The Dashing Miss Fairchild (20 page)

"Yes, well, perhaps I can think of something. You, sir, are getting into bed.” Her no-nonsense attitude seemed to amuse him until she touched his arm, just below the wound. He sucked in his breath, closing his eyes.

"Ah, you grit your teeth, close your eyes, and tell me you feel no pain?” She accepted a bowl of water from Priddy, then with a clean cloth proceeded to wipe his wound again. By the time she finished her ministrations, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. She liberally dosed the area with basilicum powder, the wound with clean gauze.

Fastening the new bandage, she motioned to a grim-faced Timms.

"I shall help you take him to the next room. It is clear to me he needs bed and sleep more than anything else."

Richard shook his head. “We need to go.” He tried to rise and found he was clearly outvoted in his efforts. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself sitting on the edge of a high four-poster with a dragon who resembled Clare Fairchild standing over him holding a bottle of evil-looking stuff.

"Just a spoon and you shall feel much better, sir,” the dragon coaxed.

With Timms, Priddy, and Clare Fairchild all standing over him, and feeling the very devil, Richard did the only thing he could. He swallowed the wretched liquid and shuddered even as he allowed Timms to remove his boots.

In spite of the way she had treated him, he was sorry to see the back of Miss Fairchild as she blustlingly hurried from his room.

Back in the parlor, Clare whirled about to face Priddy, hands clasped in distress. “I shan't allow him to get into a coach to be jolted home this evening, and I doubt if he will be much better come morning. There must be another way we can solve this dilemma. It is imperative that Lady Millsham get to Bath as soon as can be. And yet I fear Mr. Talbot needs a night's rest before continuing. All this jostling about has done him ill. Poor man.” That Clare felt horridly guilty was not said.

"That is true, Miss Clare. What will you tell Lady Millsham when she expects to be collected?"

Clare cogitated on this all through a light repast brought by an inquisitive servant. Once Clare finished, she popped up to roam about the room, casting worried glances at the bedroom where silence reigned. Timms had reported that his master fell asleep, and that all was quiet.

Pausing in her anxious perambulations about the room, she placed her hand to her face, rubbed her chin a bit, then turned to her maid, a determined look Priddy knew settling on her countenance.

"You will drive in the coach when it goes to pick up Lady Millsham. Have Tom Coachman place her trunks in the boot, and then you all go to Bath. Anyone who might be watching the house in Bath will see you with someone who appears to be me! Give her my shawl to wear, perhaps a bonnet? You will explain as little as necessary to Miss Godwin. Then you come back tomorrow for me. It is so simple, I cannot think why it did not occur to me immediately.” Clare clapped her hands together, delighted with her plan.

"But Miss Fairchild,” objected Priddy, “'tis most improper.” Her starched back grew even straighter at the thought of more scandal attached to her mistress.

"Priddy, the man saved my life. This is the least I can do for him."

Reflecting that her mistress was correct, and that she would undoubtedly do as she pleased in the matter anyway, Priddy nodded, then walked from the room in a huff to inform Tom Coachman of the change.

Sometime later Clare stood by the window, watching her coach as it rumbled off in the direction of the cottage where Lady Millsham waited. She had sent a message to Tom Coachman to hire two outriders and an extra groom for the trip. Her fears for the young Jane, Countess of Millsham, were great.

Now that her fears were confirmed, Clare felt the danger for all of them far more than originally believed. It seemed to her that only a man could conceive such a dastardly and murderous plan.

Leaving the window, she crossed to open the bedroom door. Her patient was fitful, shifting about, restlessly moving his head. Swiftly going to his side, she placed her hand on his brow. It was warm, but not exceedingly hot. Thankful for small mercies, she took a cloth from a basin of water, wrung it out, then began to wipe his forehead. Not satisfied, she found a bottle of lavender water in her case, and emptied a portion of it into the basin. Then she resumed her task, all the while studying the dear, exasperating face of the man she cared for too much.

How ironic. She had turned down countless offers of marriage with highly eligible young men, men who had only been allowed to hold her hand. Richard Talbot had kissed and caressed her nearly senseless, taken a shot intended for her, but he had not asked her to marry him. Indeed, he had looked rather grim confronted with the very thought.

