An Inconvenient Wife (24 page)

She was glad he hesitated
before replying, thinking it over. The mare traveled faster, it was true, but a
fall along the way could be disastrous.

“I can do it. I won’t fall,
Mother Anne. I promise.” He dismounted, gripping Belle’s reins as if fearing
she would run away, and tied Polly to a low-hanging branch.

“Just do your best.”
Reluctant to ease the pressure on the wound, Anne beckoned to the boy. “I’m
sorry to ask it, but I need you to hold this for a few moments and lend me your
pocketknife.” She knew Westcott had given one to the lad, along with
instructions as to its use, and the boy slept with it under his pillow, so much
did he treasure it.

Gingerly, his lips trembling
just a little, Guy took her place while Anne cut several lengths of fabric from
her petticoat. The fine lawn fabric parted under the sharp blade more easily
than she expected. Quickly folding one piece, she used it to replace the
blood-soaked hat, and was able, with Guy’s help, to drag Westcott further under
the cover of the trees. An exercise that left her shivering with horror, but
had the blessed effect of putting the viscount into a semi-conscious state.
Anne removed her jacket and put it under his head before she boosted Guy into
the saddle and adjusted the stirrups.

“Belle has a very smooth
gait but hold onto the pommel if you feel unsteady, although I don’t believe
you will. You are a good rider, Guy, and I trust you to get to Westhorp as
swiftly and
safely
as you can.” She put a strong emphasis on the safety,
and praying he would be successful, returned to her husband.

Anne sat beside him, eased
his head and uninjured shoulder onto her lap, and with one hand pressed against
the wound, laid her jacket across him. She thought the blood flow less, the
petticoat bandage not yet soaked through, but the effort of each strained
breath made her sick with fear. Dear, sweet heaven. He could not die, not her
Nicholas. She smoothed his white forehead with shaking fingers, oblivious to
the tears on her cheeks. “Don’t you leave me, Nicholas Blackwell. We all need
you.
I
need you.” Who could have done this? Was it truly an accident,
some careless poacher, or was someone lurking nearby, waiting to see if they
were successful?

Disturbed by the thought of
eyes watching her every move, Anne called to Max, standing where she left him,
as uneasy as she, judging from the way he pawed at the ground. “Come here,
boy.” He paced over, snuffled at her hair, and stood rock steady behind her.
Grateful for the warmth, she leaned against his foreleg. Nicholas needed her
jacket far more than she did, but the air was cooling as the day waned, and the
ground under them already cold. How long would it take for someone to come to
their rescue? They had not ridden much more than a half-hour and some of that
at a walk. If Guy was able to trot the entire distance, say twenty minutes
there, time for the men to saddle up, twenty minutes back…an hour? How much
time had passed? It seemed like Guy had been gone forever, but probably not as
long as she imagined.

“Anne? Are you…?”

Jolted from her thoughts,
Anne touched a finger to Nicholas’ lips. “Hush, don’t try to talk. I am
unhurt.” He stared at her, bewilderment crowding the pain in his eyes.

“I’ve been shot? Who…?”

“I don’t know who, but yes,
you have been shot. The bullet is lodged in your shoulder and Guy has gone for
help.”

“Good lad.” He stirred, a
harsh gasp escaping him at the movement. “Help me to sit up.” He braced his
hand against the ground, and Anne took advantage of it to wriggle more of her
lap under him.

“Stay still. You’ve lost too
much blood already. I don’t want it starting up again. A petticoat isn’t much
of a bandage.”

A ghost of a smile touched
his lips. “Is that what you used? What a resourceful woman you are. Very well,
but at least take your jacket back. It is cold.” He turned his face into her
palm, seeking her warmth, and his eyelids drooped and closed.

“I will in just a moment.”
It wasn’t
really
cold, and that scare had her heart pounding heavily in
her chest again. Anne tried to remember what she had once overheard the Army
doctors discussing. She had nursed her father when he was dying of the fever,
but all she knew of wounds was hearsay and that not being a pleasant subject,
she had generally walked away or changed the conversation to something else. If
only Maggie were here! She would know what to do.

It seemed hours before she
heard the sound of hoof beats and excited voices, Bill Fenton’s among them, and
a rush of relief brought tears to her eyes, hurriedly brushed away.

