The Homeless Heiress

‘I will,’ Georgie said at once. ‘I’m not afraid of a little blood. Go to him, Mr Henderson, and I’ll follow as soon as I am dressed.’

‘Oh, miss,’ the housekeeper said, forgetting discretion in her distress. ‘The poor master. We’ve sent for the doctor, but he looks in a bad way.’

Chapter Two

Henderson went off without another word or a look in her direction. Georgie scooped up the clothes he had left for her and turned her back on the housekeeper as she dressed hastily in breeches and shirt that were far too big for her. She rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and legs of the breeches, tying them round the middle to hold them in with a neckerchief the valet had brought, then scraped her hair up under the cap.

‘Show me where,’ she said and Mrs Jensen stared at her, clearly still in shock. Her wits had gone begging and she looked dazed. ‘Mr Henderson will need help if Captain Hernshaw has been badly hurt.’

‘Yes, come this way,’ Dora said, coming out of her trance. ‘I’ll show you, but don’t ask me to help, because I shall faint at the sight of it. I never could stand blood, and that’s a fact!’

‘We can manage,’ Georgie said, understanding that she felt bad because of the way she had reacted. ‘My aunt was just the same. When my uncle had a shooting accident, I was the one who patched him up until the doctor—’ She stopped abruptly, because she had already said too much. She hadn’t intended to mention her uncle at all!

‘I thought…’ Dora shook her head, because the sight of her master stumbling into the house in such a state had shattered her nerves and she did not know where she was. She had assumed Georgie was alone in the world but now it seemed she had an aunt and uncle. However, it wasn’t her business, and there was no time to think of anything but Captain Hernshaw for the moment. ‘You had better come at once.’

Georgie followed her swiftly along the hall to a set of double doors at the end, which led into the master suite. She went in, leaving Mrs Jensen to hover outside. The first room was a sitting room, which she noticed seemed less dark and dull than the rest of the house, and might have been refurbished recently, but there was no time to stare, for a voice summoned her from what was clearly the bedroom beyond.

‘In here!’

Hurrying to answer Henderson’s call, Georgie found him bending over the figure of his master. There was blood everywhere and he was frantically trying to press down on an open wound in Captain Hernshaw’s shoulder and directing the footman to do the same to another wound in the captain’s thigh.

‘What can I do?’ Georgie asked, going to the bed.

Henderson glanced up. ‘Not going to faint on me?’

‘No, I shan’t do that,’ she replied. ‘Can I do that while you attend to the wound in his thigh? It looks as if it is the worst. Shall you stitch it or apply a tourniquet until the doctor arrives?’

‘We don’t have time to wait,’ Henderson replied tersely. ‘Unless I can close that wound, he will bleed to death.’

‘You’d better do it, then,’ Georgie said. ‘I’ll apply the pad to his shoulder and the footman can hold him down for you. He will likely come to his senses and fight you when you start.’

‘You’ve had some experience of this,’ Henderson said, giving her a knowing glance. He moved the footman to one side and looked at the deep wound to his patient’s thigh. ‘I’ll sew it roughly for the moment to stop the blood. It won’t be pretty, but it may save him.’

‘Get on with it,’ Georgie said, pressing down as hard as she could on the secondary wound. ‘Otherwise he will certainly die. No one can lose this much blood and live.’

Almost an hour later, Georgie looked down at the man lying amongst the stained sheets. His face was very pale and she thought he was completely out of it now, for he had fought them so hard when the cauterising iron was applied to his thigh that Henderson had had to knock him out with a strong dose of laudanum, forcing it down his throat as he raged at them in his agony.

She shuddered, because she knew that he had come very close to death that night. The experience had been far worse than when her uncle was shot in an accident, and she was feeling weak after their efforts to save his life. Even now there was no guarantee that he would live. It was likely he would take a fever or his wound might turn bad, as wounds so often did, the poison going inward.

‘You look terrible,’ Henderson said, glancing at her in concern. ‘You should go to bed, Georgie. I can mange him now.’

‘He will take a lot of nursing,’ Georgie replied, frowning. She did not know why, but she was reluctant to leave the man lying there so still and pale. ‘I’ve seen something like this before. It wasn’t as bad as this, but bad enough. Your master could still die of a fever—and he has lost a lot of blood.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll have the doctor to him, but I don’t see what else we could have done.’

‘You did everything any doctor would have,’ Georgie said. ‘Did you learn that in the army?’

‘My father was an army surgeon,’ Henderson said. ‘It was his wish that I should take it up, but I wanted to be a soldier. I soon learned that my father’s skills were necessary out there and I made it my business to learn all I could—from him and from books.’

‘You saved Captain Hernshaw’s life.’

‘If he lives.’

‘If he lives,’ Georgie agreed, because she knew the outcome was still in doubt. ‘I’ll go to bed now, but I’ll come back later so that you can rest.’

