The Prodigal Daughter (8 page)

But Amanda was not thinking of friends just now. Her mind was mired in frustration over Elizabeth Reeves. She had spent the morning at the squire’s house, teaching the pianoforte to his three daughters. The younger girls would probably become adequate musicians in time, but the eldest was hopeless. Already seventeen, Elizabeth lacked both talent and desire. It was unlikely that she would continue instruction once she left home. Rumors circulated that a betrothal was in the offing between her and Sir Michael’s youngest son. In the meantime, Amanda had accepted the challenge of improving the girl’s performance. And it was a challenge. Elizabeth reminded her too much of herself as a rebellious youth.

The lane twisted sharply, topping a hill. As Amanda rounded the corner, she smiled. A patchwork of pastures, fields, and woods spread below her admiring gaze. It had always been a favorite view. The nearest meadow was a carpet of emerald that contrasted strongly with flanking stands of forest and the golden stubble of the newly harvested field beyond. Today it was even lovelier than usual. A shaft of sunlight stabbed through a break in the clouds to bathe only the greensward where a stag gracefully bounded, coat shining like flame as he raced toward the beechwood. A beautiful sight, but her admiration was immediately tempered by the riderless horse that followed in his wake. A patch of scarlet drew her eyes to the edge of the oak forest, the color quickly resolving into a motionless figure in a red hunting jacket. She thrust aside her first fear. There had been distant barking several minutes earlier but no gunshots that might hint at poachers. Yet the man did not move.

It took but a minute to reach the bottom of the hill. Snubbing the ribbons, she jumped down. The victim had landed hard, his head hitting a rock before he rolled onto his stomach. His hat had lodged in a clump of gorse, mud now caking his black hair. A large knot was visible on one temple, though it was not bleeding. The rough, blood-soaked bandage on his right thigh explained how he came to be thrown.

Satisfying herself that he still lived and that nothing was broken, she rolled him over so she could revive him. Her sudden gasp of recognition drowned out the soft sounds of the September morning. The Duke of Norwood. And his face was nearly as pale as the night he held down Fitch.

He groaned.

“Steady, your grace,” she admonished him, pressing his shoulders into the ground when he tried to rise. “Do not move. Is there any damage aside from your head and thigh?”

Opening his eyes, he winced. “You!”

“Yes. We meet again. Have you always been so accident prone?”

“Never,” he denied weakly.

“What happened to your leg?”  She was removing the bandage, which had slipped, allowing mud into the wound.

“I fell.”

“Obviously. And cracked your head. What about this?”  She touched the bandage.

“I fell down a hill..” He sounded sheepishly sullen.

“Men!  Why did someone not accompany you back to the house?” 

Without water, there was not much she could do, but she wiped away the worse of the mud and blood.

“It is not that bad,” he protested.

“Stubborn, aren’t you?” she observed caustically. “It is severe enough that you could not control your horse. Men routinely forget that riding astride requires strength in the thighs. I knew at least four who perished because they lost control of their mounts after returning to battle with just such a wound.”

Norwood closed his eyes, refusing to comment on her words.

The gash was bleeding only slightly, so Amanda left it open for the moment. “Can you sit up?” she asked.

“Of course..” He glared.

“There is no ‘of course’ about it. You were unconscious when I found you. Move slowly or you risk nausea.”

He flushed, obviously recalling the last time they had met, and undoubtedly ashamed of losing control of himself that night. But this time he managed it. His face paled alarmingly and she could see him swallowing hard several times, but he finally lurched to his feet and stayed there.

“Excellent, your grace,” she murmured. “Now we walk.”

“Where?”

“My gig is on the road..” She nodded toward her horse, grazing about three hundred feet away. “You might as well swallow your pride and lean on me. It is less embarrassing than falling.”

“Forthright, aren’t you?” he muttered, reluctantly draping an arm across her shoulders when his knee again threatened to collapse.

“If one wishes to survive a military campaign, one learns to be practical,” she countered.

“How do you come to be here?” he asked when they finally reached the road.

