He shuddered, and she dared to put her arms around him.
“What if I had not seen you? I cannot bear the thought,” he murmured against her hair. “To think that such brilliance might have been snuffed out and made to vanish.”
“Which reminds me, Mr. Doherty,” she said in mock severity, leaning back in his arms to peer archly into his face. “Why would you have them to believe me a woman of ill repute?”
“My poor Miss Fulton,” he said, laughing as he gently pressed her cheek again to his chest. “Who is to say what good men will do when they are trapped and afraid? What if they had heard your name in the village? Is there one in all the land that does not consist of a gossip or two? A visiting heiress, beautiful, and meant for the local lord; that is irresistible fodder for such folk. I should not like the two of them to return in the night and find a way to abduct you again and hold you to ransom.”
“You are so very wise,” she murmured against his hastily-tied cravat. It gave off a whiff of starch and linen. Nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. “And yet, I found your remark about me to be quite shocking.” She felt her face blush at the recollection.
“What is amiss in saying you are even more beautiful underneath this lovely exterior?” he said with a squeeze. “I was merely commenting on your internal beauty, your intelligence, your talents, your wit. If they should choose to interpret it to mean something foul, that is their affair.”
“Oh,” she breathed, touched. “You are so kind and very clever.” She pulled back and looked up into his face that had become so dear. “I had thought I would never see you again, and now this. I find that I am happy to have been dragged into the woods.”
He cupped her cheek in his hand and ran his thumb, ever so gently, across her lips. “Not as happy as am I,” he said, his voice uneven.
Her heart began to race; surely now he would kiss her. She looked up into his face, but he did not lower his head to hers. Closing her eyes, she waited, but still he did not kiss her. When she opened them, she found that he gazed at her with sorrow in his eyes.
“Mr. Doherty, what is it?”
He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back out of her arms. “This is the last time that I shall see you. ’Twould only lead to misery were we to meet again. When the house party is over, you shall go home to County Cavan. Unless you have decided to accept an offer of marriage from the baron, you shall never return. If you do accept him, I shall go away,” he said, his face white.
“But, Mr. Doherty, do you not see?” she cried. “You have rescued me from certain harm; my father cannot refuse you. You must go to him! Naturally, I shall go to him first, to explain,” she said, her excitement growing. “Then I shall insist that he hears what you have to say. It shall clear the way for you.”
“And what shall I say to him, my dear Miss Fulton?” he asked, his eyes full of anguish. “That he should give his daughter to me, a man with no money, no prospects, no home of his own?”
“What does that matter?” she asked insistently. “If my dowry is sufficient to set up the baron as a mutton farmer, it is enough to keep the two of us anywhere we choose to live.”
“Yes,” he said, “but that is not what your father wants for you. Upon reflection, I am astonished that he should wish to part with you at all. You are all that he has. It shall take everything the baron has to offer, possibly more, for your father to endure even the thought of his separation from you.”
She knew that he was right, but she could not bear it. “I love my papa and do not wish to hurt him. But is it right that I should be miserable for his sake?” she asked, the tears sliding down her face. “How am I to be without you?”
He brushed away her tears and placed his hands on her shoulders. As he pulled her towards him, she thought that he had reconsidered; that he meant to take her in his arms and deliver the kisses for which she longed. Instead, he put his mouth to her forehead. “No matter what happens,” he said through lips that clung to her skin, “no matter where you go, I choose you, Caroline Fulton, now and forever.”
The heat of his tears on her face, the pounding of his heart, the effort of his trembling restraint, none of it said as much as the fashion in which he dragged his quivering lips across her forehead.
“We must make haste,” he said, stepping away from her. “The physician most usually calls directly after breakfast.”
Caroline sniffed, her breath shuddering in her lungs. “Yes, poor Pierre! I shall help you get him onto the horse.”
