The Frost Fair (8 page)

“No, it looks dreadful. I don't want to drink
anything
.”

“Do what the lad tells ye,” Mrs. Rhys urged. “It's only a bit o' laudanum, I expect.”

“I've been doing what ‘the lad' tells me all
night,
” she said sourly. Then, looking at him questioningly, she asked, “
Is
it laudanum?”

“Yes, merely enough for a mild, sedative effect. Try, just once, to do as I ask without argumentation. The night will be very long and painful for you if you don't.”

With ill grace, she accepted the glass from his hand and began to sip. He and Mrs. Rhys immediately turned then attention to her ankle. Mrs. Rhys turned back the comforter just enough to reveal the injury and lifted the leg to her lap again. Sir Geoffrey, with remarkable gentleness, began to wind the bandages around the bruise.

By the time the job was done, the glass was empty and Meg was becoming pleasantly drowsy. The sharpness of the pain seemed considerably diminished, her vision was fuzzy, and her thoughts seemed unfocused and disjointed. The goodnight she uttered in response to theirs sounded drunkenly indistinct to her ears, and when the door closed behind them, she snuggled down into the pillows feeling whoozily content.

Just before slipping into sleep, she found herself puzzling over the enigma of the strange females in the household and her even stranger host. Sir Geoffrey Carrier. He was completely odious—even in her present stupor, she was sure of that. He'd proven himself to be arrogant, disdainful, insolent and ungenerous. Yet during these last few minutes, he'd seemed quite different. Was it only the effect of the laudanum on her brain … or was the fellow, somewhere deep beneath the surface, actually
kind? No
, she thought before sleep enveloped her.
No
.
Sir Geoffrey the Ungallant, kind? Impossible
!

Chapter Six

By the next afternoon she'd decided it must have been the laudanum—there was nothing kind about the man at all. The evidence had piled up by that time to prove that Sir Geoffrey Carrier was indeed the blackguard he'd seemed from the first. And this time the evidence came from his own family.

The day had begun with the discouraging news (from a housemaid who'd come in to open the draperies) that the snow was still falling. There would be no visit from the doctor today, for the snow had considerably deepened during the night and the wind had whipped it into sizeable drifts. So much for Meg's expectation that the mild autumn weather they'd experienced a day earlier would soon reassert itself. Winter had evidently decided to come early and to settle in to stay.

Before she'd shaken herself fully awake, her aunt had tiptoed in. “Are you awake, dearest?” she'd asked timidly.

“Yes, love, do come in,” Meg greeted her, sitting up in stiff painfulness and trying to smile with sincerity.

Isabel didn't look much refreshed from her night's sleep. Her wiry grey hair had been neatly brushed into a tight bun at the back of her head, and her traveling dress had been freshly pressed, but the color had not returned to her cheeks and her eyes were still underlined with weariness. Nevertheless, she perched on the bed beside her niece cheerily and examined her closely. “I hope I didn't waken you. Are you feeling any better this morning?”

“Much better, Aunt Bel, and full of contrition for having embroiled you in so disastrous an adventure.”

“Oh, pooh, don't trouble yourself about that, my dear. If it weren't for the fact that you've suffered an injury, I would be quite enjoying myself.”

“Enjoying yourself? You can't mean it! Marooned by an intense and unseasonal snowstorm in this great barn of a castle with only a crippled niece and a most peculiar family for company, and you call that
enjoyment?
”

“I can't say I'm enjoying the fact that my niece is
crippled
, you wet-goose, but as for the family and this rather eccentric old castle they've chosen to live in, I'm finding them all rather interesting.”

“Are you really?” Meg asked in surprise. “Why?”

“Well, it's something like living in a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe. I was observing the family at breakfast this morning and—”

“Have you already breakfasted? What
time
is it?”

“It's after eleven, my love.”

“After eleven? Good heavens, how could I have been permitted to sleep for so long? Why didn't you—? What must they think of me?”

“Don't worry, Meg. Sir Geoffrey explained that he'd given you a sleeping draught. He expected that you wouldn't rise very early.”

“Oh, he did, did he? He told me he'd given me only a mild sedative—but now it appears I've been positively drugged!”

