Chapter 3 #2
Felicity went up to bed tired after another purposeless and dull day.
She had avoided Grant as well as she could.
She supported Penelope by pretending enthusiasm for the series of games the poor hostess had substituted for the outdoor games that had been cancelled by the rain.
She did her best not to groan or fall asleep in the face of endless conversations about nothing at all.
The tiredness she claimed as her excuse to leave the drawing room was real. But it seemed to have faded into nothing by the time her maid had unlaced her and taken down her hair.
“Thank you, Carson. I shall read for a while,” she said. “Have an early night yourself. You’ve certainly earned it.”
She had brought books with her, but she had finished two of them and couldn’t settle to either of the others.
The attempt had eaten up perhaps half an hour.
She sat and wrote a description of her day in the letter she was writing to her sister Sophia, making it much funnier in writing than it had been in reality. Another half hour.
Outside of her room, she could hear the murmur of voices and other sounds of people passing her room.
The company must have broken up for the night.
Felicity walked to the window. The rain had stopped at long last, but the night was still overcast, and she could see nothing but a sprinkling of lights off to the left.
The stable block was there, with its loft accommodation for grooms. Otherwise, the world might be empty.
Felicity tried one of the rejected books, but it still failed to catch her attention.
She blamed Grant. And Justin. Too many unresolved problems turning somersaults in her head.
She could do with a cup of tea. “I wonder if someone is up in the kitchen.” Probably not.
But there was port in the library. She’d seen it there.
If she went down to the library, she could get herself a book to read.
The noises of people seeking their bedchambers had ceased, though there was always a risk of meeting someone who was seeking someone else’s bed.
What if she ran into Grant? Or some other amorous idiot with a yen for her dowry? But was she going to let fear rule her actions?
“No,” she said, decisively. She exchanged the light robe she was wearing for a warm gown that she could do up without assistance from her maid.
There. At least she would not be roaming the halls in night attire.
Into the pocket she’d had sewn into the gown, she put her small muff pistol.
Fully loaded, so Grant had better stay in his own room, and leave her alone!
She encountered no one as she walked through the hall and down the stairs. In the library, she lit a few candles from the one she’d brought to light her way. The port was right where she expected, and she poured herself a glass. Now for something to read.
She browsed along the shelves, with her glass in one hand and the candle in the other, stopping from time to time to put both down so she could examine a particular book.
Finally, she settled on The Abbess, by W.H.
Ireland, which she’d heard about. The library had all four volumes of the gothic romance.
I’ll read a chapter, and if I like it, I’ll take volumes 1 and 2 up to my room.
Felicity settled into a chair with her port, her candle and the first volume.
She was absorbed in the narrative when a sound attracted her attention and she looked up to see Robin Somerville just inside the door.
“Captain Somerville,” she said in greeting. “I have not seen much of you today.”
“Good evening, Lady Felicity. I saw the candle and wondered who was up,” he said, approaching closer. “Trouble sleeping?”
Felicity gave a sound of assent. “I thought I’d read for a while.”
“The port might help, too,” he teased, even as he walked to the decanters on the nearby table. “I was looking for brandy, though. Ah, this will do.” He lifted the decanter. “Yes, I’ll take this.”
Felicity put the book and her glass to one side and lifted her candle. Those marks on his arm were surely just shadows? She moved closer, then bent to examine them more closely. “That looks like blood. Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
Robin waved a dismissive hand. “A few scratches. Most of the blood isn’t mine.”
With her candle closer, she could see holes in his coat on the other shoulder from the bloodied arm. “You’ve been shot at. A poacher, Robin?”
“It is nothing, truly. Felicity, do you know where Penelope might keep dressings?”
“The housekeeper keeps them in a basket in the still room.” An errant thought had her asking, “Who needs a dressing?” It couldn’t be Justin. He must be safely tucked up in bed in his cottage, but the thought wouldn’t go away.
Robin turned his head. “I must get back to my patient,” he told her, ignoring the question.
It was Justin! Something about the way Robin avoided her eyes, made her certain. Or perhaps it was the way the restlessness that had affected her all evening suddenly coalesced into a pain in her heart. “What exactly are his injuries? I shall get what you need, and I am coming with you.”
“Nothing too serious. A bang on the head that knocked him out for a few minutes, but he was conscious when I left him. Several shallow bullet wounds, some with projectiles still in them. The co— the villain was using a blunderbuss, so one shot, many projectiles. He has had worse, Felicity. We both have. I can handle it.”
Hardly the point. Even a scratch could kill if the sufferer contracted wound fever, and bangs that knocked people out could also have dire consequences.
“So can I,” she said. “Remember Waterloo?”
She and Justin had volunteered to assist the wounded, and had spent nearly three days in the houses that had been turned into field hospitals for those streaming back into Brussels after the battle.
Hythe and Robin had been co-opted as messengers and spent the same days riding flat out across the landscape.
Robin narrowed his eyes at Felicity and must have seen how determined she was. “As you will.”
