by Mary Balogh
“Jones is certainly dragging his feet,” Lord Trentham said.
“He will come as soon as he is able,” Lady Barclay said. “He always does, Hugo. And there is no better doctor in the world.”
“Lady Muir has suffered a previous injury to the same leg,” Lord Trentham said. “I daresay it hurts like a thousand devils.”
They were talking of her as if she were not there to speak for herself, Gwen thought. But for the moment she did not care. For the moment she was distancing herself as far from the pain as she could get.
And there was warmth in their voices, she noticed. As if they were fond of each other. Almost as if they were genuinely concerned for her.
Even so, she wished the physician would come soon so that she could ask the Duke of Stanbrook again for a carriage to take her to Vera’s.
Oh, how she hated to be beholden to anyone.
Chapter 3
When Flavian returned with the doctor, he brought Mrs. Parkinson too. It was that lady who hurried into the drawing room first. She curtsied low to Imogen and Hugo and assured them that His Grace was kindness itself, that they were kindness itself, that she would be grateful to Lord Ponsonby for the rest of her days for bringing her word of her dearest friend’s accident so promptly and insisting upon bringing her here in His Grace’s carriage despite the fact that she would have been happy to walk ten times the distance if it had been necessary.
“I would walk five—nay, even ten—miles for dear Lady Muir’s sake,” she assured them, “even if it was careless of her to wander onto His Grace’s land when I had specifically warned her to be careful to avoid giving offense to such an illustrious peer of the realm. His Grace would have been quite justified if he had chosen to refuse her admittance to Penderris, though I daresay he hesitated to do so when he learned she is Lady Muir. I suppose it is that fact I have to thank for my invitation to ride in the carriage, for such a distinction has never been offered me before, you know, despite the fact that Mr. Parkinson was the younger brother of Sir Roger Parkinson and was fourth in line to the title himself after his brother’s three sons.”
It was only after she had delivered herself of this remarkable speech, looking from Hugo to Imogen as she did so, that the lady turned toward her friend, her hands clasped to her bosom.
Hugo and Imogen exchanged a poker-faced glance in which volumes were spoken. Flavian had come to stand silently just inside the door, looking openly bored.
“Gwen!” Mrs. Parkinson cried. “Oh, my poor dear Gwen, what have you done to yourself? I was beside myself with worry when you did not return from your walk within the hour. I feared the worst and blamed myself most bitterly for having felt too low in spirits to accompany you. What would I have done if you had met with a fatal accident? What would I have said to the Earl of Kilbourne, your dear brother? It was really too, too naughty of you to cause me such panic. All of which I felt, of course, because I love you so dearly.”
“I twisted my ankle, that is all, Vera,” Lady Muir explained. “But unfortunately, it is impossible for me to walk, at least for the present. I hope not to have to impose upon the duke’s hospitality for much longer, however. I trust he will be kind enough to allow the carriage to return to the village with the two of us once the doctor has looked at my ankle and bound it up.”
Mrs. Parkinson regarded her friend with open horror and uttered a slight shriek as she clasped her hands even more tightly to her bosom.
“You must not even think of being removed,” she said. “Oh, my poor Gwen, you will do your leg irreparable damage if you attempt anything so reckless. You already have that unfortunate limp from a previous accident, and I daresay it has deterred other gentlemen from paying you court since dear Lord Muir’s passing. You simply must not risk becoming entirely lame. His Grace, I am assured, will join me in urging you to remain here until your ankle is quite healed. You must not worry that I will neglect you. I shall walk over daily to bear you company. You are my dearest friend in the world, after all. I am sure this lady and this gentleman as well as Viscount Ponsonby will also urge you to stay.”
She smiled graciously in turn upon Imogen and Hugo, and Flavian, sounding even more bored than he habitually did, introduced them.
