Allison Lane (11 page)

But only some of them, he noted.  How badly had John been battered by wind-borne debris and those rowan branches?  They should have stayed off the road yesterday, but the storm had appeared to be clearing.  And Elizabeth would have died if he had been more prudent.  He could only pray that saving her life would not cost John’s in return.

She set down the cup, then glanced back at him.  “As long as you are here, let me take another look at that shoulder.  I had no salve at the cottage.”

“Very well.”  He felt odd about removing his clothes, but she was digging through her bag and paid no attention until he groaned.

“Help him with the shirt, Letty.  He is understandably stiff this morning,” she said without looking, but the words proved that she was more aware than he had thought. 

And he
was
stiff, and growing stiffer by the minute.  He couldn’t raise his left arm even to shoulder height, and his right was nearly as sore.  Between injury and the unaccustomed exertion, pulling shirts on and off would be impossible for a while.  He might even have to sleep in the plaguey thing.

“What is that for?” he demanded when she turned.

She glanced at the knife in her hand.  “Murder?”

He paled before noting the smile that twinkled in her eyes.  “So you are a jokester.”

She ignored his words.  “Actually, there are several splinters that were impossible to remove last night.  If needles and tweezers won’t suffice, I will have to cut them out.”

“Good God!”

“Leaving anything embedded will prove more unpleasant.  It might even lead to blood poisoning.” 

Her hands moved over his skin as she spoke.  The embarrassment staining his cheeks waned after several jabs made him flinch.

“This is a nasty one,” she said some time later.  “Hold still.  It will sting.”

Pain shot down his arm.  “Ouch!”

“It wasn’t
that
bad,” she chided him. 

Smaller pains elicited groans. 

“All gone.”  She spread something cool and soothing, then wrapped the shoulder in a clean bandage.

“Thank you.  I think.”

“Work this in each morning,” she said, handing him a jar.  “You should be as good as new in a few days.  Lord Symington did not fare as well.”

“Did you examine the slashes on his right hand?” he asked, donning his clothing with Letty’s help.

“None are deep enough to cause lasting trouble.”

“But what if they fester?”

“If they show any hint of redness, give him that salve.”

“I’d rather you checked him yourself.”

Her brows snapped together.  “Are you trying to escape Fosdale’s manipulation?  He would prefer to trap me into compromising a wealthy lord.”

“That wasn’t—”

She ignored him.  “My apologies, sir, but I will not submit to your scheming, either.  I have already made my position plain, so you need not fear having to wed me.  The subject is now closed.  Why don’t you discover whether John’s valise was recovered from the carriage?  That would be more helpful than hovering here.”

She turned her back, concentrating on John’s uneven breathing and heated brow.  He might have already left the room.  When he met the maid’s gaze, Letty shrugged and turned to tend the fire.

He frowned as he returned to his room.  Every new encounter with Elizabeth raised new questions.  She was like no one he had ever met, male or female.

Pausing inside his door, he sighed.  Nothing had changed.  Clothing still lay strewn about.  There was no sign of his greatcoat, which must remain in the carriage.

No servants. 
The realization elicited a deeper sigh.  Not only had he never taken care of his own clothing, he had not even watched Linden work over it.  Bundling his muddy garments onto the floor of the wardrobe, he took stock of the rest.  Fifteen cravats, two shirts, three pairs of stockings, and his buff pantaloons.  Washing would be confined to the basin, for Mr. Randolph would not merit use of a hip bath.  At least he had shaved himself often enough that he could do so without slitting his throat.  But he had no idea how to clean his clothing, and until his shoulder loosened up, he must sleep in his shirt.  Perhaps he should end this charade right now.

Yet he was not ready to don his own persona just yet, he admitted as he made his chilly way down the drive.  He hadn’t dared ask for a cloak.  Cold air seeped through his jacket, tightening his shoulder.  He cursed.  Unless his greatcoat was intact, Sedge would have to demand a wrap for him.

No, he wasn’t ready to end this farce.  It was too instructive.  Lord Symington could never have conversed with Elizabeth in John’s bedroom, not even with her maid at hand.  She could not have treated his injuries.  Nor would she have revealed even the sparse information she had parted with.

