The Rake's Handbook (22 page)

“At this moment, I'm trying to be fair.” Her opinion had fluctuated so many times within the last months, she didn't know if she approved of the foundry or not. Persuasive arguments could be made for each side. Perhaps she could make her final decision after visiting the second chimney in Buxton. Then once a few issues were cleared up with Ross, the final decision should be obvious. She and Berdy continued walking toward home.

Henry remained fixed in place. “I'm all in favor of foundries, just not in the vicinity of my grounds. Besides, the local gentry have every right to protect their property, the very reason they travel to the site now. So Thornbury will have trouble on his hands.”

They were a good fifty feet ahead of him by now.

Henry yelled, “But he brought it upon himself, didn't he?”

When she and Berdy reached the gravel drive to Pinnacles, they exchanged knowing glances. Berdy handed her his end of the stringer and headed off toward the stables. She entered the house, handed the fish to Mrs. Richards, and emerged minutes later to find Berdy waiting in the gig by the front door.

Henry had followed them up the drive and stood unmoving, his brows knitted. “The two of you are not thinking of interfering in gentlemen's business matters, are you?”

She climbed into the gig and spread a blanket across their laps. “I have no intention of interfering in Mr. Thornbury's business matters. We plan to drive out and greet our neighbor, that's all.”

Berdy leaned forward and pronounced to Henry, “I plan to ask him about your idea of moving to the South, versus m' idea of emigrating to America. I will attend him closely, for there is no man on whose discretion and wisdom I trust more. Don't you agree, Mr. Browne?” Berdy didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he urged the mare down the drive.

Henry hurriedly mounted his chestnut and followed them.

Once the gig crossed the river and reached the beginnings of the foundry, they came upon a group of fifty or so men gathered around the chimney's foundation. She recognized a half-dozen members of the local gentry joined by a larger number of their tenants and freeholders.

The amount of work already completed at the site surprised her. The men stood several feet away from the stone-lined foundation. Suspended above the foundation was a tall wooden crane. One end of the crane's rope was tied around a load of bricks, while the other end went through a pulley and wrapped around a winch that would be turned by a pony walking in a circle. Behind the crowd were small walls, piles of bricks, and several wells scattered around the site.

They leaped from the gig and approached the crowd. Several men spoke at once, so she could not understand them. However, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Ross. He held his head high and gave the arguing men as good as he received in return.

A dozen men turned once she and Berdy were recognized, but even their additional presence on the scene did not stop the heated discussion. One man leered at her, but Berdy stepped between them, his hands raised, ready to defend her with fisticuffs.

She grabbed Berdy's arm. “No, don't.”

Henry stepped forward and confronted the man. “Explain yourself, sir.”

Ross turned at the sound of Henry's comment and rushed toward them. His red face a brighter hue than his russet coat. He did not acknowledge her, but he yelled at Berdy instead. “Get her out of here. Now!”

The crowd shouted epithets, and she heard, “Running to a woman.”

Another voice shouted, “Defend yourself as a gentleman, sir.”

Ross spun to confront the throng of irate men.

His steward, Mr. Douglas, grabbed Ross's elbow. “Don't. You'll be killed, man.”

Ross focused on Mr. Douglas's face for a second, uttered a “humph,” and strode with open arms into the angry crowd. “As you can see, I have no weapons,” he yelled. “Now explain your grievances against me or get off my land.”

Someone shouted, “Smithy says 'is well water been blackened since the diggings started.”

“That's impossible,” Ross replied. “The wells are not deep enough, and only one well had a small amount of water.”

She stepped forward to challenge the men. “Smithy's well is over ten miles away from here. Did anyone else see his well water fouled?”

Ross strode to her side, grabbed her arm, and marched her back into Henry's care.

Henry took her arm and faced Ross. “If underground springs are involved, I will make you prove your title to affect the water.”

“There are no springs on the site. Besides, my legal man informs me you cannot apply laws meant for rivers, like proving title, to underground water. Is that right, Mr. Browne?”

“Well, yes, but—”

The mob's shouts grew, and Ross strode back into the hostile crowd.

Several voices shouted in unison. “She's in on it. She is as bad as he.”

“No!” she yelled, her high voice rising above the shouts of the men.

Several men shuffled back, exposing her to everyone's view.

Mr. Mabbs, his face scarlet, pointed at her. “We all know she doesn't need the profits, but she agreed anyway. If our water and streams are tainted, it will be her fault, and we all know why.”

Grumbles, shouts of agreement, and the word “lovers” ricocheted throughout the crowd.

Henry tried to pull her away.

She struggled. “Let me go.”