Mrs. Parkinson was probably close to Lady Muir in age, Hugo guessed, though time had dealt less kindly with her. Whereas Lady Muir was still beautiful even though she was probably past the age of thirty, any claim to good looks Mrs. Parkinson might once have had was long past. She also carried too much weight upon her frame, and most of it had settled quite unbecomingly beneath her chin and about her bosom and hips. Her brown hair had lost any youthful luster it might once have had.
Lady Muir opened her mouth to speak. She was clearly dismayed at the suggestion that she remain at Penderris. She was prevented from expressing her sentiments, however, when the door opened again to admit George and Dr. Jones, the physician he had enticed from London years ago when he opened his home to the six of them, and others whose stay had been of shorter duration. The doctor had remained ever since to tend the poor who could not pay his fee, as well as the richer folk who could.
“Here is Dr. Jones, Lady Muir,” George said. “He is the most skilled of physicians, I do assure you. You may feel confident in entrusting yourself to his care. Imogen, would you be so good as to remain here with Lady Muir? The rest of us will withdraw to the library. Mrs. Parkinson, may I offer you tea and cakes there? It was good of you to come with Flavian and the doctor at such short notice.”
“It is I who ought to remain with Lady Muir,” Mrs. Parkinson said, nevertheless allowing herself to be ushered toward the door. “However, my nerves are stretched thin, Your Grace, after tending my poor dear husband for so long. Dr. Jones will tell you that they have come very near to breaking altogether since his passing. I do not know how I am going to be able to give dear Lady Muir the care she is going to need in my home, though I am more than eager, as you may imagine, to have her removed there. I feel responsible for what has happened. If I had been with her, as I would have been if I had not been feeling so low in spirits this morning, then I would have kept her a decent distance from Penderris. I am vexed that she trespassed, though I suppose it was more careless than deliberate on her part.”
George had closed the drawing room doors by this point and was making his way downstairs with Mrs. Parkinson on his arm. Hugo and Flavian were following along behind them.
“It will be my pleasure to have Lady Muir remain here, ma’am, until she can walk again,” George said. “And the doctor has already confirmed that you are worn down after your devoted attention to your husband during his long illness.”
“That is very obliging of him, I am sure,” Mrs. Parkinson said. “I shall come every day to visit Lady Muir, of course.”
“I am delighted to hear it ma’am,” George said, nodding to a footman to open the library doors. “My carriage will be at your disposal.”
Flavian and Hugo exchanged glances, and the former cocked one eyebrow. Shall we sneak off while we may? the look seemed to ask.
Hugo pursed his lips. It was tempting. But he followed George and his guest into the library, and Flavian shrugged and came behind him.
“I do regret this imposition upon your hospitality, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parkinson assured George. “But it is not in my nature to abandon a friend when she is in need. And so I will accept your kind offer of a carriage each day even though I would be delighted to walk here. I will be absolutely no bother to you or your guests while I am here. It is Lady Muir I will be visiting. I shall certainly not expect tea each day.”
A maid had just come into the room and was setting down a tray on the large oak desk by the window.
It was hardly surprising, Hugo thought, that Mrs. Parkinson cultivated the friendship of Lady Muir. She was, after all, the widow of a lord and the sister of an earl, and Mrs. Parkinson was obsequious to a fault. It was less clear why Lady Muir was her friend. She had struck Hugo as being decidedly haug
hty and high in the instep. He had not warmed to her despite her undeniable beauty. Though she had laughed at her own predicament after she demanded to be set down and he obliged her. And then she had asked to be carried after all. But she had once lost her unborn child through the incredible recklessness of her own behavior and the carelessness of her husband’s. She was the sort of upper-class woman he most despised. She seemed totally wrapped up in self. And yet she was Mrs. Parkinson’s friend. Perhaps she enjoyed being worshipped and adored.
Poor George was being left to bear all the burden of conversation alone since he, Hugo, was standing in morose silence wishing that he had not stopped earlier to climb to that ledge on the cliff but had come straight back to the house. And Flavian was over by one of the bookshelves, leafing through a book and looking disdainful. Flavian always portrayed disdain exceedingly well. He never even needed to speak a word.