“Bill, I have never been
happier to see anyone in my life. Westcott’s been shot and lost so much blood.”
She had to swallow several times before going on. “Did you bring a wagon? I
didn’t think to tell Guy. He had no trouble?”

“The lad did well and the
wagon is right behind us.” Fenton knelt and nudged her hand aside. “Let’s have
a look, Miss Anne. He lifted the bandage, replaced it immediately, and looked
back at the approaching men. “Bring my bag here, Pete, and the rest of you get
the board off the wagon. We need some blankets here, too.” He looked at Anne.
“You’ve done just as you ought, child. I’ll see to him now. Let Donny help you
to the wagon. You can sit with his lordship and keep him steady-like. The
journey back will be hard.”

Anne struggled to her feet,
and would have stumbled but for the groom’s strong arm, her legs were that
numb. She stomped her feet several times to regain some feeling and climbed
into the back of the wagon. Several blankets were laid out in the bed, and she
gratefully wrapped one around her once she was settled.

Her lips taut and tongue tight
between her teeth, Anne watched as the men carefully lifted Nicholas onto the
wide board and carried him to the wagon. Once he was beside her, his head
cushioned, and another blanket over his body, Anne stretched out alongside.

Interminable as it felt, the
slow and frightful trip back, with Nicholas’ sharp intake of breath at every
jar, finally came to an end. Anne sat up, eased to the end of the wagon, and
with Bill’s help, climbed down. “Have the men take him to his bedchamber,
Bill.” She bit her lip, picturing the long flight of stairs, but they were
shallow and Westcott better off in his own bed. She moved out of the way and
looked around at what appeared to be the entire household.

“Martin.” Anne called to the
butler, who was hurrying toward her. “The doctor will need bandages and hot
water when he arrives. Have them sent up, along with some candles and several
lamps.” She glanced around again. “And have these people return to work. I
realize everyone is concerned, but it is of no use to stand around. Word will
be sent once the doctor has examined him.”

Under Anne’s watchful eye,
the men took up the makeshift stretcher. Careful as they were, the movement
jarred Westcott and he opened his eyes. “Anne?”

“Here.” She took his hand
and walked alongside, relieved to have him conscious. The next few minutes were
not going to be pleasant and at least he would know why he was being tortured.
“We have to get you inside, Nicholas. It may cause you some discomfort.”

“I expect it will,” he
murmured, and his eyelids closed.

His smile, so faint Anne
would have missed it had her gaze not been fixed on his face, made a lump rise
in her throat. A ridiculous understatement, and indeed by the time the men had
maneuvered the viscount upstairs, Anne’s lip bled from the bite of her teeth.

Maggie, bless her, had the
bed ready, her nursing bag on the table beside it. Choking down a sob, Anne
dashed across the room.

“Maggie! Thank God you are
here. Oh, Maggie, he’s hurt so badly. The bleeding wouldn’t stop and I didn’t
know what to do!” Anne hovered close as the men eased the viscount onto the
bed.

“Don’t be missish, girl. You
did what needed doing,” Maggie said sharply. She, along with her husband, began
to remove Westcott’s clothes. “You have other things to attend to.” She glanced
around the room and scowled. “No one but Bill and his lordship’s valet are
needed here, so first thing, get this room cleared. Then you best go to Miss
Sarah.”

Sarah. Oh sweet heaven. The
child must be frantic by now, and no doubt she had heard the tale from Guy if
no one else.
Reminded of her responsibilities, Anne’s
heart steadied. She turned to the staff still milling around the room. “Go
about your duties, please, and send Martin to me,” Anne ordered and then turned
back to the bed where Nicholas lay, so still her breath faltered for a moment.
His face was as white as the sheet covering his lower body; boots and breeches
lay discarded in a heap on the floor. She watched as Bill and Harman,
Westcott’s valet, removed his jacket. Working efficiently together, they began
to cut away the ruined shirt, exposing his muscular arms. Blood matted the hair
on his broad chest and Anne wished desperately to be in Maggie’s place—to wash
the area around the petticoat bandage, smooth back the sweat-drenched hair falling
across his forehead. She jerked her hand away and took a step back. She was
useless here and knew it. “Where is Sarah?”

