by Lisa Kleypas
To Kathleen’s relief, the footman who had been dispatched to find Dr. Weeks returned with him promptly. Weeks was a competent, skillful physician who had trained in London. He had come to the estate on the morning of Theo’s accident, and he had been the one to break the news to the Ravenel girls about their brother’s death. Whenever a member of the household was ill, Weeks always arrived promptly, treating the servants with the same consideration and respect that he showed to the Ravenel family. Kathleen had quickly come to like and trust him.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Lord Trenear,” Weeks said as he opened his medical cases in one of the bedrooms that had been readied for the soon-to-arrive patients. “I regret that the first time will be on such an occasion.”
“So do I,” Kathleen said, staring fixedly at the contents of the large black cases: plaster bandages, needles and thread, shining metal implements, glass tubes filled with powders, and small bottles of chemicals. A sense of unreality kept sweeping over her as she wondered when Devon would arrive, and what kind of injuries he had sustained.
Dear Lord, this was hideously similar to the morning that Theo had died.
She folded her arms and gripped her elbows, trying to quell the tremors that ran through her frame. The last time Devon had left Eversby Priory, she thought, she had been too cross with him to say good-bye.
“Lady Trenear,” the doctor said gently, “I’m sure this unfortunate situation, and my presence here, must remind you of your husband’s accident. Would it help if I mixed a mild sedative?”
“No, thank you. I want to keep my wits about me. It’s only… I can’t believe… another Ravenel…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
Weeks frowned and stroked his close-trimmed beard as he commented, “The men of this family don’t seem to be gifted with longevity. However, let’s not assume the worst just yet. We’ll learn about Lord Trenear’s condition soon enough.”
As the doctor arranged various items on a table, Kathleen could hear Sims in some distant room, telling a footman to run to the stables and fetch a bundle of training poles for makeshift stretchers. There were sounds of rapid feet on the stairs, and the clanks of hot water cans and pails of coal. Mrs. Church was in the middle of scolding a housemaid who had brought her a dull pair of scissors, but she broke off in mid-sentence.
Kathleen tensed at the abrupt silence. After a moment, the housekeeper’s urgent voice came from the hallway.
“My lady, the family coach is coming along the drive!”
Leaping forward as if scalded, Kathleen bolted from the room. She passed Mrs. Church on the way to the grand staircase.
“Lady Trenear,” the housekeeper exclaimed, following her, “you’ll have a tumble!”
Kathleen ignored the warning, racing headlong down the stairs and out to the portico, where Sims and a group of housemaids and footmen were gathering. Every gaze was on the approaching vehicle.
Even before the wheels had stopped moving, the footman riding on the back had leaped to the ground, and the carriage door had flung open from the inside.
Exclamations rippled through the air as West emerged. He was in appalling condition, his clothing filthy and wet. Everyone tried to gather around him at once.
West raised a hand to hold them off, bracing himself against the side of the carriage. Continuous tremors ran through him, his teeth chattering audibly. “No… s-see to the earl first. Wh-where’s the damned doctor?”
Dr. Weeks was already beside him. “Here, Mr. Ravenel. Are you injured?”
West shook his head. “Only c-cold. H-had to pull my brother fr-fr-from the river.”
Having pushed her way through the group, Kathleen took West’s arm to steady him. He was shuddering and swaying, his complexion gray. A fetid river smell clung to him, his clothes reeking of mud and polluted water.
“How is Devon?” she asked urgently.
West leaned hard against her. “Barely c-conscious. Not m-making much sense. In the w-water too long.”
“Mrs. Church,” Weeks said to the housekeeper, “Mr. Ravenel must be carried straight to bed. Stoke the hearth and cover him with blankets. No one is to administer spirits of any kind. That is very important, do you understand? You may give him warm sweet tea, not hot.”
“I don’t need to be c-carried,” West protested. “Look, I’m st-standing right here before you!” But even as he spoke, he had begun to sink to the ground. Kathleen braced her legs against his weight, trying to keep him from falling. Hastily a pair of footmen grabbed him and lowered him onto a stretcher.
As West struggled, the doctor spoke sternly. “Be still, Mr. Ravenel. Until you’ve been warmed through and through, any exertion could be the death of you. If the chilled blood in your extremities reaches your heart too fast —” He broke off impatiently and said to the footmen, “Take him inside.”
Kathleen had begun to climb the folding step of the carriage. The dark interior was ominously silent. “My lord? Devon, can you —”
“Allow me to see them first,” the doctor said from behind her, pulling her firmly away from the vehicle.
