The arrival of Dr. Hodge and Miss Fletcher provided a surprisingly welcome diversion from his anxious brooding.
“I was most relieved to hear that your lordship had regained consciousness.” The doctor laid down his satchel and reached for his patient’s wrist.
“No more pleased than I am,” Gavin replied. “How soon can I expect to be on my feet again?”
The doctor exchanged a look with Miss Fletcher before he answered. “I shall need to make a more thorough examination before I can hazard an opinion, sir. But I must stress it is important not to hurry the process. The body heals from injury in its own time as the Lord has ordained. Any attempt to speed it may have the opposite result. In your case, it might even place your life in danger.”
Gavin scowled as the doctor continued his examination. That was not the response he wanted to hear. The prospect of a long succession of days like this one appealed to him as much as a plague of boils! Being confined to his bed while Bonaparte slipped through the Allies’ fingers again would be the worst form of torment he could imagine.
He resented the smug look on Miss Fletcher’s face as she stood by the mantel waiting for the doctor to complete his examination. No doubt she had fetched Hodge here to lecture him about not trying to rush his recovery.
Had he given her any choice, his conscience inquired, after making it clear he had no intention of heeding her advice? What puzzled him was why she was not eager to see him out of bed and speeded on his way. All the time he’d been home last year, Miss Fletcher had made little secret of her disapproval. She should be happy to see him gone again.
That was it! Gavin flinched and sucked in his breath as Dr. Hodge removed the dressing from his wound. Miss Fletcher did not know he meant to leave Edgecombe as soon as he was fit to ride again. She must assume he intended to settle down and take over running the estate, perhaps interfere with her management of the children. Nothing could be further from his plans—for the time being at least.
Perhaps if he explained why he could not afford to linger in bed for days on end, Miss Fletcher would seize the opportunity to be rid of him.
The doctor shook his head and clucked his tongue as he examined the wound. “It appears to have opened again just when it was beginning to knit. What happened, sir?”
Gavin’s scowl deepened. He felt as if he was eight years old again and being brought before his father to answer for some mischief he’d gotten up to. “I retched up my breakfast, if you must know. The… heaving was rather violent.”
His words brought a furrow of worry to the doctor’s brow. “What did you have to eat that disagreed with your digestion? I gave instructions for—”
“An invalid diet,” Miss Fletcher piped up. “Water gruel, beef tea, calves’ foot jelly. When his lordship woke this morning he had an appetite for… heartier fare.”
“Ham and eggs,” Gavin growled. “Kippers, hot rolls and coffee.”
The doctor looked aghast. “Not much wonder you cast up your accounts, eating like that after a long fast. I cannot stress strongly enough that you must rest in order to heal. The longer that wound takes to knit, the greater risk you run of an infection. After the quantity of blood you lost, your constitution m
ight be too weak to fight it.”
Gavin was still not convinced his injuries could be that serious. Civilian doctors were such alarmists. Army surgeons would stitch a soldier up and send him straight back into action.
“But I feel quite well. Apart from the odd twinge of pain… and being weaker than I’d like… perhaps a trifle light-headed.” He jammed his mouth shut before he admitted to anything worse. If he added much more, he feared the doctor might declare him a permanent invalid.
Once again Miss Fletcher spoke up. “Dr. Hodge, could you perhaps advise his lordship how long it will be before he may resume his normal activities?”
Gavin shot her a baleful look. Had he truly been pleased to see her a few moments ago? He must have been off his head.
The doctor considered for a moment. “I should say you must not stir out of bed for at least a fortnight, sir, and eat only those foods that will be easy on your digestion. After that you might slowly begin to resume your accustomed activities. Provided you do not cause yourself a setback by trying to hurry the process, I believe you should be quite well recovered in a month’s time.”
“A month?” By then Bonaparte could have slipped out of France on a ship bound for the Caribbean or America to wait for his next opportunity to seize power. How many more would die then? Far more than Gavin cared to contemplate.
“A fortnight?” he cried. “That is ridiculous! I cannot lie about for days on end while my country is at war.”
“The war will soon be over thanks to men like you.” The doctor dismissed Gavin’s protest. “Now I must apply a fresh dressing. Miss Fletcher, would you be so kind as to help his lordship sit upright while I bind his wound?”
The look on Hannah Fletcher’s face told Gavin how little she cared to approach that close to him. Had he only dreamed of the devoted care she’d given him while he lay unconscious?
She did not permit her aversion to interfere with doing what she considered her duty, however. Gavin could respect that. The governess gave a curt nod of agreement, squared her shoulders and strode toward the bed.