Ross roared at Mr. Mabbs. “Leave her out of this. She is innocent of your accusations.”

She pulled herself free. “Mr. Mabbs, I assure you, I have not agreed to anything.”

Mr. Mabbs opened his mouth to reply, but was drowned out by the men shouting epithets about fouled water, the presence of laborers, and the disintegration of their farms.

Henry grabbed her arm again. “Come with me. You are not safe here. You must not interfere in men's business.”

She looked at him incredulously, jerked herself free, and stormed into the center of the crowd. “All of you would like to be told what to do with your property?”

Ross appeared at her side, lifted her off the ground, and carried her toward the gig. His thunderous expression excluded any opposition.

Someone yelled, “Don't let them get away.”

Glancing in the direction of the speaker, she saw a rough-looking man cock his arm to throw a brick in their direction. She struggled to the ground, then managed to shove Ross forward.

Ross whipped around to face her just as the brick whizzed by her face. Horror crossed his features, and he pulled her behind him. He faced the enraged crowd squarely again, with his arms held wide to protect her. “Sod off,” he yelled. “Your business is with me. What kind of monsters are you to threaten a woman?”

Several men dove at Ross, forcing her to the side.

Berdy joined the fray and tried to pull one ginger-haired bully off Ross, who by this time sported a bleeding lip.

Elinor rushed over to pull Berdy away, but fisticuffs flew, and Berdy hit the ground before she could reach him.

Suddenly Henry grabbed her from behind, imprisoning her arms, and dragged her away from the crowd. She struggled but was painfully held fast. “Let me go.”

Ross escaped the mob and pulled her free. Before he could address Henry, a thrown brick gave Ross a significant blow to the head. He stumbled a step or two backward and tripped over the low wall surrounding a well. For an instant, their glances met. It was not horror at the realization of his situation that she saw in his eyes, but a quick softening as he beheld her.

Ross disappeared into the well.

She screamed.

Berdy reached the edge first, fell to his knees, and peered down. His action dislodged a stone that fell into darkness. It took an extraordinarily long time before they heard the first sound of a metallic clang, followed by a plop after the stone fell into water. Berdy looked back at Elinor and shook his head.

She flung herself into the crowd of men, swinging her fists at any target foolish enough to come within reach. She landed several blows before her arms were restrained. “You criminals,” she shouted. “I will prosecute you. You will all hang for this.” She gulped for air while struggling to free herself.

Her threat seemed to divide the crowd's opinions. She heard reckless shouts of “His fault,” “She's right,” and “Brought it upon 'isself.” The men stepped away from the well and separated into small groups engaged in heated arguments.

Henry grabbed her arm and yanked to free her. “This is no place for a lady. Come with me.”

Once released, she snatched her arm away. “No.” She ran to Berdy, who was still examining the well. The entrance was darker than Hades, and she could discern only the first ten feet into its depths due to the overcast sky. She listened but could hear no sound other than the crowd arguing behind her. Several men joined them at the edge to peer down.

Berdy assumed command and shouted orders to Mr. Douglas. “You four men take the winch and lower me into the pit.” Without waiting for an answer, Berdy handled the crane's mechanism with familiarity. Obviously during his visit to the site, Ross must have taught him how to use the hoist.

Mr. Douglas and two gentlemen manned the winch and yanked enough slack in the rope to position the basket to the side.

Berdy jumped into the basket. “Now ease me down. Keep that rope free. We want that line straight. Mr. Douglas, careful with that pulley. Hurry, gentlemen, hurry.”

Once Berdy was aligned over the pit, Mr. Mabbs and several others threw their full weight into the wooden spokes. Everyone's shouts were soon drowned out by the creaks and groans emanating from the winch, pulleys, and ropes. The basket lurched downward, and Berdy disappeared from view into the blackness.

Elinor clutched her hands.
How
could
Berdy
find
Ross
in
the
darkness
at
the
bottom
of
the
well?
He had not taken a lantern. “Can you see anything? Are you all right?” she yelled down the pit.

A faint “yes” echoed in return.

The basket must have reached the bottom, since Mr. Mabbs and the others stopped turning the winch and joined her at the side of the pit. The group stood in tense silence. She stared directly into the eyes of each gentleman, but not a single one held her gaze.

Mr. Douglas attempted to alleviate what must have been her obvious distress. “Thank heavens this well had several feet of water at the bottom. The presence of water would help break his fall.”

They heard metallic noise from deep within the well. The noise was followed by silence. Musty, rank air rose from the depths and smelled like a crypt, the stench of death. Several uneasy minutes passed. By now, all of the men who had not left for home were crowded around the well's opening.