“Tell me how Lord Trenear is,” she demanded.
“As soon as I can.” Weeks climbed into the carriage.
Kathleen clenched every muscle in the effort to be patient. She bit her lower lip until it throbbed.
A half minute later, the doctor’s voice emerged with a new note of urgency. “We will remove Mr. Winterborne first. I need a strong fellow to help, immediately.”
“Peter,” Sims directed, and the footman hastened to comply.
What about Devon? Kathleen was maddened with worry. She tried to look into the carriage, but she couldn’t see anything with the doctor and footman blocking the way. “Dr. Weeks —”
“In a moment, my lady.”
“Yes, but —” She fell back a step as a large, dark, shape clambered from the carriage.
It was Devon, ragged and nearly unrecognizable. He had heard her voice.
“Lord Trenear,” came the doctor’s terse command, “do not exert yourself. I will see to you as soon as I assist your friend.”
Devon ignored him, staggering as his feet reached the ground. He clutched the edge of the door opening to keep from falling. He was filthy and battered from head to toe, his shirt wet and bloodstained. But as Kathleen looked over him frantically, she saw with relief there were no missing limbs, no gaping wounds. He was in one piece.
His disoriented gaze found hers in a blaze of unholy blue, and his lips shaped her name.
Kathleen reached him in two strides, and he seized her roughly. One hand clutched the mass of coiled braids at the back of her head in a grip that hurt. A quiet groan vibrated in his throat, and he ground his mouth over hers in a punishing kiss, heedless of anyone who saw them. His body shuddered, his balance ramshackle, and she stiffened her legs to support him.
“You shouldn’t be standing,” she said unsteadily. “Let me help you – we’ll sit on the ground – Devon, please —”
But he wasn’t listening at all. With a primitive, impassioned grunt, he turned and pushed her against the side of the carriage and kissed her again. Even hurt and exhausted, he was unbelievably strong. His mouth took hers with bruising force, stopping only when he had to gasp for air. Over his shoulder, Kathleen saw Mrs. Church and a pair of footmen coming to them with a stretcher.
“Devon,” she begged, “you must lie down – there’s a stretcher right here. They have to bring you into the house. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”
He was motionless except for the violent shivers that ran through his frame.
“Darling,” Kathleen whispered near his ear with anguished worry, “please let go of me.”
He responded with an indecipherable sound, his arms cinching harder around her… and he began to fall as he lost consciousness.
Thankfully, the footmen were right there to grab Devon before he crushed Kathleen under his solid weight. As they pulled him away from
her and lowered him to the stretcher, her dazed brain comprehended the word he’d said.
Never.
Chapter 18
D
uring the process of settling Devon onto the stretcher, the hem of his wet shirt rode up. Kathleen and Mrs. Church gasped simultaneously as they saw a hideous purple-black bruise the size of a dinner plate, spreading across the left side of his rib cage and chest.
Kathleen blanched as she thought of the blunt force it had taken to cause such an injury. Surely he must have broken ribs. Desperately she wondered if one of his lungs might have collapsed. Carefully she bent to arrange one of his sprawled arms against his side. How shocking it was to see a man of his vitality lying there so limp and still.
Mrs. Church settled a blanket over him and told the footmen, “Take him up to the master bedroom. Softly… no jostling. Treat him as if he were a newborn babe.”
After counting in unison, the footmen lifted the stretcher. “A babe that weighs fourteen stone,” one of them grunted.
Mrs. Church tried to look stern, but the corners of her eyes crinkled briefly. “Mind your tongue, David.”
Kathleen followed behind the footmen, swiping impatiently at the film of tears over her eyes.
Walking beside her, the housekeeper murmured consolingly, “There, there. Don’t distress yourself, my lady. We’ll soon have him patched up and as good as new.”
Although Kathleen longed to believe her, she whispered tightly, “He’s so bruised and feeble – he might have internal injuries.”
“He didn’t seem so feeble as all that, a moment ago,” the housekeeper observed dryly.
Kathleen turned scarlet. “He was overwrought. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“If you say so, my lady.” Mrs. Church’s slight smile faded as she continued. “I think we should save our worry for Mr. Winterborne. Just before Mr. Ravenel was carried inside, he said that Mr. Winterborne’s leg is broken and he’s also been blinded.”
“Oh, no. We must find out if he wants us to send for someone.”
“I would be surprised if he did,” the housekeeper said pragmatically as they entered the house.
“Why do you say that?” Kathleen asked.
“If he had anyone, he wouldn’t have come here alone for Christmas in the first place.”
