Myriah was beginning to feel queasy, but she continued to watch. Within a moment the offending bullet was produced and removed. The torn skin was cleaned and cauterized before the bandages were wrapped around the battered arm.
Myriah felt as though a vise had been squeezing her insides. Her back was tense, and her hands were white with clinching at her fingers. She thought it was a wonder she hadn’t bitten her nails off.
Fletcher covered his master with a clean sheet and blanket, rolled up the bloodied linen, and threw it onto the fire. He turned to Myriah, his features inscrutable. “He’ll wake soon, and more than likely he’ll fever up. You best get some rest afore that happens.”
“Will he be all right?” Myriah asked anxiously.
“Thank’ee, ma’am, that he will wit’ God’s ’elp. Yer man can bed doon in m’quarters—I’ve got plenty of room—and ye might find ’is lordship’s room to yer liking. It be jest across the hall.”
His lordship? Myriah wondered but said, “Thank you, Fletcher. I shall relieve you in a few hours.” She fetched another candle in its holder and lit it before venturing into the hallway, where Fletcher pointed out the room she was to occupy. She smiled at the elderly groom and went inside.
Once there, she set the candle down and looked around at what was obviously a bachelor’s chambers. Was this William’s father’s room? If so, where then was he?
She removed her jacket and boots, throwing them negligently onto a nearby chair, blew out her candle, and dropped across the bed. A moment later she was asleep.
*
With a start Myriah brought up her head. The room was still clothed in darkness, yet a slit between the drapes allowed the morning’s gray light to filter through. The strangeness of her surroundings puzzled her a moment; then as she felt the dawning of memory, a groan escaped her lips.
She pushed herself up and into a sitting position and became aware of the fact that her body was making known its very strenuous objections regarding her latest escapade. She felt as though she had been brutally beaten, and a longing to shirk her promise and return to sleep did private battle with her conscience. Alas, a conscience is a troublesome thing.
Berating herself for a fool, Myriah rose from the bed and attempted to stretch. With a groan she pulled on her boots and jacket and then encountered yet another problem. When she attempted to take her first step, she found her legs objects unto themselves. Hold, they cried. Did you, Myriah Whitney, not subject us to cruel and flagrant misuse? The verdict came in guilty, and Myriah’s hands went in sympathy and support to her thighs as she crossed the hall to William Wimborne’s room.
This feat accomplished (Myriah felt it deserved applause), she took a moment’s respite and leaned against the open door. Bolstering her courage, she walked stiffly toward Fletcher, who offended her sense of justice by looking wondrously comfortable and deeply asleep on the Queen Anne chair beside his master’s bed.
S
he gave the groom a rather rough shake, and he grumbled into consciousness. “Fletcher, you are relieved. How did he sleep?”
“Restless he was—gave him a bit of laudanum.” He stood, stretched, and added, “He should sleep peaceful now.”
“Thanks.” Myriah sighed, wondering why she had appointed herself the young man’s nursemaid.
Fletcher shuffled out of the room, turned to advise her that he would have Cook send up breakfast, and warned her not to mention the cause of his master’s indisposition to the servant.
“Cook?” asked Myriah. “Then there are some servants here after all?”
“Jest be Cook and her two lads. They comes days, she cooks, they cleans, tends to various things, and then they are off,” Fletcher said and turned abruptly to head out.
Myriah sucked in air, poured some water into the washbasin, and began setting herself to rights. She would have to ask Tabby to bring her overnight portmanteau to her, for young Wimborne’s comb was nowhere to be found. “Oh, well,” she mumbled aloud as she sank into the Queen Anne chair and gazed ruefully at the patient. Now in the full daylight she could see his hair was dark blonde, streaked with gold. His face had the appearance of a boy—just a boy.
There was a knock at the door, and a young, freckle-faced urchin appeared with a tray. “I brung your vittles,” said the wide-eyed boy as he placed the tray on a nearby table. “Fletcher—well … he said … young master took sick and you be tending him.”
“Thank you,” Myriah said, dismissing the curious boy with a gentle but firm look.
She swallowed the tea and devoured the buns in a trice, all too aware that some of her aches were due to hunger.
Boredom set in quickly, and she moved toward the long, diamond-paned window overlooking the estate grounds. The estate was obviously suffering from neglect. The lawns were overgrown, the flowerbeds needed weeding, bushes sadly wanted pruning, and the stables were in dismal need of paint. It would appear the Wimbornes had fallen upon hard times.
Surely this had once been an elegant home, for the furniture was exquisite, though the material could stand a good cleaning.
A sound from the bed made her look around, and she discovered her patient had tossed off his covers. She hurriedly soaked some cloth and began pressing it to his head, bringing up the blanket to cover his exposed chest.
For the next two hours he tossed, fretted, and called for ‘Kit.’ It was all she could do to keep him from tearing off the bandages. At last Tabson came in.
“I’ve put your bag in the room you took last night, m’lady—thought ye might be needing it.”
“Oh, Tab, thank you—I do. But would you stay here with him awhile? He is burning up, and I want to go to the kitchen and prepare a tisane to ease the fever.”