It was with difficulty that they succeeded in the transference of Pierre from the clearing to his mount. Mr. Doherty swung himself up into the saddle behind the wounded man to give him the support needed. Taking the reins in his hands, he turned to Caroline. “Follow me to the end of the woods. Once we emerge at the edge of the park, you shall be safe, but then I needs must go as fast as I can, for Pierre’s sake.”
“Yes, she said sadly. “I understand.”
Quickly, they picked their way through the trees, and when they emerged from the woods, he turned and gave her one last, long look.
She smiled at him in hopes it would say all that she could not. Then he galloped away, chunks of the lawn flying into the air in the wake of the horse’s hoofs.
Caroline waited until there was no chance of his overhearing before she fell to her knees and sobbed. She looked up through her tears to see Mr. Doherty, off in the distance, navigate the horse around to the back of the house, and then he was gone.
Reluctantly, she considered her possible fates. She could choose to marry the baron, or someone like him, bear his children, and have someone to care for her. Or, were she to remain unwed and live with her father, she would one day inherit all that he had and be forever on her own.
She thought about Charles and Christopher, their dear freckled faces and eager embraces. She thought of the infants born by Fiona’s sisters and how Caroline never failed to wish for one of her own whilst holding them in her arms. She had already bid adieu to the man she loved; she found it to be every bit as difficult to say farewell to motherhood. She had fallen to her knees a sweetheart, but rose from them a determined spinster.
As she walked slowly back to the house, she watched a flood of horses flow past along the edge of the park: the baron and his guests. She turned quickly away in hopes she had not been identified; she had no wish to explain the events of the morning. There was little she could do once she entered the house, however, but run up the stairs as quickly as possible.
To her chagrin, she was met just inside the door by her father, along with Lady Bissell and Fiona. Each bore an expression of varying degrees of shock. Neither of the ladies was as disapproving as her father, however.
“What ha’ ye been up to, young lady? Yer hair is disgraceful! T’ere is dirt and grass stains on yer gown! Could it be the same ye wore to dinner last night? Where ha’ ye been?” he demanded.
“Papa,” she begged, “I want nothing more than to explain it all to you, but I should prefer it to be in private.”
“We shall discuss it in the carriage on our way home!”
“Home! We are to go home?” she asked in dismay.
“You don’t believe the baron shall marry you now?” her father demanded.
“Well, at least there is that,” she murmured as she brushed past her father and started up the stairs.
Niall longed to laugh. He was certain someone would, someday, when he heard the tale. It would be Niall telling the story, the one having to do with the man who deserted the woman he loved in order to rescue a highwayman.
There was no laughing, however, when so much as a breath taken too deeply seemed to pierce his heart. It was just as well; he would have never found the strength to part from Miss Fulton if Pierre were not in need of immediate rescue. When he approached the house, he realized there was no repenting his actions. It was with sharp resignation that he drew his mount to a halt and rapped at the kitchen door.
Mrs. Walsh, her face white w
ith strain, opened it. “What is it?” she demanded in cross tones.
“Mrs. Walsh, I beg your pardon, but I am in need of assistance. A friend of mine is hurt and requires a physician. Is there a place he might rest until I arrange for the physician to see him?”
“It’s plastered, is he?” she asked, inspecting Pierre where he lay sprawled along the neck of the horse.
“Not drunk, no. He is meek as a lamb and very tired. He needs a place to rest and a physician before he can resume his journey.”
“Where’s he bound?” she asked doubtfully.
“London, I suppose. I realize it is an inconvenience, particularly when you are short of help, but ’twould be a great service to me. He would be happy to pay.” The words slipped easily from his tongue though he doubted Pierre possessed so much as a farthing.
“No, no, t’ere is no need for t’at,” she said, satisfied. “If he’s a friend of yours, t’at is more t’an satisfactory. Take him down from t’ere and he shall have my room for the time bein’.”