While Dr. Weeks attended to Devon’s injuries, Kathleen went to visit West.
Even before she reached the open door of his room, she heard noise and laughter drifting into the hallway. She stood at the threshold, watching with a touch of fond resignation as she saw West sitting up in bed, regaling a group that included a half-dozen servants, Pandora, Cassandra, both dogs, and Hamlet. Helen stood beside a lamp, reading the temperature of a glass thermometer.
Thankfully West no longer appeared to be shivering, and his color had improved.
“… then I glimpsed a man wading back out into the river,” he was saying, “toward a half-submerged railway carriage with people trapped inside. And I said to myself, ‘That man is a hero. Also an idiot. Because he’s already been in the water for too long, and he won’t be able to save them, and he’s about to sacrifice his life for nothing.’ I proceeded to climb down the embankment and found Sutton. ‘Where is the earl?’ I asked.” West paused for dramatic effect, relishing the rapt attention of his audience. “And where do you think Sutton pointed? Out to the river, where that reckless fool had just saved a trio of children, and was wading after them with a baby in one arm and a woman on the other.”
“The man was Lord Trenear?” one of the housemaids gasped.
“None other.”
The entire group exclaimed with pleasure and possessive pride.
“Nothing to it, for a bloke as big as his lordship,” one of the footmen said with a grin.
“I should think he’ll be put in the papers for this,” another exclaimed.
“I hope so,” West said, “if only because I know how he would loathe it.” He paused as he saw Kathleen in the doorway.
“All of you,” she said sotto voce to the servants, “had better clear out before Sims or Mrs. Church catches you in here.”
“I was just reaching the best part,” West protested. “I’m about to describe my thrilling yet poignant rescue of the earl.”
“You can describe it later,” Kathleen said, standing in the doorway as the servants hastily filed out. “For now, you should be resting.” She glanced at Helen. “How is his temperature?”
“He needs to go up one more degree.”
“The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that… I’m famished.”
“The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said.
“Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked.
“I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.”
Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.”
“Broth?” he repeated indignantly.
“Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.”
“Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?”
“Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.”
“Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said.
“No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.”
The twins cleared the dogs and pig from the room and left.
Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely.
He complied with a long-suffering expression.
“Dear,” Kathleen asked Helen, “will you speak to Mrs. Church about dinner? With three invalids in the house, I think it’s best if we dine informally tonight.”
“Two invalids,” West mumbled indignantly around the thermometer. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Yes, of course,” Helen replied to Kathleen. “And I’ll make up a tray for Dr. Weeks. He may be occupied for a while with Lord Trenear and Mr. Winterborne, and he’s certainly earned his supper.”
“Good idea,” Kathleen said. “Don’t forget to include a dish of lemon syllabub. As I recall, Dr. Weeks has a sweet tooth.”
“By all means,” West said around the thermometer, “let’s talk about food in front of a starving man.”
Before leaving, Helen paused to nudge his chin upward, closing his mouth. “No talking.”
After Helen had gone, Kathleen brought some tea to West and took the thermometer from his mouth. She examined the line of mercury intently. “A half degree more, and you may eat.”
West relaxed against the pillows, his animated expression easing into strained lines. “How is my brother?”
“Dr. Weeks is treating him. Mrs. Church and I saw an appalling bruise on his chest and side – we think he may have broken ribs. But he was conscious when he left the carriage, and he opened his eyes when he was brought to his room.”
“Thank God.” West sighed heavily. “It’s a miracle if it’s nothing more than broken ribs. That accident… my God, railway cars were strewn about like children’s toys. And the people who didn’t survive —” He broke off and swallowed hard. “I wish I could forget what I saw.”
Sitting on the bedside chair, Kathleen reached out and squeezed his hand gently. “You’re exhausted,” she murmured.
West let out a brief, mirthless laugh. “I’m so dog-tired that exhaustion would be an improvement.”
“I should leave you to rest.”
His hand turned and curled around hers. “Not yet,” he muttered. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She nodded, remaining in the chai
r.
Letting go of her hand, West reached for his tea.
“Is it true?” Kathleen asked. “The story you were telling about Devon?”
After draining the tea in two gulps, West gave her a haunted glance. “All true. The son of a bitch almost succeeded in killing himself.”
Kathleen took the cup from his lax fingers.
“I don’t know how he did it,” West continued. “I was in the water for no more than two minutes, and my legs went numb to the bone. It was agony. By all accounts, Devon was in that river for at least twenty minutes, the reckless lackwit.”