A School for Brides (4 page)

Robert looked at the older ladies, but they were occupied with finding their own seats, so he whispered back, “As well as can be expected, Miss Asquith. 'Twas a compound fracture, tho' not a grave one, and he's suffering from fever.”

“Oh! And what is his name?”

Unfortunately, at this very moment Miss Winthrop turned her basilisk stare upon them. Ducking his head, Robert sidled away and began to fiddle with the dishes on the sideboard.

At last, when everyone was seated, Miss Winthrop said coldly, “Kindly recall that your family has sent you to our school to learn to be a lady,
not
a kitchen maid, Miss Asquith. And now, you will wish to know the name and condition of our accidental guest. He is a Mr. Arbuthnot from Maidstone, in Kent. We have no doubt he is of a respectable family—certainly his air and appearance are those of a gentleman—but he was too ill to question closely. Mr. Busby insists that we must not move him for the present, and of course we would not dream of it.” Mr. Busby was the surgeon.

From Kent!
The young ladies looked at one another. Kent was a world away, farther even than London. What could he be doing, passing through Lesser Hoo in the wilds of Yorkshire?

Miss Hopkins was not as immune to the romance of the situation as her friend. “
I
believe he was traveling to Scotland for the grouse hunting season,” she announced, unable to retain a dignified silence. “He said something about Lord Pauncefoot. Of Hurley Hall, you know.” She looked around the table with a significant smile and was rewarded by the awed murmur her revelation produced. Even these young girls living so removed from the fashionable world knew of Lord Pauncefoot.

LORD PAUNCEFOOT, THAT
stupendously wealthy and hospitable Scottish peer, was well-known for his shooting parties celebrating the Glorious Twelfth of August, the first day of grouse season. As the current date was August second, it seemed reasonable to believe that Mr. Arbuthnot had received one of the much-coveted invitations to Hurley Hall, Lord Pauncefoot's hunting lodge on the northern moors. Since Lesser Hoo was not precisely on the road from Kent to Scotland—it was not precisely on the road to
anywhere
—it might be deduced that the young man's journey had involved a side excursion along the way. And as for the fact that he traveled on horseback instead of in greater comfort in a coach and four on such a long ride, why, a man of spirit, with sufficient leisure to stop frequently to rest his horse, might easily do it, and send his guns and sporting kit ahead of him by mail coach.

The Pauncefoot connection meant that Mr. Arbuthnot was not merely a gentleman, but one of the elect. The Prince Regent and his brother, the Duke of York, regularly visited Hurley Hall, along with a veritable galaxy of the brightest lights of high society.

The ladies, both young and old, regarded one another with a sense of new worlds opening before them. A guest of Lord Pauncefoot, here in Lesser Hoo!

“Mr. Arbuthnot . . .
Mister
Arbuthnot, from Maidstone, in Kent,” mused Miss Hopkins. “What a pity he comes from so far away—it will be difficult to ascertain details of his family without seeming to be . . .
inquisitive
. Now, if it had been
Lord
So-and-So, or even
Sir
So-and-So, we should know where we were, but
Mister
—it's difficult to judge.”

“The great thing,” observed Miss Asquith, “is to prevent him from dying before we can make inquiries.”

While the Misses Hopkins and Winthrop disliked being given advice by Miss Asquith, they had to admit that this was sound. They began to bestir themselves, wondering what potions and tisanes they had in their storeroom that might be efficacious in such an extremity.

“For myself, I always insist upon being bled when I am ill from
any
cause. I find it soothing—
cleansing
, you know. Perhaps we ought to call the physician and ask him to bring his lancets and his jar of leeches?” said Miss Hopkins.

“I have heard that in cases of fever it is an excellent practice to douse the patient with
very cold water
,” offered Miss Winthrop. “Then one must lay great pieces of ice on his body and all round his head.”

“All good ideas, no doubt,” said Miss Quince, “but Mr. Busby, who I am sure is a fine surgeon, said nothing about such measures. And you know, in the event that the young man should die from his fever, perhaps his family will be inclined to blame us for being a little
too
zealous. My suggestions are rather more moderate. I would recommend some calves' foot jelly and beef tea, with perhaps a little wine, rather than resorting to such
heroic
efforts.”

The other two ladies were offended at having their common-sense methods dismissed in this way. Indeed, each had been about to propose some rather more daring and unconventional treatments, imagining themselves at some future date being hailed by his family as an angel of mercy who had snatched their son and heir away from the jaws of death.

“I believe that Mr. Busby has given him laudanum,” pointed out Miss Quince. “It is best to let him sleep. Only think if we were to drown the young man while he was unconscious.”

The Misses Winthrop and Hopkins grumbled a bit, but soon subsided.

Miss Quince said that she would sit beside the young man's bedside overnight, to cool his brow with wet cloths and administer calves' foot jelly and beef tea in the event he was able to take it. The offer was immediately accepted, as neither of the other two were prepared to go so far as to lose a night's sleep over the matter.