“I live in Middleford. Stay there,” she ordered when he would have climbed into the gig. She pulled a bag from under the seat and rummaged inside.

“What are you doing?”

“That leg needs attention.”

“Do you always carry medical supplies around with you?”

“Of course. Many people come to me for help. I never know when I might need something..” Widening the tear in his fawn breeches, she poured brandy onto a cloth and washed away the last of the mud.

“Devil take it, woman!” he growled, flinching. “That is deuced uncomfortable!  Leave it be.”

“You haven’t changed much,” she observed tartly, drenching the cut with wine. “Still as ornery and arrogant as ever.”

“Nor have you,” he responded shortly. “Still as dictatorial and unreasonable as before.”

“Unreasonable, your grace?  Neither propriety nor toadeating is of any use when lives are at stake.”

He had the grace to look ashamed. “Are you deliberately irritating that leg to pay me back for my arrogance?”

“Never!  But mud never did any wound much good. I must clean this gash and I have no water. Brandy seems to work better, anyway. There. We’ll leave the remains of these breeches in place to protect your modesty. Your valet can replace the bandage when you get home..”

Dusting the cut with basilicum powder, she wrapped a strip of linen around the thigh.

“You seem to be making a habit of patching me up,” he groused.

“Be grateful you are not now trying to walk home. And you should also thank the Lord that nothing is broken – like your stiff neck.”

He made a sound that could have been anything from a snort to agreement.

* * * *

Norwood settled into the gig, his head swirling in confusion. He felt like he had stepped into a dream. The fire had continued to haunt his sleep, the recurring nightmare awakening him just before dawn that very morning. Or had it?  This outspoken, managing woman could not possibly be here. Was he trapped in the otherworld?  Dizziness made it difficult to remain sternly upright. Every movement sent sparks of pain knifing into his eyes and down his neck. He couldn’t seem to think straight and was not even sure if he was still conscious.

“Where am I?” he murmured as the horse jolted into motion.

She looked at him sharply, then relaxed. “Where do you think you are, your grace?”

“In a dream.”

“Why?”

“Nothing seems real.”

“You are perfectly fine,” she assured him. “And you are wide awake.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked again, shaking his head to try to clear it and only making the pain worse. It was difficult to believe he was awake, yet the woman did not look the same as he recalled. She seemed better fed, with a higher color. Or was that due to sunlight and a soot-free face? 

“I live here,” she explained patiently.

“But you were at the Blue Boar.”

“Like you, I was a guest that night.”

“I know, but—”

“I had been in London since leaving Belgium, but finally decided to return home. I grew up here.”

He raised a shaky hand to his head, trying fruitlessly to ease its pounding. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Mrs. Morrison, your grace. How is Mr. Fitch?”

“Dead.”

“I am sorry, though I feared it. I have seen too many like him.”

“It was his own fault. He was safely outside, having escorted an elderly lady from the inn, but he chose to return.”

“An admirable man. How dare you blame him for dying!  Or are you piqued that his selflessness deprived you of his services?”

“Devil take it!  You are both impertinent and misguided, to say nothing of insulting. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Fitch had no business coming back inside.”

“Ah,” she said in sudden understanding. “Guilt. He went back for you, didn’t he? 
Greater love hath no man, that he would lay down his life for a friend
. Even more so for an arrogant employer. And now you must live with that burden, whether you deserved such devotion or not.”

“Not in the least,” he growled, infuriated by her observation and unsure why. “I am merely saddened at an unnecessary death.”

“Was it the other leg?  Dr. Matthews tries to save as much as possible, but sometimes he is wrong.”

Norwood grimaced. “My London physician said it was fever. He agreed the leg might heal, but we couldn’t get his fever down.”

“Putrefaction in the burns, most likely. It’s common enough. Dr. Matthews must have been run off his legs with all the fire victims.”

“No. He died that night.”

Amanda choked in horror, involuntarily jerking the horse toward the ditch. Norwood grasped the ribbons and pulled them to a halt.

“How?” she asked, staring at him with pain in her eyes.