There were distinct advantages to shedding his expectations for a while.

Ignoring the dead horse, he poked about the driver’s box until he found John’s satchel.  Then he climbed inside.  It was a wonder Sedge had survived.  Sedge’s coat was shredded, and his own was impaled.  Blood-stained glass and wood shavings explained the enlarged window and Sedge’s cuts.  He shivered from more than cold.

Crawling outside, he wrenched branches away from the crushed boot, digging through detritus until he uncovered his valise and Sedge’s.  At least now he could shave.

They would be stuck here for some time, even if Sedge’s arm healed quickly.  But accepting hospitality from a man he could not respect cast a pall over his spirits.  He wanted nothing from Fosdale except his daughter.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Randolph dipped a cloth into a basin of water and wiped John’s face and shoulders.  The coachman was burning with fever.

He sighed as he repeated the procedure.  He had come up to check on John’s condition, not to treat him.  But Letty had been nearly incoherent from exhaustion – hardly surprising, for she and Elizabeth had taken turns watching John for more than three days now in addition to their other activities.  He had sent the girl off to bed, assuming the chore himself.  It seemed reasonable that a fellow employee and friend might do so.  And Elizabeth should arrive in another half hour.

This was merely one more oddity in a household he had yet to understand.  Only Elizabeth and her maid paid the slightest attention to John.  It was a situation he found unsettling, especially when he realized that he had no idea how ailing servants fared on his own estate.  But regardless of the treatment accorded the resident staff, he could not imagine neglecting a guest at Orchards, not even a servant.

Ravenswood was the most off-putting estate he had ever stayed at.  At first, he had ignored his isolation, accepting it as the result of his imposture.  But that was no longer possible.  The staff considered him a gentleman despite his declared position with Whitfield.  Mr. Randolph might not be a lord, but they treated him with far more deference than his apparent position required.  Yet the service was a far cry from what he was accustomed to.  He hated to think what this stay would be like if he had been relegated to the servants’ quarters.

The fault lay with Fosdale, whose hospitality lacked any pretense of welcome despite demanding marriage to his daughter.  Other impoverished lords made sure that guests were treated as well as possible.  But Fosdale seemed to delight in forcing hardships on everyone under his roof. 

At first, Randolph had decided that the poor living conditions arose from apathy – many of the problems had no relation to poverty – but he was now convinced that malice was at work.  Fosdale wanted his staff miserable.  He wanted his family miserable.  Discomfort was a constant reminder of his impoverished state, assuring that no one would make demands on his depleted purse.  And fostering that misery relieved his frustrations.

Had malice contributed to the eagerness with which Fosdale had embraced a lowly scholar as a prospective son-in-law?  Perhaps he sought to sever Elizabeth’s ties with Society by tying her to a nobody – he had demanded marriage even before learning of the remote connection Randolph was claiming to Whitfield.  Or maybe he had welcomed the unimportant stranger because doing so promised to provide a new outlet for his spite.  So lowly a lad could hardly fight back against an earl.

Randolph shook his head, again dipping the cloth into the basin.  Could such odious conclusions be true?  He had formed them from conversations with servants and occasional exchanges with Elizabeth.  He had not spoken to Fosdale since his arrival, taking his meals with Sedge and splitting the rest of his time between John and an exploration of the house.  The one time Fosdale had approached, he had ducked out of sight. 

He could not afford to speak with the earl just yet.  Discussing a marriage contract under false pretenses was dishonorable, and doing so without his solicitor present was stupid.  But beyond that, he could not stomach deferring to the man.  And the more he learned of Fosdale’s character, the stronger that feeling grew.  Every new fact increased his disdain for the fellow.  Even his forays through the house raised questions.

Ravenswood Manor was laid out in the classic H form, though most of the rooms were smaller and gloomier than he preferred.  But that had probably arisen from the harsher northern climate, for small rooms were easier to heat in winter. 