“I shouldn't get on my high ropes over it, Meggie, if I were you. You're looking ever so much better than you were last night, so the sedative seems to have done you no damage. And since Sir Geoffrey feels that you would do well to rest in bed today anyway, there was no harm in your sleeping a bit late this morning.”

Meg's eyebrows rose in annoyance. “Sir
Geoffrey
says … Sir
Geoffrey
feels … You're quite full of Sir Geoffrey this morning, aren't you? Suppose I tell you that I don't
wish
to rest in bed today—what then?”

“Sir Geoffrey says he'd be happy to carry you downstairs if you'd prefer, so you needn't take that tone,” Isabel responded placidly.

“Hmmmph!” Meg leaned back against her pillows and frowned. “Very kind of him, I'm sure! I'd rather stay here in bed for a
week
than have him carry me.”

Her aunt studied her quizzically. “What's gotten into you, Meg? It's not like you to behave ungraciously. We
are
intruders here, after all.”

“Yes, but if he hadn't—” She cut herself short. She'd decided last night not to say anything about the scene in the taproom, yet now, with very little provocation, she was about to reveal the story. She clamped her lips shut.

“Hadn't what, Meg?” her aunt asked, cocking her head curiously.

“Nothing. What was it you began to say earlier—about observing the family at breakfast?”

“Oh, yes. It seems that the entire family consists of the four of them—Sir Geoffrey, his two sisters, and their mother. The girls were born in London, and they all lived there except Sir Geoffrey who was in military service. Then, when his father died, he sold out and moved the family here. I learned that much from Lady Carrier. She seems very much to resent his having uprooted them, and all the ladies seem to be abnormally afraid of him. I can't help but wonder why.
I
find him a perfectly affable, sensible sort of person.”

“Perhaps they know him better than you do,” Meg uttered under her breath.

“What did you say, love?”

“I said that affable is the last word I should choose to describe him.”

“Really?” Isabel peered at her niece with shrewd interest. “What word would you—”

But their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Mrs. Rhys, who bustled in with a cheery smile and a breakfast tray. With her aunt's urging and the housekeeper's assistance, Meg breakfasted and performed her ablutions, all of which caused her considerable discomfort. But Isabel and Mrs. Rhys agreed that her traveling clothes were too bedraggled to be worn, and they both left her to find some more suitable attire for her to wear before the stream of visitors (who were certain to knock at her door before very long) should begin to appear.

They had barely closed the door behind them when the first visitor presented himself. It was Roodle, come to pay his respects and to see for himself how his new mistress had survived the night. He was full of apologies for his part in getting her into this fix, but when she assured him that she didn't blame him and pointed out that they were no worse off snowed in here at Knight's Haven than they would have been at the inn at Harrogate, he sighed with relief. He then was able to ease
her
mind about the condition of the injured horse. “I been treatin' 'is leg with a poultice o' me own devisin'. 'E'll be good as new. Wish I could say the same about the carriage.” He shook his head worriedly. “Don' know as
that
kin be repaired good as new.”

“As soon as the storm blows over, we shall see how matters stand,” Meg said.

“I ain't waitin' fer the storm to blow over. I'm goin' out there now and take a peep at the wreck.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Meg ordered. “If Sir Geoffrey's man was unable to get through to the doctor last night, surely you won't be able to get through today, when conditions must even be worse out there.”

“But, yer ladyship, we can't leave the phaeton just a-layin' there in the ditch! Are ye forgettin' it's stole?”

“I'm not forgetting anything. The snow has made the road as inaccessible to everyone else as it is to us. There's not the least need for you to alarm yourself, Roodle.”

“That's all very well fer you, ma'am. But it'll be me what'll 'ave to 'ang if Lord Isham catches up with us.”

“I promise you that
no one
will hang. If we're discovered, I shall merely pay his lordship for his loss and that will be that.”

Roodle shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other, keeping his eyes on the ground in obstinate disagreement. “It's on'y a bit o' snow, ma'am. There ain't nothin' goin' to 'appen t' me if I plow through it fer a bit, is there?”

“I don't know what may happen. It's not a ‘bit o' snow' you know—it's a severe storm. I see no reason for you to endanger your life and safety by going out in this dreadful blow just to—”

“Who's thinking of going out?” a voice asked from the open doorway. It was Sir Geoffrey, dressed in a caped greatcoat and heavy boots and carrying on his shoulders Meg's portmanteau. Behind him stood a footman bearing the rest of the baggage Meg and Isabel had stowed in the carriage. “
You
, Roodle?”