She watched with interest as Niall negotiated the wounded man into position to be hefted over his shoulder. He knew it would exacerbate Pierre’s pain; if he were fortunate, he would again lapse into unconsciousness. Following Mrs. Walsh into a small room next to the kitchen, Niall noted a carefully made bed against the wall.
“Ye just lay him right t’ere.” Mrs. Walsh indicated.
Niall needed no further encouragement and slung Pierre onto the bed. A foul stench rose into the air when Niall pulled away the man’s boots, but Mrs. Walsh didn’t seem to notice. As she studied Pierre’s face against the pillow, the lines of her face were softer than Niall had yet seen them.
“Go! Fetch the physician,” she instructed. “I’ll do what I can for the poor fellow until ye return.”
“You are a saint, Mrs. Walsh,” Niall said gratefully.
“We shall see Mr. Do’rty, we shall see,” she said with a sad smile.
Niall pounded up the steps to the ground floor, the first, and finally to the second floor where Mr. Wilkinson’s chamber was most likely to be found. When Niall reached the baize door, he opened it slowly and peered around it to ensure the passage was empty. He knew the baron had taken his male guests on a shoot whilst most of the ladies should all still be at breakfast. Seeing that the way was clear, he went to the first chamber door and, placing his ear to the polished wood, intently listened. Hearing nothing, he opened the door. The room was empty. Doing the same at each door, he came nearly to the end of the passage.
Suddenly, a door opened, and a maid appeared. She stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Niall hardly noticed; his gaze was drawn to the large windows that framed a familiar view of the park. There was no doubt that he gazed upon Miss Fulton’s room. “Can you tell me,” he asked with some difficulty, “the location of Mr. Wilkinson’s chamber?”
“Indeed, it is to the other side of the passage, nearly to the landin’,” she replied as she stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her.
Niall waited until she disappeared into another chamber before he drew open the door to Miss Fulton’s. He knew it to be wrong, but he could not resist the opportunity to touch what she had touched; to breathe the air she had breathed; to see the sky from where she had stood.
He went to the window just below the one from which he delivered his letters and stared across the park to the row of ash trees. Then he looked about and noted that her bed was indeed placed just below his. He went to it and ran his hand along the headboard. Supposing he had located the spot where she had knocked to him just the night previous, he placed his hand over it and pictured her kneeling on the bed and knocking.
When his eyes began to fill, he knew he must be leave. As he turned to go, his gaze fell upon a crumpled piece of parchment addressed to Mr. Fulton. Niall assumed it to have been written by Miss Fulton and, based on the number of times his name appeared, on the subject of himself. Consumed with a curiosity he hadn’t the time to indulge, he took it and slid it in the pocket of his jacket. Then he opened her chamber door a crack so as to determine if the passage were empty.
A couple of ladies were making their way into another chamber. The moment they shut their door, Niall stepped into the passage, opened the door to Mr. Wilkinson’s chamber, and slipped inside. He was gratified to find the physician at Mr. Wilkinson’s bedside, though a bit abashed at the manner in which they both stared at Niall in consternation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said with a bow, “but when you have finished here, there is another who is needful of your services,” he explained.
“Not another like the kitchen maid, I hope,” the physician said, shaking his head. “That was a sad case.”
“No, I am certain it is not the same ailment,” Niall replied. “I shall wait in the passage until you are free,” he said, in the case Mr. Wilkinson wished for privacy.
“There is no need,” he said kindly. “Take up a chair; it is no trouble.”
Gratefully, Niall sat and watched with interest as the physician examined Mr. Wilkinson’s injured foot and dispensed a bottle of laudanum for the pain. “When the first is gone, here is another,” he said. Niall hoped he had more in his black bag for Pierre.
“I am Dr. O’Brien,” the physician said as he snapped the sides of his bag together. “Where are we to go now?”
After executing a bow for Mr. Wilkinson, Niall led the physician out to the passageway. “We shall take the servants’ stairs to the kitchen,” Niall explained. “I pray that you shall not mind that I do not request your services for a guest, but for someone laid low in a room next to the kitchen.”
