My Lady's Trust

The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

Before he could utter a set-down, she said, “You should rest. You’ll do the young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you’re bleary with fatigue.”

He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however, simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, “My good madam, the boy on that bed is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I could do whatever is necessary.”

After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. “Very well. I’ve just mixed more willow bark tea. If you’ll raise him—only slightly now, heed the shot in his chest—I’ll spoon some in.”

For the rest of what seemed an endless night, he followed the soft-spoken orders of the brown-garbed lady. She seemed competent enough, he supposed, ordering broths up from the kitchen, strewing acrid herbs into the water in which she had him wring out the cloths they placed on Kit’s neck and brow, directing him to turn Kit periodically to keep fluid from settling in his lungs.

Certainly she was tireless. Although he’d never have admitted it, after a blur of hours his own back ached and his hands were raw from wringing cloths. Mrs. Martin, however, gave no sign of fatigue at all.

Their only altercation occurred early on, when he demanded she unwrap the bandages so he might inspect Kit’s wound. The nurse adamantly refused. Such a course would engender so much movement his brother might begin bleeding again, a risk she did not wish to take. Unless his lordship had experience enough to remove the shot once the wound was bared—a highly delicate task she herself did not intend to attempt—she recommended the bindings be left intact until the physician arrived. So anxious was he to assess the damage, however, only her threat to wash her hands of all responsibility for her patient, should he insist on disturbing Kit, induced him, grudgingly, to refrain.

Despite their efforts, as the long night lightened to dawn, Kit grew increasingly restless, his dry skin hotter. When, just after sunrise, the squire ushered in Beau’s physician, both he and Mrs. Martin sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Mac, for answering my call so quickly.”

“Ach, and more a command than a call it was.” His old schoolmate Dr. MacDonovan smiled at him. “But we’ll frash over that later. Let me to the lad. The squire’s told me what happened, and the sooner we get the shot out, the better. Mrs. Martin, is it? You’ll assist, please.”

The nurse murmured assent, and Beau found himself shouldered aside. “Go on with ye, ye great lown,” his friend chided. “Fetch yerself a wee dram—ye’ve the look of needin’ one.”

“I’m staying, Mac. Let me help.”

His friend spared him a glance, then sighed. “Open the drapes, laddie, and give us more light. Then bring my bag. I may be wanting it.”

By the time the gruesome procedures were over Beau was almost sorry he’d insisted on remaining. First came the shock of the jagged entry wound, the flesh angry red and swollen. Then he had to endure the torment of holding down his struggling, semiconscious brother while the physician probed the wound with long forceps to locate and remove the shot. His back was wet with sweat and his knees shaking when finally Dr. MacDonovan finished his ministrations and began to rebind his patient.

It wasn’t until after that was complete, when the physician complimented Mrs. Martin on the efficacy of her previous treatment, that he remembered the woman who had silently assisted during the procedure. With the cap shadowing her lowered face, he couldn’t read her expression, but her hands had remained steady, her occasional replies to the physician calm and quiet throughout. He had to appreciate her fortitude.

Having lowered his once-again mercifully unconscious brother back against the pillows, he followed as the physician led them all out of the room.

The squire waited in the hallway. “Well, Sir Doctor, how does the patient fare?” he asked anxiously.

“The shot was all of a piece, best I could tell, which is a blessing. If I’ve not missed a bit, and if this lady’s kind offices in tending the lad until I arrived stand us in good stead, my hopes are high of his making a full recovery. But mind ye, ’tis early days yet. He mustn’t be moved, and the fever’s like to get much worse afor it’s agleaning. It’s careful tending he’ll be needing. Have ye a good nurse aboot?”

The squire glanced from the doctor to Mrs. Martin and back. “Well, there’s my sister, but I’m afraid her nerves are rather delicate—”

“I shall be happy to assist until his lordship can find someone,” Mrs. Martin inserted, her face downcast.

“Excellent. I recommend you accept the lady’s offer, Beau. At least until ye can secure the services of another such reliable nurse.”

“I’ve already sent a message to Ellen. That is, if it will not be an inconvenience for you to house my sister and her daughter, squire?”

“An honor, my lord,” the squire replied with a bow. “And yourself, as well, for as long as you wish to remain.”

“Then I should be most grateful to accept your help until my sister arrives, Mrs. Martin.”

After she murmured an assent, the squire turned to the physician. “If you tell me what I must do, Doctor, I’ll sit with the lad while Mrs. Martin takes her rest. She’s been at his side since morning yesterday and all night, too.” The squire directed a pointed look at Beau, a reminder he owed the man an apology—and a humble thanks to the quiet woman who’d so skillfully nursed his brother. “Lord Beaulieu, you must be needing your rest, as well. I’ll just see the lady on her way and then return to show you to your chamber.”