Felicity ran upstairs for shoes and a cloak, then searched the still room for the supplies she needed, which she put into a basket. What had they been doing that got them shot?
She met Robin in the kitchen, where he had put together another basket, with the brandy and some food for Justin’s larder.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” she said.
He opened the door that led to the stable-yard. “This way. Are you willing to ride pillion? I don’t want to wake any of the grooms.”
“I can.” Felicity had assumed they would walk, but a horse would be faster, at least one that was already saddled and bridled.
Robin had a horse hitched to a post just beyond the kitchen courtyard. He put the baskets on top of a wall. He then linked his hands for her foot, tossed her up, mounted and settled into the saddle behind her.
It was easy to collect the baskets from the top of the wall. The horse set off at a fast, smooth walk, and a few minutes later, she was dismounting outside the schoolhouse.
Justin was sitting on a chair in his bedchamber, dressed for riding, still in boots. He had his head tilted up and his eyes shut, but he lowered his chin and opened his eyes as they entered. She noted his wince. The movement had clearly hurt.
“I’ve brought reinforcements,” Robin said. “Lady Felicity, I’ll get you some hot water. Is there anything else you need?”
“More light,” Felicity ordered. “Justin, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two,” Justin said, correctly.
Good. “Show me all the places that hurt,” she told him, “and we’ll decide what needs attention first.”
Robin lit a lamp and all the candles on a five-branch candelabra. “Better?” he asked.
It was, and it wasn’t. Felicity could see much more clearly, it was true. What she could see was that Justin looked terrible.
“Should you be here?” Justin demanded.
“Should you be wounded?” she snapped back. “If you would prefer Robin to ride off and find a physician, say so. Otherwise, be quiet and bend your head so I can see where you banged it. We’ll deal with that first.”
He made no further protest, but bent his head.
She’d thought that would silence him, for she had put two and two together and was reasonably certain she’d arrived at four.
If they’d been attacked by someone up to something nefarious—a poacher, a smuggler, or a highwayman, for example—Robin would have taken his friend straight to a doctor.
That he didn’t, suggested he and Justin were the ones up to mischief. Her mind had leapt to the highwayman who had become the hero of the countryside. Justin and Robin were Captain Midnight!
Felicity found the bump, which was covered with blood and still seeping. He must have fallen on the sharp edge of a rock, for when she washed away the blood, she found a gash an inch and a half long.
Robin splashed brandy onto the gash, causing Justin to suppress an oath.
“I’m going to put in some stitches, because it is still bleeding,” Felicity said. She had come provided with a suitable needle and linen thread.
Justin gritted his teeth and neither moved nor complained while she set the stitches.
It got worse, though. Next, he removed his coat, waistcoat and shirt, his shoulder and arm were peppered with wounds.
Her mouth dried at the sight of his naked torso, but her physical reaction subsided as she examined and cleaned the wounds.
She needed to dig projectiles from nine of them.
Two of those also required stitches. All of them received the brandy treatment from Robin.
Felicity had no idea how much time had passed before every hurt had been treated and bandaged, but finally she looked up from Justin and fixed Robin with a stern glare. “Your turn,” she said.
Robin had been right. He had fewer wounds, and only one needed a piece of metal dug out of it.
Justin declared himself happy to administer the brandy, but he was in no fit state to do it.
He could barely keep his eyes open, and his hand was by no means steady.
Perhaps it was the headwound, or the impact of treating his other wounds.
Most likely, it was the full glass of brandy that Robin had handed him— “For internal application.”
Felicity splashed each of Robin’s wounds in his stead. “There,” she said at last. “Nothing serious, Robin.”
“Thank you, Felicity. I’ll see you home,” Robin offered.
Felicity studied Justin for a moment. He had succumbed to his weariness, but he did seem to be asleep rather than unconscious, for as she watched, he muttered something and shifted restlessly.
“I am staying here,” Felicity told him. “Justin has had a hit on the head. He should not be left alone tonight.”
“Are you certain?” Robin examined her face, as if trying to read it for doubt.
She had none. “I’ll give you a note for my maid, telling her to announce that I have a headache and will not be leaving my room. That should prevent scandal. As to the proprieties, even if Justin were not sound asleep, I have no concerns about my safety in his company.”
“No more you should have. He is a gentleman to the core. But I gather you realize that. There’d be no impropriety if you married him.”
“He would need to be willing,” Felicity pointed out.
No one had ever called Robin stupid. “Meaning that you are willing. He’s proud, Felicity, and he doesn’t feel good enough for you. But when the pair of you parted after Waterloo, it almost broke him. He was a sad man for a long time—perhaps ever since.”
“I did not want to part,” Felicity said. “But…” This was not right. She didn’t need to have this conversation with Robin, but with his stubborn, prideful friend. “I hope we can work things out, Robin. That is all I am willing to say to you, when it is Justin I need to talk with.”
Robin waved a hand toward the bed. “You will have him as a captive audience for a short time. I’m certain you shall make the most of it.” He flashed one of his mischievous grins. “Tie him to the bed if you have to.”
Felicity was just desperate enough to try it.