Mr. Mabbs turned to Mr. Douglas and spoke in an officious manner. “Why weren't the wells filled in once the level of groundwater was determined?”

“Scoundrels have looted material and bricks from the site,” Mr. Douglas explained, his face reddening. “And I doubt they were removed because of need, but by men eager to stir up trouble, eh, Mr. Mabbs?”

Mr. Mabbs stilled, possibly contemplating his own culpability.

All conversation ended amongst the crowd, and the minutes stretched endlessly in complete silence.

Suddenly the heavy rope twitched to the side, and a clang of metal preceded Berdy's faint cry, “Up.”

The men ran to the winch and pressed their weight against the spokes.

She stared again into the well's blackness, but her vision blurred. She wiped her tears away just as Berdy's head came into view. The basket rose to the top in jerky movements, and she waited—for what seemed like hours—before it appeared close enough to see its occupants clearly.

Berdy's clothes were covered in mud, and he held the limp body of Ross propped up against the side of the basket.

She gasped and then quickly covered her mouth.

She could not tell if Ross was alive or dead, but his eyes were closed. Moreover, he was muddy from head to toe. When the basket became even with the ground, she saw blood on Berdy's cheek, then blood mixed with mud on Ross's shoulder, arm, and face. She stifled a scream and held her breath.

Mr. Mabbs and Mr. Douglas heaved the basket to the side, and several men shouted simultaneous yet contradictory orders.

Berdy's shouts rose above the others. “To the gig. The gig. Quickly, men. Hand him to me in the gig.”

While four men pulled Ross from the basket, Berdy ran to the gig.

Without thought, she ran forward to embrace Ross. Her gesture caught the men off guard, and they stepped back, so she ended up falling to the ground under Ross's weight. He felt lifelessly heavy. She sat holding him, and the sound from the madness surrounding her faded.

She
had
been
here
before.

She and William had indulged in a spirited ride. William turned to his right, and without warning, his horse reeled to the left. William lost his balance and plummeted headfirst into the road. The fall killed him instantly. She spent hours sitting in the mud cradling him, watching the warm color of life fade from his cheeks.

Holding his
body.

She tightened her grip around Ross, her gaze never leaving his face.

Seconds later, the men yanked him from her, and the emptiness of her embrace shocked her into action. Ross was not dead—yet. She jumped into the gig before the men handed Berdy Ross's body. Berdy pulled him across their laps, the majority of Ross's weight resting on Berdy, while she grabbed the mare's reins.

Berdy instructed Mr. Mabbs to send a volunteer to Dr. Potts's house to inform him of their situation.

She suggested Dr. Potts should be directed to Pinnacles. “It's closer to the doctor's house, so he will reach his patient faster.” While true, the action also reflected her unwillingness to hand Ross over to his mother. She firmly believed Lady Helen lacked the strength of mind to oversee his care properly.

Berdy insisted Lady Helen be notified, and Mr. Douglas nodded.

She gazed up at Berdy, tears filling her eyes. Tears of fear for Ross, but also pride at Berdy's decisive actions. But then the insensate man in her lap regained her attention. “He's still unconscious. Did he speak at all?”

Berdy struggled with the task of keeping Ross from tumbling off the gig.

She wanted to pull more of his weight onto her lap, to remove some of the pressure off Berdy, but she would be unable to control the horse if she did.

“No, not a sound,” Berdy said. “It was black. Couldn't see m' hand directly in front of m' face. I called out, but no response. Ended up wading in the muck until I found him. The bottom of the well has a foot or two of foul water, so I splashed around until I found a leg. Then I grabbed a boot and hauled him into the basket. You know the rest. He never spoke, not even a groan. Is he alive, do you think?”

She glanced at Ross's head in her lap. In repose, he looked like a young child sleeping, except for the muck and blood. His dark hair was matted in mud, but one perfect lock around his ear escaped the dirt. It looked so soft as it lay sweetly curled behind his pink ear.

A pink ear—not gray—she clung to that hopeful sign.

With tears now trailing down her cheeks, she asked Berdy to examine Ross's chest to discern if he was breathing, but the gig jerked too much for him to tell. Then she found blood oozing from a wound on his shoulder. She pulled back his torn coat, and fresh blood appeared. “He's bleeding!”

Using one hand, Berdy managed to unwind Ross's simple neckcloth, bunched it into a ball, and pressed it against his wound to stop the flow of blood.

Twenty minutes passed before they reached Pinnacles, and they waited another two hours before Dr. Potts appeared. The entire time, from the gig to the sofa, Berdy had kept pressure upon the wound with Ross's cravat.

She didn't dare peek to see if the bleeding had stopped, for fear it would start again.