He bowed. With a nod and a curtsey, Mrs. Martin turned to follow the squire.

Delaying his apologies to pursue a more pressing matter, Beau lingered behind. “Was that report accurate, or are you merely trying to ease the squire’s anxiety?” Beau demanded as soon as the pair were out of earshot.

Dr. MacDonovan smiled and patted his arm. “God’s truth, Beau. ’Tis hard on you, I know, but there’s little we can do now but give him good nursing. He’s strong, though—and I do my job well. I canna promise there won’t be worrisome times yet, but I believe he’ll pull through.”

Beau released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thanks, Mac. For coming so quickly and—” he managed a grin “—being so good. Now, I’d best give the redoubtable Mrs. Martin a word of thanks. Probably should toss in an apology, as well—I’ve not been as…courteous as I suppose I might.”

The doctor laughed. “Frash with her, did ye? And lost, I’ll wager! A lady of much skill, Mrs. Martin. ’Tis she more than me you’d best be thanking for keeping yon Master Kit on this earth. Lay in the icy water of the marsh nigh on an hour, I’m told. The chill alone might have killed him, had he not been carefully watched.” The doctor frowned. “Aye, and may catch him yet. We must have a care for those lungs. But away with ye. I can keep these weary eyes open a bit longer.”

Beau gave his friend’s hand a shake and started down the hall. Now that Kit was safe in Mac’s care, he noticed anew the ache in his back and a bone-deep weariness dragged his steps.

He saw Mrs. Martin by the front door as he descended the last flight of stairs, apparently in some dispute with the squire, for she was shaking her head.

“Thank you, sir, but ’tis only a short walk. There’s no need for a carriage.”

Beau waited for the little courtesies to be observed, his eyes nearly drooping shut until he noticed the squire make Mrs. Martin an elegant leg, quite in the manner of the last century.

“No indeed, dear ma’am, you mustn’t walk. I’m fair astonished such a gentle lady as yourself has not collapsed from fatigue ere now. What fortitude and skill you possess! Qualities, I might add, which nearly equal your beauty.”

After that pretty speech, the squire took Mrs. Martin’s hand and kissed it.

Surprise chased away his drowsiness until he remembered the squire had called Mrs. Martin a “lady,” widow to a military man. An officer, apparently, since his host would hardly extend such marked gallantries to an inferior. Beau smiled, amused to discover the middle-aged squire apparently courting the nondescript nurse, and curious to watch her response.

“You honor me,” said the lady in question as she gently but firmly drew back her hand.

Coy? Beau wondered. Or just not interested?

Then the nurse glanced up. Illumined as she was by the sunshine spilling into the hall, for the first time he got a clear look at her face—her young, pretty face.

In the same instant she saw him watching her. An expression almost of—alarm crossed her lovely features and she swiftly lowered her head, once again concealing her countenance behind a curtain of cap lace. What remark she made to the squire and whether or not she availed herself of the carriage, he did not hear. Before he could move his stunned lips into the speech of gratitude he’d intended to deliver, she curtsied once more and slipped out.

By the time the squire joined him on the landing his foggy brain had resumed functioning. Mumbling something resembling an apology as the man escorted him to his chamber, he let his mind play over the interesting discovery that the skillful Mrs. Martin was not only a lady, but a rather young one at that.

He recalled the brevity of her speech, even with the squire, whom she apparently knew well, and the way she skittered off when she found him watching her. More curious still. Why, he wondered as he sank thankfully into the soft feather bed, would such an eminently marriageable widow be so very retiring?

Having the widow tend his brother would give Beau the opportunity to observe this odd conundrum more closely. Which would be a blessing, for as his brother’s recovery—and Kit simply must recover—was likely to be lengthy, Beau would need something to distract him from worry. Luckily, nothing intrigued him as much as a riddle.

Chapter Two

A few hours later Laura pulled herself reluctantly from bed and walked to the kitchen. A bright sun sparkled on the scrubbed table and Maggie, the maid of all work the squire sent over every morning to do her cleaning, had left her nuncheon and a pot of water simmering on the stove.

She’d remain just long enough for tea and to wash up before returning to her patient. The kindly Scots physician had ridden straight through, he’d told her, and would be needing relief.

She frowned as she poured water into the washbasin. It wasn’t fatigue that caused the vague disquiet that nagged at her. She’d learned to survive on very little sleep while she cared for her dying “aunt Mary.”

No, it was the lingering effects of working for so many hours in such close proximity to the Earl of Beaulieu—a man who exuded an almost palpable aura of power—that left her so uneasy.

He’d not recognized her, she was sure. Even when he looked her full in the face this morning, she’d read only surprise in his eyes—surprise, she assumed, that she was not the aged crone he had evidently taken her to be. An impression she, of course, had done her best to instill and one he might harbor yet if she’d not stupidly looked up.