This was grossly unfair to George.
“You have known Lady Muir for a long time, Mrs. Parkinson?” Hugo asked.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, setting down her teacup and saucer in order to clasp her hands to her bosom again, “we have known each other forever. We made our come-out together in London when we were mere girls, you know. We made our curtsy to the queen on the very same day and danced at each other’s come-out ball afterward. People were good enough to call us the two most dazzlingly pretty young ladies on the marriage mart that year, though I daresay they were merely being kind to me. Though I did have more than my fair share of beaux, it is true. More than Gwen, in fact, though I suppose that was in part due to the fact that she took one look at Lord Muir and decided that his title and fortune were worth setting her cap at. I might have married a marquess or a viscount myself had I chosen, or any one of a number of barons. But I fell deeply in love with Mr. Parkinson and never regretted for a single moment relinquishing the dazzling life I might have had with a titled gentleman and ten thousand or more a year. There is nothing more important in life than romantic love, even when its object is the mere younger brother of a baronet.”
How had Muir died, Hugo wondered, having allowed his mind to wander. He did not ask.
The doctor was being shown into the room, and he confirmed Hugo’s suspicion that his patient’s ankle was severely sprained though not apparently broken or fractured. Nevertheless, it was imperative that she rest her leg and put absolutely no weight upon it for at least a week.
The Survivors’ Club was going to have to expand to admit one more member, it seemed, even if just temporarily. George had allowed Mrs. Parkinson to win her point and give herself the opportunity to insinuate her company upon them for some days to come. Lady Muir was staying.
Mrs. Parkinson was the only one among them who looked gratified at the verdict, even though at the same time she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes and heaved a soulful sigh.
It would have been better, Hugo thought, if he had not gone down onto the beach at all today. Last evening’s joke ought to have been warning enough. God sometimes enjoyed getting in on a joke and giving it his own peculiar twist.
The new sprain had been aggravated by the old break, which in its turn had been poorly set. He would dearly like to have a word with the physician who had set it, Dr. Jones said with some severity after he had explained the situation to Gwen. He ordered her not to put her foot to the ground for at least a week but rather to keep it elevated at all times, not even on a low stool but whenever possible on a level with her heart.
It would have been a gloomy enough pronouncement under any circumstances. Even at home, the prospect of remaining inactive for so long would have been irksome. And at Vera’s, another week without any escape from the company of her hostess and her friends would have been rather like being sentenced to a stay in Purgatory. Nevertheless, even that would have seemed like Paradise in comparison with the reality she faced. She was going to have to spend a week—at least a week—at Penderris Hall as a guest of the Duke of Stanbrook. She was being forced to impose herself upon a reunion of men—and one woman—who had spent long months together here recovering from wounds sustained during the wars. They were surely a closely bonded group. The last thing any of them would want was the forced presence of an outsider, a stranger to them all, who was nursing nothing more lethal than a hurt ankle.
Oh, this was the stuff of nightmares.
She was humiliated and in pain and homesick—dreadfully homesick. But most of all she was angry. She was angry at herself for continuing along the beach after discovering how difficult a terrain it was to walk upon, and for choosing to climb that treacherous slope. She had a weak ankle. She knew her limitations and was usually quite sensible about the sort of exercise she undertook.
Most of all, though, she was angry—quite furious, in fact—at Vera. What true lady would suddenly close her home to the very friend she had begged to come and keep her company in her grief and loneliness, just because that friend had suffered a slight accident? Should her reaction not have been quite the opposite? But Vera had been patently, embarrassingly self-serving in her unwillingness to allow Gwen to be conveyed to her house. Much as she had railed against the Duke of Stanbrook before today, she had obviously been thrilled beyond words at being offered a chance to come here to Penderris today, and in his crested carriage, no less, for all the other inhabitants of the village to witness. She had seen the chance to extend the thrill and become a daily visitor here for the next week or so and had proceeded to grasp it, without any consideration whatsoever for Gwen’s feelings.