Yet she felt impelled to be with him. She well knew she might have gone with Lady Millsham and Priddy, leaving Timms alone to care for his master. She couldn't.

"How is he?” Timms whispered at her shoulder.

"Not as bad as I first feared. How stupid of him to pretend he was scarcely hurt. See what it got him?"

"And you, Miss Fairchild? It would have been better had you gone with the coach, I think."

Clare gave a rather inelegant sniff and grinned at Timms. “I can scarce believe my reputation could be worsened. It is considered vulgar for a young unmarried woman to go dashing off to a rescue, you know. To go dashing off on anything, for that matter. I daresay I shall manage to cope. If Mr. Talbot survives this, he will undoubtedly wish himself back in Jamaica where the ladies are most likely a languid lot and not given to mad starts."

She turned her attention back to Richard, bathing his forehead with the lavender water in an effort to reduce his fever. Sometime later, she removed his bandage again, noting with dismay that the seepage did not look good.

"Best send for the apothecary. The remedies I carry with the are not good enough."

"I'll have no quack tending me” came a low murmur from the bed behind her.

Clare spun about to see two heavy-lidded eyes fixed on her. Though barely conscious, he had willed himself to say that much.

"And what do you know about it, sir? We shall see what he says."

It turned out that except for cupping Richard, the apothecary had little to offer Mr. Talbot other than what Clare had already done for him. She paid the man, then returned to the bedside, thinking herself a fool at the very least.

Yet she refused to cease in her efforts. If keeping the wound cleansed and dosed with basilicum powder offered the best hope, that is what she would do. And she would try not to dwell on the ramifications of her nursing.

There was little doubt as to what this mad affair would do to her name. And she would say nothing about it to Richard, nor would she allow him to offer himself on the altar of propriety. Stuff and nonsense. Her eldest brother was unlikely to force the issue, being far up north and more involved with raising sheep and other interesting things. The rest of the family had long since learned to permit Clare her way and would not interfere. However, she could count on her sister, Sarah, giving her a harbor should she want it. And that offered much comfort at the moment.

Yet she owed this man her life, and she did not take such a debt lightly. She wrung out the cloth again to bathe his forehead.

Mr. Timms lit the oil lamp, placing it on the table not far from her side. He met Clare's intrepid gaze with a lift of the eyebrow.

"Go get something to eat,” she urged. “I suspect you will need to spell me later on."

Seeing the wisdom of this, Timms nodded, then quickly left for the common room.

"You ought not be here,” Richard murmured, finding himself able to speak once again. The wound in his arm was not nearly as bad as Clare made it out to be. Yet he had allowed himself to be cosseted and fussed over like a babe. Why? He studied her face as she hovered over him, the tip of her tongue showing as she concentrated on wiping his brow. She was such an appealing armful, and he ached to hold her, though he knew full well he dare not make a move.

"This is where I must be. You are a foolish man. Do you know how even a simple scratch can poison the blood? It is nothing to be taken lightly, I assure you. Once that begins, there is nothing to be done for you."

Richard knew she was right; he had seen a man die from a mere broken blister that got infected. When those red lines had run up his leg, it had not been long before he was gone aloft.

"I purchased more basilicum powder, for my supply was low. I confess I do not understand why it is effective, but it does seem to help,” she said in an effort to comfort him.

There was a knock on the door. Clare crossed to see who it was. Mrs. Dow entered the room, carrying something wrapped in snowy linen.

"Once I knew what was the trouble, I set about finding a remedy to help this brave man, here.” Mrs. Dow took a step closer to the bed. “We need all the heroes we can find.” Boldly she pulled the bandage from his wound, shaking her head in obvious consternation at the sight she found. “With your permission, I shall put on my best remedy, Miss Fairchild."

Clare noticed the annoyed look on Richard's face and hid her momentary amusement. “Please, if you have something that is beneficial, we ought to try it.” She hated and feared the angry redness that surrounded the spot where the bullet had grazed Richard's arm.

Unfolding the linen cloth, Mrs. Dow removed what appeared to be a very moldy piece of bread. Clare frowned, thinking this a strange manner of healing anything. She watched as the old nurse gently placed it over the wound, then lightly bound it to the arm.