Norwood was shivering from the memory. “A man was trapped under debris and could only be extricated by removing his crushed leg..” His voice broke. “A wall came down during the surgery, killing everyone.”

“Don’t blame yourself, your grace,” she murmured, understanding the self-reproach in his voice even through her own grief for yet another friend now dead. “You were in no condition to help, having suffered too much already that night..” She flicked the horse into motion, eyes again facing forward to hide their sheen of tears.

“You were very heroic from what I have heard,” Norwood continued in a different vein, unable to agree with her, yet unwilling to argue the matter. “They say you woke most of the guests, allowing at least a score to escape unharmed who might not have gotten out at all.”

“It was nothing,” she demurred. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“I doubt that.”

“Cynical man. While there are a few who are too selfish, most would.”

“You are wrong, of course, but I am not in the mood for a debate.”

“You might wish to reread the parable of the Good Samaritan, your grace..” She sighed. “I am only sorry that the fire prevented me from getting into most of the other wing.”

“You woke Fitch and he alerted those on my floor..” His voice cracked.

Amanda shook her head in sorrow. After several minutes of silence, she turned through the gates of Thornridge Court, drawing a look of surprise from Norwood.

“You know where I am staying?” he asked, only just realizing that he had provided no direction.

“Of course. Everyone in the neighborhood knows about this house party. Surely you expected that.”

“I’ve never really thought about it..” He shrugged, drawing a stare from his companion.

“How sad that you withdraw from life. You might also benefit from reading John Donne.
No man is an island, intire of itself.”

He made no response, sinking into a near-stupor, rousing only when she reached the front entrance. Norwood was dizzily aware of how weak he was feeling, but he was not so removed from reality that he missed the footman’s reaction to Mrs. Morrison’s knock. The man froze at the sight of her, becoming even stiffer when he identified her passenger.

Lady Emily appeared before anyone said a word.

“How dare you call here?” she demanded coldly.

“I am returning one of your guests who suffered an accident,” Mrs. Morrison replied calmly. “He will need assistance.”

Emily looked beyond Amanda, her eyes widening when she identified Norwood. “Frank, help his grace to his room,” she ordered. “Does he need a doctor?”

“It would not hurt,” said Amanda.

“Fustian!” snorted Norwood, unwilling to admit to any serious injury and reluctant to face some country sawbones who would only bleed him. “I will be fine. It is nought but a scrape.”

“I will summon his valet then,” decided Emily, turning away from the door.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Norwood formally addressed Amanda as Frank helped him into the house.

“You will recover quickly,” she responded. “The housekeeper should have basilicum powder for when you change that bandage. If not, the apothecary in Middleford can supply it..” Without further ado, she returned to her gig and headed down the drive.

* * * *

“So Mrs. Miller will recover?” asked Lady Thorne, setting her cup onto a nearby table.

“I expect so,” Amanda assured her, “though it was a close-run thing. The midwife is trying to convince her that there can be no more children.”

“Mr. Miller won’t like that much.”

“He needn’t abstain entirely as long as he is prudent. If he cares for her at all, he will agree.”

Lady Thorne reddened, but seemed to suddenly recall that Amanda had been married for eight years. She frowned. “What is the tale I heard about you and Norwood?”

“Is rumor already making something of that?” asked Amanda in surprise. “Good heavens, it has barely been four hours.”

“There is a story that he was injured.”

“True, though I suspect he would rather no one knew of it. He slipped while out shooting, and gashed his thigh. In trying to hide the extent of the injury, he insisted on returning to the Court alone. But a stag startled his horse, and it threw him. I happened on the scene just afterward, patched him up, and gave him a ride back to the Court.”

“You seem to be making a habit of that.”

“His words exactly. But think how efficient this is. He need avoid only one person to escape reminders of all his embarrassments.”

Lady Thorne raised a questioning brow, but her comment remained unspoken as Emily appeared in the drawing room door and gasped. “I am sorry, Grandmama,” she said stonily. “I will return when you are free to receive proper company.”

Lady Thorne drew herself up, eyes flashing fire. “You will come in here this instant, young lady,” she snapped.