Gwen nursed her humiliation and pain and anger while she reclined upon the bed in the guest room that had been assigned to her. Lord Trentham had carried her up here and deposited her on the bed and left her almost without a word. He had asked if he could fetch her anything, but both his face and his voice had been without expression and it was clear he did not expect her to say yes.
Oh, she must not give in to the temptation to shift all the blame for her discomfort onto the occupants of Penderris Hall. They had taken her in and been remarkably kind to her. Lord Trentham had carried her all the way up from the beach, or very close to it. And his hands had been surprisingly gentle when he removed her boot. He had brought her that cool cloth and pressed it to her forehead just when the pain had been threatening to get beyond her control.
She must not dislike him.
She just wished he did not make her feel like a spoiled, pampered, petulant schoolgirl.
A maid distracted her after a while. She brought more tea and the news that a portmanteau of her ladyship’s belongings had been brought over from the village and was now in the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber.
The same maid helped her wash and change into a gown more suitable for evening. She brushed out Gwen’s hair and restyled it. And then she left the room and Gwen wondered what would happen next. She hoped desperately that she could remain in her room, that the maid would bring up a tray at dinnertime.
Her hopes were soon to be dashed, however.
A knock on her door was preceded by the appearance of Lord Trentham, looking large and actually rather splendid in a well-fitting tailed evening coat and other evening attire. He was also glowering. No, that was unfair. His face in repose rather naturally glowered, Gwen thought. He had the look of a fierce warrior. He looked as though the niceties of civilized living were unimportant to him.
“You are ready to come downstairs?” he asked
“Oh,” she said. “I would really prefer to stay here, Lord Trentham, and be no bother to anyone. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you would ask for a tray to be sent up?”
She smiled at him.
“I believe it would be too much trouble, ma’am,” he said. “I have been sent to bring you down.”
Gwen’s cheeks grew hot. How very mortifying! And what a vastly unmannerly answer. Could he not have phrased it differently? He might have told her that her company would be no bother to anyone. He might even have gone as far as to say that the duke and h
is guests were looking forward to her joining them.
He might have smiled.
He strode toward the bed, bent over her, and scooped her up.
Gwen set one arm about his neck and looked into his face even though it was disturbingly close. She could retain her manners even if he could not.
“What do you all do during your reunions?” she asked politely. “Reminisce about the wars?”
“That would be daft,” he said.
Was he always so rude? Or was it just that he resented her and could not even be civil to her? But he could have carried her to the village instead of bringing her here. Obviously he was such a strong giant that her weight was no object to him.
“You studiously avoid all mention of the wars, then?” she asked as he made his way downstairs with her.
“We suffered in this place,” he told her. “We healed here. We bared our souls to each other here. Leaving here was one of the hardest things we had had to do in a long while, perhaps in our whole lives. But it was necessary if our lives were ever to have meaning again. Once a year, though, we return to make ourselves whole once more, or to bolster ourselves with the illusion that we are whole.”
It was a lengthy speech for Lord Trentham. But he did not look at her as he spoke. His voice sounded fierce and resentful. It put her in the wrong again. It implied that she was a soft and pampered lady who could not possibly understand the sort of suffering he and his friends here had endured. Or the fact that that suffering never quite came to an end, that the sufferer was forever scarred by it.
She did understand.
When wounds healed, everything should be mended. The person concerned should be whole again. That seemed to make good sense. But she had not been mended when her leg knit together after being broken. Her leg had been poorly set. She would not have been whole even if her leg had healed perfectly, though. She had also lost her unborn child as a result of the fall. It might even be said that she had killed her child. And Vernon had never been the same after it had happened, though that did beg the question—the same as what?