“In your sitting room.”

“Oh, no. So close?” Anne’s
gaze went to the door separating the two bedchambers. Her sitting room lay on
the opposite side, and it was impossible to hear anything coming from this
suite from there, but nevertheless….

“My lady?”

Her attention drawn by the
soft whisper, Anne went to the door. Martin waited outside, almost as pale as
his master. She wanted to reassure him, but forcing out any platitude was
beyond her. Instead she stared at the blood-soaked glove still on her right
hand, and inspired by the gruesome reminder, felt a determination to see this
gun crazy creature apprehended and punished sweep through her. She raised her
head and eyes narrowed with a comforting anger, issued the necessary
instructions in a steady voice. “Send to Lord Lynton and tell him what has
happened. He will know what is to be done. I want every available man out
searching that woodland but under Lynton’s orders, so wait for him.” Anne
pulled off the glove, allowing it to turn inside out, and dropped it on a
table. She looked down and her mouth tightened. “I must go. I need to change
before I see Miss Sarah and the others.” The children were no doubt already
frightened. They did not need to see her red-streaked clothing.

Now she found the strength
to lay a hand on the stricken butler’s shoulder. “I won’t lie to you, Martin.
It is serious, but his lordship is strong and healthy. Together we will see him
through.”

Looking somewhat heartened
by her words, and having the reassurance of duties to perform, Martin hurried
away. Anne, with Nicholas’ bloodless face and garish wound in her head, sagged
against the wall and buried her face in her hands. A moment to give in to the
horror that threatened to unman her. Un-woman her, rather, and a hysterical sob
escaped.
If he should die....no! You will not even consider that
possibility.
Anne impatiently brushed away the tears with the back of her hand,
pushed away from the wall, and went to her bedchamber to change. She was
needed
.

“Oh, my lady.” Clara’s face
crumpled the instant she saw Anne. “This is terrible. The master...?”

“His lordship will recover,
Clara,” Anne said in a voice that allowed no doubt, unfastening and removing
her blouse as she crossed the room. “Help me change. I must get to the
children. You knew they were next door?”

“Yes, my lady, and Miss
Sarah beside herself with worry,” Clara answered in a low voice.

Anne forced herself to stand
still while her skirt and petticoats were removed and a clean house dress was
slipped over her head. Boots next, and she sat, quivering with impatience,
while Clara pulled them off and she was able to slide her feet into a pair of
soft shoes. Anne rose and touched the maid’s shoulder. “Thank you. Please go to
the kitchen and make sure Cook has plenty of hot water to hand. Don’t go into
the master’s room, but I want you to stand ready to aid Mrs. Fenton, if
necessary.”

“Yes, my lady.” Clara’s wan
expression lightened, and like the butler, she dashed off, girded by the
opportunity to help in some way.

Her hand on the doorknob,
Anne hesitated. No more than seeing Westcott’s blood on her clothes did they
need to be greeted by a wild woman. A few deep breaths, shoulders squared, and
her expression composed—there, she was ready.

Sarah sat facing the door,
silent tears rolling unheeded down her pale cheeks. “Is he dead? Is my Papa
dead, Mother Anne?” She held out her arms, every line of her straining body screaming
for it not to be true.

All her intentions of
remaining calm thrown to the winds, Anne ran to her. Kneeling, she grasped
Sarah’s hands. “He is
not
dead, Sarah. Hurt, yes, and we will need to
take good care of him for a time, but he
will
heal, child, I promise
you.”

“They said he was shot,”
Sarah said with a sob.

“So he was,” Anne said, “and
I will not tell you he is not badly hurt, but he will get better.” She turned
her head to Danielle, similarly white-faced, her hands twisting in her lap, and
laid a hand against the girl’s cheek. “Child, it will be well.” She looked up
at Nurse, standing mutely behind the girls. “Westcott will require careful
tending, Mrs. Timmons. You may be called upon to help, but right now Mrs.
Fenton is assisting the doctor.” Anne stood, gave Sarah a hug, and glanced at
Miss Caxton. “Where is Guy? He told you the whole, I suppose, and scared
everyone needlessly, but I cannot scold him as he was very brave.” She leaned
over to place a kiss on the top of Danielle’s head. “You can be proud of your
brother.”