“Yes, sir. I wanted to take a peep at the wreck, to see if—”

“To see if the carriage can be salvaged? There's no need for that. We've just taken a look at it. I think your phaeton can be restored to full usefulness. I've arranged to have it hauled to Masham for repair as soon as the roads have been cleared.”

“To Masham?” Roodle echoed hollowly, casting a horrified glance at Meg. “But … that's near Isham Manor!”

Sir Geoffrey looked from Roodle to Meg with uplifted brows. “Have I done something amiss? I'm well acquainted with the wheelwright at Masham and can assure you of his competence.”

Meg cast a quelling look at her new coachman. “You've done nothing amiss, Sir Geoffrey. Nothing at all. Roodle is merely a bit … overzealous. We both are very grateful to you, aren't we, Roodle?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Roodle muttered, his eyes on his shoes.

Sir Geoffrey turned to signal his footman to follow him, and the two went to deposit the baggage in the dressing room. Roodle looked up and gave his mistress a shrug which said as clearly as words that they were in a fine fix and that whatever happened next would be no fault of his, and he bowed himself out.

Sir Geoffrey, having disposed of the baggage, dismissed the footman. “Mrs. Rhys or one of the housemaids will unpack your things, ma'am,” he said, turning to the door.

“Is that why you ventured out? Just to fetch our
baggage?
” Meg asked in surprised ingratitude.

He threw her a quizzical glance over his shoulder. “I know how unhappy you ladies can be when separated from your combs, your silks, your lotions and your laces,” he said disdainfully.

“We ladies,” she retorted with asperity, “are not such frippery creatures as you suppose. I, for one, could have managed perfectly well without—”

“Oh, Meg, dearest, just look at what Mrs. Rhys has found for you!” Isabel clarioned from the corridor, prancing in eagerly and holding aloft a colorful Chinese kimono of rustling silk. “Oh, Sir Geoffrey … I didn't see you there.”

“I was just leaving, Mrs. Underwood,” he said, giving Meg a leer of scornful triumph. “I know you ladies would like to be private to deal with your fripperies.” And with a last mocking look at Meg, he sauntered from the room.

“I hope I didn't drive him away,” Isabel murmured, looking from Meg to the corridor where Geoffrey was disappearing down the hall.

“If you did, I'm quite delighted. The odious man cannot open his mouth without giving offense.”

Isabel blinked. “Offense? What offense?”

“The wretch didn't even ask how my ankle did. Blasted rudesby!”

Isabel peered at her niece, perplexed, but tactfully decided not to probe the matter further. “Here, put this on. I think Lady Carrier is on her way to call on you.”

In another moment, Lady Carrier knocked at the door and entered with a great rustle of skirts. She was followed in by her two daughters who took places at each of the two bedposts at the foot of the bed while their mother settled herself into the bedside chair. “You
do
look better this morning, your ladyship,” Lady Carrier said effusively, “although I shall not feel easy in my mind about your condition until Dr. Fraser had looked at you.”

“Will you ask Dr. Fraser to look at me, too, Mama, when he comes?” Sybil asked plaintively. “I'm feeling quite queasy today.”

“You always feel queasy,” Trixie said to her sister unkindly.

“Of course, Sybil, dear. The doctor shall certainly have a look at you,” their mother said, ignoring Trixie's comment. “My poor Sybil has a very delicate constitution,” she confided to her two guests.

“That's not what Geoffrey and Dr. Fraser think,” Trixie said maliciously.

“Be still, Beatrix,” her mother scolded. “Robust gentlemen like Geoffrey and Dr. Fraser don't always recognize the problems of delicate natures such as Sybil's. Not that you need have any qualms, Lady Margaret, about Dr. Fraser's qualifications. He is very knowing and efficient. Of course, he hasn't the manners or the subtlety of the best London medical men—for he can be unbelievably brusque and churlish at times—but he's a sound practitioner. Very sound. Geoffrey believes his talents are as great an any doctor he's met, and though I can't go
that
far, I can assure you that you'll come to no harm in his hands.”