“You need not apologize,” Dr. O’Brien said. “I attend to people from all walks of life, in all sorts of circumstances.”
Niall silently wondered if the physician had ever before tended to a gunshot wound. If he felt obligated to report such occurrences to the authorities, there could be troublesome consequences. Niall decided that he would worry about it later, after Pierre’s life was saved.
“He is through here,” Niall instructed, indicating the doorway through which the physician must go.
“Ah, and what do we have here, Mrs. Walsh?” the physician asked.
“This poor man has a wound in his shoulder,” she said fretfully. “I have cleaned it up as best I could.”
Niall gazed at Mrs. Walsh in amazement. More surprising than her concern for this stranger was the fact that she had, in addition to washing his wound, washed his face and hands, removed his shirt, and tucked him up under the blankets. Niall looked about the room, but there was no sign of his clothing, much of which pointed towards Pierre’s identity as a French soldier.
The physician pulled back the cloth Mrs. Walsh had pressed to the wound. “It would seem that your friend encountered a bullet.”
“Yes,” Niall replied shortly. Silently, he wondered how much he dared say about how Pierre had come by such a wound.
“’Twas simple, really,” Mrs. Walsh said. “The poor man was hit when one of the baron’s guests accidentally fired off his gun. T’ey were out to shoot birds and t’is poor man got the worst of it, didn’t he Mr. Do’rty?”
“I am persuaded he had no wish to be shot,” Niall agreed, grateful he was not required to lie. Impressed with Mrs. Walsh’s storytelling, he decided he ought to come below stairs more often; perhaps she knew a tale or two that he had not heard.
“Well, he is very fortunate.” Dr. O’Brien examined the wound more closely. “The bullet went straight through; only muscle was damaged.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Niall said in relief.
“Tell me, when did this happen?” the physician asked.
“’Twas several days ago,” Niall hedged. He felt certain the psychiatrist knew full well the wound was not a fresh one.
“Why did no one fetch me at the time?” Dr. O’Brien demanded.
Niall frowned. “I couldn’t say. I came to find you the moment I was made aware of the need.”
The physician nodded. “You have done well with the cleaning of the wound, Mrs. Walsh. However, it has become inflamed. Will you make a poultice of herbs and honey?”
She cocked her head and arched a brow. “I dare ye to name any who could make one better!” she insisted as she stood and quit the room.
Dr. O’Brien turned to Niall. “A few days with frequent applications of hot poultices should draw out all of the infection. Then I shall be able to stitch up the wound, after which he should heal in good time.”
“Thank you,” Niall said. “Would you be so kind as to address the bill to me, Niall Doherty? I shall pay it when I go into town on my next afternoon off.”
“Very well, Mr. Doherty,” the physician said as he walked to the door. “I shall return later this evening to check his progress.”
Niall sketched the physician a bow and turned to Pierre. He did little but groan before Mrs. Walsh returned with the warm poultice. She applied it with such loving attention that it made Niall wonder.
“I must thank you,” Niall insisted. “You are kind to him.”
“He is too pretty to die,” she said softly. “He puts me in mind of me brother when he were young.”
“I do not know how I can repay you,” Niall said.
“Ne’er ye mind,” she insisted. “He shall remain here ‘til he’s well. Ye need not fear t’at I shall tell any of the high and mighty above stairs,” she insisted.
“Mrs. Walsh, you are a treasure. I shall be down to see how he does when I can.”
“Indeed, ye shall. Now, ye had best go and see to t’ose lads. I need Miss Deakin to help in the kitchen again today.”
“Of course,” Niall said, the picture of calm despite the throb of anxiety that assailed him. He ran up the three sets of stairs and burst into the school room just as Charles had neared the end of his tale. It was about a beautiful maiden in the forest who was captured and screamed at length until the handsome prince ran to her rescue with his magic ax.
O'er The River Liffey (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 19