When Dr. Potts pulled the balled neckcloth away to examine the wound, fear drove her backward until she stood against the wall. Her breathing became irregular, and she struggled for air, but she forced herself to remain silent until Dr. Potts completed his examination. With her hands behind her back, she pressed her wet palms on the cool wood paneling to steady herself.

Meanwhile, Berdy sat patiently in a high-backed chair and sympathetically glanced either at her or at Ross.

After completing his inspection, Dr. Potts lifted his head. “He has a possible fractured skull and this large puncture wound. Normally, I would be concerned over his lack of consciousness, but perhaps this is a blessing, considering the severity of the gash on his shoulder.” The doctor pulled several tools from his leather chest and quickly sewed up the wound. Berdy and Dr. Potts then carried Ross to a servant's bed on the ground floor.

Months ago when she had punctured her finger, she remembered her medical books suggested a wound should be cleaned before the application of any bandage or poultice.
Why
didn't Dr. Potts clean the wound first?
She withheld her question, since he was the expert—she wasn't. Perhaps desperate measures were required to save Ross's life. Besides, any interference from her might interrupt his immediate care.

Berdy helped remove the remainder of Ross's clothing, and the muddy, blood-soaked clothes were soon carried from the room.

She dropped her chin on her chest and concentrated on inhaling slowly.

Dr. Potts wiped his brow and rolled down his sleeves. “He lost a fair amount of blood, so no leeches or lettings. Bleedings might be danger…” Dr. Potts paused, then turned to face her.

A guilty blush warmed her cheeks. He'd probably stopped midway in his diagnosis to save her from distress. Dr. Potts must have discovered her affection for Ross by now.

The doctor pulled her gently away from the wall. “You must prepare yourself. There is little hope of recovery unless his brain injury heals, and he wakes. Has his mother been informed?”

Berdy nodded. “I received a note that Lady Helen was out calling upon friends when Mr. Douglas arrived at Blackwell. She should be informed of her son's accident by morning, at the latest. No doubt she will rush to Pinnacles as soon as possible.”

Dr. Potts nodded. “She will more than likely insist he be removed to Blackwell tomorrow. I will volunteer to stay with our patient until her arrival.”

Elinor took tentative steps toward the bedside. “Thank you. May I bathe him to remove the mud?”

The doctor paused. “It is not necessary for you to do so.”

“I must.” She instructed her servants to bring hot water, soap, and an upholstered chair for Dr. Potts's comfort during the long night ahead. With Berdy's help, she washed Ross's head, chest, and arms. Then Berdy left the room, and she and Dr. Potts sat quietly, each absorbed in their own thoughts. The only sounds heard in the room were from the large fire in the grate and the chimes from the clock in the hallway outside the door.

Close to midnight, Dr. Potts stood and came to her side. “I suggest you retire for the evening, for your own good. Don't worry about Mr. Thornbury. I will have a servant notify you if there is any change.”

She glanced at his weary face, lines of concern written across his shadowed brow. “Thank you, but I will remain. I want to be present when he wakes.”

The doctor returned to his chair, only to fidget endlessly. Ten minutes later, he mentioned instruments he might need from home—if Ross should wake—so he took his leave. He assuaged her panic upon his farewell by promising to return in the morning, before Lady Helen had a chance to remove Ross to Blackwell.

She returned to her chair, pulled a blanket around her shoulders, and began her long watch through the night.

She
loved
Ross.

Whether rake or gentleman, Ross had claimed her heart, without her loving William less. Now she stood gifted with a second chance at happiness. Over a year ago she could never imagine feeling romantic love. Now she faced the reality. A reality forced upon her by Ross's possible loss. She realized, rather ruefully, at least now she wouldn't be obsessively thinking about William all of the time.

Her attention returned to the man she loved stretched out on the small bed. She rose and added fuel to the fire, so the room would remain warm. Then she waited, her distress growing with each hour. Finally, unable to continue sitting in her chair, she moved to the bedside, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, a sharp pain near her heart.

Ross lay on his back; no trace of mud in his hair or body remained. Other than a pale face and a few small cuts, he appeared perfectly normal. His dark lashes rested upon his pale cheeks, and his chest rose ever so slightly with each steady breath.

She pulled the blanket away from his shoulder and examined the white linen wrapped from his upper arm to his neck. The cloth looked clean, but a small patch of darkness appeared under the linen, indicating the presence of blood.

Reaching up to smooth his dark hair from his brow, as she had observed him do so many times before, she secretly hoped he would wake with her touch, but he did not. Her tears began, and she needed to confirm he lived by a caress of his warm skin.