"You shall see, sir. Tomorrow your arm will be looking far better. Mark my words.” Then she turned to Clare. “And as for you, missy, you best get to the other room, for this man needs some sleep, and you look as though you could do with a meal."

Instead of arguing, Clare meekly went to the private parlor. Here she found Timms waiting to serve her a simple but nourishing supper. She ate automatically, her mind in the other room, wondering how that bread could induce a cure. Yet she knew that often the old nurses knew of medicines that doctors refused to consider, condemning them as old-fashioned.

Reluctant to venture far from the inn to stay in Mrs. Dow's neat cottage, Clare allowed herself to be persuaded to sleep in a bedroom down the hall while Timms and the authoritative Mrs. Dow ruled the sickroom for the night.

Come morning, Clare found all her problems returned. As she pushed herself up to lean against the headboard, she sorted out the worst of them. Venetia would undoubtedly make a great fuss, for one reason or another. Yet Clare felt sorry for the woman, and hesitated to ask her to leave.

As far as Lady Millsham went, her presence brought danger to the household and Clare, yet it was unthinkable to send her elsewhere. Clare would find a solution. Or perhaps Richard, that is Mr. Talbot, could think of a clever resolution to the threat imposed by the new Earl of Millsham, impostor though he be.

It did no good to dwell on the matter of Mr. Talbot. Once he realized that Clare had no intention of forcing him into the parson's mousetrap, he would take himself back to Jamaica and she could forget him. And then, the sun, moon, and stars might stop their path in the sky, and the world stop spinning as well. She sighed, then put her unpleasant thoughts aside to rise and prepare for the day ahead. Goodness only knew what it might bring.

Returning to the private parlor in her crumpled dress of yesterday, she found Timms bringing in a basin of steaming water with clean towels draped over his arm. “He wants a shave, which I consider a good sign, miss."

The dark shadow that had covered Mr. Talbot's lower face had intrigued Clare last night. All the men she had observed were clean-shaven, and she suspected they tended to the task often if dark-haired. Knowing she would never be allowed to view the process, she merely nodded and murmured approving words.

Mrs. Dow entered the parlor, closing the door behind Timms with a decided snap.

"How is he this morning?” Clare inquired with a breathless voice.

"Much better, Miss Fairchild. Now sit you down while I see to a good breakfast for you. None of this toast and tea for you this morning."

Guessing that Lady Millsham had requested such fare and failed, Clare merely smiled and nodded, watching the good woman bustle from the room.

Following a small bowl of porridge, Clare surveyed a plate of buttered eggs, several rashers of bacon, and a pile of toast. A pot of marmalade sat on the table to tempt her.

Timms came out of the bedroom wearing a harassed expression, rolled his eyes, then hurried out the door without saying a word.

Chewing her toast consideringly after succumbing to the lure of the marmalade, Clare wondered what prompted that peculiar look on Timms's poor face. Moments later she found out, when the bedroom door flew open.

"Well! I believed you to be in bed, sir,” Clare said, rising from her chair in protest. The man before her stood dressed with care, and no sign of the shadow of a beard remained. His coat had been brushed and pantaloons restored to their usual state of perfection. She felt a dowdy by comparison.

He ambled across the room to stand at her side. “Feel my forehead if you please. Please note there is no fever. That obnoxious application Mrs. Dow put on my wound appears to have done the trick. The redness is gone, or so they tell me, and healing seems to have set in. Are you content? Or would it have been better had I popped off?"

Unable to stop herself, Clare put a hesitant hand to his forehead to see if he told the truth. He did.

"What utter rubbish you speak, sir. As if I could wish the hero of the hour to his grave. Have you eaten anything?” she said, hoping to ease the sudden tension that had sprung up between them. They were alone in the room, and she was too conscious of his proximity for her liking. She sank down onto her chair with surprisingly weak knees.

"Timms is to bring me a tray.” Mr. Talbot pulled up a chair to the small table, settled himself, and proceeded to disconcert Clare by staring at her with a very steady gaze. “When Tom Coachman returns, we shall travel back to Bath and not spare the horses, my dear."