He nodded his head, not bothering to answer. Georgie left him to finish clearing up the mess they had created. She was feeling so very tired. Everything had happened so fast that she hardly knew what had happened. But as they fought for Captain Hernshaw’s life she had known very clearly that she did not want him to die!

As she walked back to her room, Georgie was thinking about the man she had helped to tend. Seeing him lying there, his life in danger, had affected her more than she would have expected. She had only known him a few hours, but already she was praying for his recovery. She did not know why, but for some reason it was very important to her that he should live.

Georgie had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head had touched the pillow. When she woke again it was to see the first rays of the morning light creeping in at the window. For a moment she lay, stretching, feeling relaxed, and then suddenly it hit her and she recalled all the events of the previous night. She had slept in her clothes in case she was needed, and sprang out now, hurrying along the hall to Captain Hernshaw’s apartments. As she went in she saw that Henderson was applying a cloth to the patient’s forehead and went to him.

‘How is he?’

‘Feverish, I think,’ Henderson replied. ‘The laudanum kept him quiet most of the night, but he is starting to fight now.’

‘You’ve been up all night,’ Georgie said. ‘I meant to come, but I slept too soundly. Give me the cloth. I can do that and you should rest.’

‘Yes, I need an hour or two,’ Henderson agreed. ‘The doctor came and gave me some medicine for the fever. I’ve given him one dose and he shouldn’t have more for two hours. If I’m back, I’ll give it to him, but the measure is one spoonful, no more.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Georgie said and glanced at the dressing chest where the dark brown bottle and a spoon had been placed. She took note of the time by the clock on a tall chest. ‘He has the next dose at nine forty-five.’

‘Yes, good.’ Henderson looked approving. ‘I shall leave it to you, then—and thank you.’

‘He helped me. It is only fair I should help him.’

Henderson studied her in silence for a moment, but said nothing more, just turned and left her to get on with the job of bathing the patient’s brow.

‘Justin…’ Georgie turned her head as she heard the feverish mumbling. ‘Forgive me…I should have been there…don’t die…I’m sorry…it wasn’t your fault…it wasn’t your fault…’

Georgie wrung out her cloth in cool water and stroked it over his heated forehead. His dark hair was damp with sweat, hanging in rat-tails about his face. He wore his hair longer than most men did these days and she thought it gave him the look of a rebel, a man who did not conform to the fashion of the day.

‘Justin…no…’ He gave a tortured cry and sat up in bed staring wildly in front of him. ‘You can’t die… forgive me…forgive me…’

‘He forgives you,’ Georgie said as he fell back against the pillows with a sigh. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her in his fever, but she stroked her fingers down his cheek, soothing him. Touching him made her feel a little strange, because she felt he needed her and she longed to help him. He was in such torment and his pain tugged at her heartstrings, bringing tears to her eyes. ‘He knows you wanted to save him…it isn’t your fault if he dies…’

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, his eyes staring at her, but seeing something beyond her. ‘I knew,’ he muttered. ‘I knew what they did to him! I should have stopped them. It wasn’t his fault…he was gentle…so gentle…they killed him…’

‘It’s all right,’ Georgie told him, her fingers caressing his cheek once more. ‘Rest now. Justin is safe…’

‘No, he died…’ Tears were trickling down his cheeks now. ‘He died because I wasn’t there to help…’

‘But you wanted to,’ Georgie comforted, her heart wrenched by his obvious distress. ‘You would have if you could…’

‘Failed him…’ His eyes had closed now, but she thought he seemed a little easier. She stroked his hair and his face, using the cool cloth to wipe away the sweat from his forehead and the tears from his cheeks. His outburst had been a revelation, for who would have guessed that he could be so moved? He seemed such a stern man, giving no sign of any deep emotions, but clearly he felt them. He had inadvertently revealed another side of his character, one that she might not have known was there if he hadn’t been struck down like this, and it had reached out to something inside her, arousing tender feelings she had not known she had. Georgie wondered who Justin was and what had happened to him—and why did Captain Hernshaw feel so very responsible?

It wasn’t her business, she decided as she sat back in the chair Henderson had drawn close to the bed. At least he was resting for the moment. He was still hot, but the mutterings had stopped and he appeared to be more comfortable.

She sat watching him, studying the curves and angles of his features. He wasn’t a handsome man by the standards of the day. His features were much too harsh, his nose straight and patrician. His mouth looked softer when he was sleeping, not hard or angry as it did when he was annoyed, and his lashes were thick and dark. She could not see his eyes at that moment, but she knew they were grey—eyes that could be cold or sparkle with amusement. He intrigued her. What kind of a man would bring a thief he had met on the streets to his home? What kind of man was tortured by something in his past? Had he done something dreadful? Was that why he begged forgiveness in his fever?