His explorations revealed a house in desperate need of repair, yet like everything else, money did not explain all the neglect.  He had found furniture in an attic that was in far better condition than that in the drawing room.  A footman claimed that Fosdale had forbidden his family to use it.  No one knew why.

Of greater interest was his discovery that the servants slept under the leaky part of the roof, despite ample space elsewhere.  But the earl would tolerate no changes.

Did Fosdale’s malice arise from hatred of his family and staff, or was he using them as scapegoats because they could not fight back?

The question gnawed at his mind.  He was honor-bound to wed Elizabeth, but Fosdale was not a man he could welcome into his family.  So the marriage contract must contain some unusual clauses.  And that required a better understanding of Fosdale’s motives and character.

But first, he must tend John Coachman.

Three days had convinced him that Elizabeth cared about John’s health.  He had initially feared that her attentions were an attempt to ingratiate herself with Symington, for Sedge’s mumblings had convinced the staff that he was unusually concerned about his coachman’s health.  Despite Randolph’s arrival, which remedied the confusion over John’s identity, the impression remained and was now accepted without question.  Yet Elizabeth had not visited Sedge since setting his arm.  Though she discussed his condition each day with the housekeeper, she did not tend him, had made no effort to meet him, and insisted that he remain in bed a full week even though he was already fretting to rise.

Randolph had stayed away from Sedge’s room whenever Elizabeth was free, giving her ample opportunity for anything she chose to do.  But she had done nothing.  Either she was playing a very deep game, or her denials were genuine and she had no interest in Symington.

In fact, he was beginning to wonder if one of her reasons for avoiding marriage might be her concern for the Ravenswood dependents.  She went out of her way to help them and temper her father’s harsh commands.  In turn, they made her life as easy as possible, keeping her rooms comfortable, replenishing her stocks of herbs, and serving her better food than that delivered to the dining room, if Lady Cecilia’s complaints could be trusted.

He had not yet met Cecilia or Lady Fosdale, though he had overheard them yesterday.  His impressions were unfavorable. 

Lady Fosdale affected the same die-away airs his aunt so often used to manipulate those around her.  And Lady Fosdale’s complaints mirrored those of other petulant women.  Megrims and spells made her life a misery.  Fosdale’s clutch-fistedness was making them a laughingstock in local society.  No one understood her, not even Cecilia.  Elizabeth was the bane of her existence – unsympathetic, undutiful, and determined to call Fosdale’s wrath onto all their heads.

Cecilia had commiserated, adding complaints of her own.  The food was bad, the weather worse.  And life was unutterably dull and too boring for words, an obvious exaggeration since she had no trouble expounding her petty grievances in meticulous detail.

Why was Elizabeth so different?  The question revived all his suspicions, for most girls patterned their behavior after their mothers’, producing marked similarities among the women of a family.  Yet neither Lady Fosdale nor Lady Cecilia had paid the slightest attention to their guests.  They had avoided Mr. Randolph, ignored Symington’s injuries, and spurned helping John, despite Elizabeth’s obvious weariness from long nights of nursing.  As near as he could tell, the other ladies did not lift a finger to do anything.  They only complained.

Again he sighed.  He could not avoid the family much longer.  His shoulder had healed enough that he could dress himself.  Even Sedge would be up in another day or two, despite Elizabeth’s orders.  It was doubtful anyone could keep him in bed longer without strapping him down.

So far his imposture had been simple because he had kept to himself.  Elizabeth had been too tired to notice his slips.  Letty was the same.  But remaining aloof was no longer possible.  He had to spend time with Elizabeth.  The arrival of his baggage coach would likely expose him.  Before that happened, he needed to know whether she could like Randolph Catherwood.  Without titles.  Without wealth. 

He must wed her, but he had no intention of changing his habits to suit her.  If she could not fit into the routine he had established at Orchards, he must make alternate arrangements for her.  Yet learning the truth was impossible until he breached the wall she hid behind.  Had he made any progress?

The rattling window reminded him that a new storm raged outside, raising the likelihood that his baggage would suffer further delays.

“What are you doing here, sir?” Elizabeth asked from the doorway.

“Keeping John cool.”