“I believe that Mr. Arbuthnot is substantially improved,” said Miss Quince when she took her seat at the breakfast table the following morning. “His fever has broken, and he has taken some nourishment.
He is asleep again
”—raising her voice as her colleagues rose with the obvious intent of visiting the invalid— “so we must allow him to rest, undisturbed, until the doctor arrives. I have taken the liberty of sending the kitchen boy to Dr. Haxhamptonshire's”—(Miss Quince correctly pronounced this as
Dr. Hamster's
)—“and requested he look in on Mr. Arbuthnot this morning. I have also determined, through conversation with the house staff, that a lame horse has been found wandering about in the village streets. No doubt it belongs to Mr. Arbuthnot. I am told,” she said, “that it is an exceptionally fine mare, a thoroughbred.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Winthrop. “I knew it! O, omniscient Providence!” she said, clasping her hands together and looking toward the heavens. “You have seen fit to reward our efforts here in this out-of-the-way place! A man of considerable means—and, er, no doubt, cultivation and high moral stature—has been guided to our doorstep. What a wonderful thing for the school!”

“If somewhat unfortunate for the young man himself,” was Miss Asquith's sotto voce response to this piece of oratory.

“I believe,” continued Miss Winthrop on a less elevated note, “that I have heard it said that a
small
amount of arsenic—you know we have plenty in the stable, for the rats—has an excellent tonic and stimulating effect. Do you think—?”

“I think,” said Miss Quince, “that we should wait for Dr. Haxhamptonshire. After all, what if we miscalculated the dosage? Recall what even small amounts of arsenic do to rats!”

After this conversation, poor Miss Quince felt unable to go to her bed for the rest she so sorely needed, resigning herself to a return to the sickroom to defend her patient, at least until after the doctor arrived and gave more authoritative instructions.

The doctor, while admitting the value of the methods proposed, agreed with Miss Quince. “As he is going on so well, I see no need for more stringent methods. Give him a little liquid refreshment from time to time, as Miss Quince has been doing, and we shall see how he shapes.” When the other ladies seemed likely to take offense at his dismissal of ice water, bloodletting, and arsenic, he allowed as how, should the patient take a turn for the worse, “we can always try them, either singly or in combination, as it will not matter so much
then
, you know.”

And with this the ministering angels had to be content.

It was not until more than a week had passed that the students were given a second glimpse of the invalid, as he had remained confined to his bed. Since nine-tenths of the labor required to operate the school was performed by Miss Quince and the servants, and they could not be spared for many hours, Miss Winthop and Miss Hopkins, having nothing else in particular to do, were therefore called upon to spend some time tending to Mr. Arbuthnot's needs, with a housemaid under strict instructions to report to Miss Quince if either were to offer him anything not ordered by the doctor.

News from the sickroom was encouraging; besides being rapidly on the mend, Mr. Arbuthnot was reported to be all that was worthy and charming. Robert, who was assisting with the more intimate, and also more physically demanding, aspects of caring for a sick gentleman, confided in Miss Asquith that he bore the miseries of his condition with fortitude, and was of a pleasant and courteous disposition. The three older ladies were pleased to relate how he had repeatedly expressed his gratitude to and admiration for the inhabitants of the Winthrop Hopkins Academy.

All in all it was agreed (if unexpressed aloud by any save the irrepressible Miss Asquith) that the most practical way in which he could express his gratitude would be to fall in love with one of them and offer her a respectable marriage and home.

Mr. Busby the surgeon and Dr. Haxhamptonshire the physician were united in the conviction that Mr. Arbuthnot must not stir abroad for some considerable period of time. A message had been sent to Lord Pauncefoot (the visitor had confirmed that he had indeed been on his way north toward Hurley Hall) not to expect his presence for the grouse-shooting season; now, all that was required was for the young ladies to don their prettiest muslins, practice their best pieces on the pianoforte, and wait to see which he would choose to honor with his attentions.

“He is probably already married,” pointed out Miss Evans.

“He doesn't
look
married,” objected Miss Victor.

“And how does a married man look, pray?”

Miss Victor consulted the experience of her twelve years. “Married men are always either immensely fat or immensely old,” she said at last, “and Mr. Arbuthnot is neither.”

“
Ergo
, he is a single man,” pronounced Miss Asquith to general satisfaction.

Excitement was at a fever pitch when at long last he was declared strong enough to join them for an hour in the afternoon. Miss Hopkins had found an invalid chair in her lumber room, left over from her late father's final illness, and with his injured leg swathed in bandages and splinted both sides, Mr. Arbuthnot was wheeled out and installed in the front parlor, before a fire that had been lit for his benefit on this sultry August day.

Though he was rather pale and thin, the lines of pain and tension as well as the bramble scratches had been largely erased from his face, and all present were in private agreement that he was a fine-looking man. (“Not more handsome than Robert, of course,” whispered Miss Asquith loyally in Miss Mainwaring's ear, “but quite pleasing.”)

“Ah,
les demoiselles
,” said Mr. Arbuthnot, looking about himself with a smile. “And I had thought it was but a fever dream! However, here you are, as lovely as I recall, but also, thank goodness, as English as I am myself. I cannot tell you how alarmed I was when I heard you conversing in French! I quite thought myself demented.”

A look of confusion crossed Miss Asquith's pretty face.
“Ah, pardonnez-moi, Monsieur. Je ne comprends pas—”