Rivals and Roses (The Vaughns #1)

Chapter 1

Oakham, Devon Summer 1813

A grown man of two and thirty did not gawk at something so pedestrian as the countryside. He most certainly did not press his nose against the carriage window to better see said view. Despite being quite guilty of the former, Arthur Vaughn contented himself that he hadn’t reverted to the latter—though that was due to the audience inside the stagecoach rather than any self-restraint on his part.

Having spent his life in what many considered the epicenter of elevated living, Arthur had heard the upper echelons bemoan the vast wasteland beyond London’s borders. Those wealthy enough to afford country houses did so out of an obligation to demonstrate their wealth and status and never because they harbored any affection for those desolate places.

And how wrong they were.

Hedgerows lined the road, forming a wall as sturdy and thick as stone; thankfully, the coach sat high enough that Arthur could peer over it into the fields beyond. Having read much about Devon, he hadn’t expected so many trees in a county famous for its moors—but then, Arthur wasn’t certain he could identify a moor if he saw it.

Clouds filled the sky overhead, but the gray didn’t diminish its loveliness; he’d never seen so many shades of green. London boasted many fine parks and gardens, and not one could compete with the richness of this untamed beauty.

Despite the noise of the carriage, everything seemed far too quiet, as though the air was a vast void. Though that wasn’t entirely true, for the breeze carried the scent of grass and soil, and above the rattling of the coach and the clop of the hooves, Arthur caught the distant call of sheep and trill of songbirds, both as unfamiliar a sound to his ear as a foreign tongue.

Though Arthur didn’t boast a broad knowledge of or affection for art, knowing people who claimed the creation or collection as favored pastimes had exposed him to paintings, and he’d seen his fair share of landscapes. However, artists were so overly generous in capturing the vibrancy of city life that he’d believed their depictions of the countryside were equally romanticized. Artists never captured the piles of muck in the streets left behind by both animals and humans, the grim fog blanketing the buildings, or the suffocating weight of people clogging the heart of the city. No, their paintbrushes depicted an idyllic version of city life, which was no more real than Camelot.

Never would he have imagined that the spark of life imbued in each landscape captured only a fraction of what nature possessed.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Jerking from his thoughts, Arthur turned his gaze from the countryside to his traveling companions. “That it is, Mr. Bacon. Had I known how captivating the country was, I would’ve left London far sooner.”

“I know precisely what you mean,” said the older gentleman, settling back into the squabs, though his gaze was fixed to the window. “When I arrived here some five and twenty years ago from Manchester, I knew I wanted to make Devon my home, and I haven’t been disappointed.”

Though Arthur didn’t wish to say it aloud, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were standing on a precipice; a strong, unshakeable feeling that this step would bring about great changes in his life for the better. This was the direction he ought to take. This was where he was supposed to be. The rightness of it settled into his heart—

“How happy we are that you’ve chosen to make Oakham your home,” added the gentleman’s daughter, jerking Arthur from his thoughts once again.

Clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders, Miss Bacon lifted her gaze from her lap to meet his, an inviting smile turning up the corners of her perfectly pink lips. Meticulously cultivated ringlets framed Miss Bacon’s face, their golden hue highlighting the rose in her cheek. Her skin flushed, but for all her shy affectations, she didn’t turn her gaze away from him, holding his eyes captive in hers as they begged him to speak.

Arthur tried to think of a response, but his tongue was determined to be a free agent unto itself. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his hands against his thighs and shifted in his seat. With a sharp tug, he pulled his hat firmer onto his head, and thankfully, he was saved from having to sort out an answer when her father replied.

“Yes, quite so, my dear,” said Mr. Bacon, his gaze still fixed on the passing landscape. “I think you’ll find Oakham a perfect town, Dr. Vaughn. A good place to call home.”

“And heaven knows we could use a proper physician,” added the young lady.

“Too right, my dear,” replied her father with a sigh in his tone.

Miss Bacon opened her mouth to speak, but the words were cut short by a shrill trumpet from the horses as the carriage jolted to a stop. As they’d been moving at a slow pace, it wasn’t too jarring, yet Miss Bacon shrieked, her arms flailing and knocking his hat from his head as she “fell” into Arthur’s lap .

“Good heavens! I do apologize,” she said whilst straightening—yet remaining plastered to him. Her father kept his seat quite easily, but his attention was turned to the window, trying to spy the reason for the disruption, and not on his daughter.

As she turned her gaze up to meet Arthur’s with a delicate blush on her cheeks, Miss Bacon’s coquettish eyes widened in her first genuine display of emotion when her gaze fell on his bald head. Drawing in a sharp breath, Arthur reached for the displaced hat and shoved it down tight once more. With a brush of his hand, he had the remnant curls along the back of his neck in place, which gave the illusion that more blond locks resided beneath the felted wool.

“It appears there’s been an accident up ahead,” said Mr. Bacon, peeking through the door, as the window’s catch was firmly stuck.

A few scant words, yet they jolted Arthur from his seat; he snatched his portmanteau and shouldered past Mr. Bacon, who was more concerned with gawking than being of use. As he stepped onto the road, Arthur’s gaze fell to the overturned cart blocking the path. Hurrying forward, his mind took inventory of his medicines and tools at hand. His full surgical kit was packed in his trunk; if needed, the driver could fetch it, but Arthur always kept the necessities close at hand. He sent out a silent prayer that they would be enough.

Weaving around the agitated horses that the coachman and guard were attempting to calm, Arthur stopped before the overturned cart. It stretched across the road, and large metal cans lay upended on the ground around it, the milk spilling from the opened lids. The vehicle jerked as its horse fought to pull itself upright. Men leapt from the top of the coach and hurried to calm the beast and free it from its harness, but Arthur ignored the chaos and searched for the driver.

“Over here,” shouted a woman, waving at him, and Arthur hurried to her side to find the poor fellow pinned beneath the edge of the cart. Taking stock of those about him, Arthur considered how best to free the fellow —

“Mr. Jenkins, here! And Mr. Abbott, there!” said the lady, pointing to a spot along the edge. With a few more shouts, she positioned the other gawkers along the vehicle. “You need to pull him free when the cart is lifted.”

Arthur stood there, blinking at her—and only just realized she’d meant him when she frowned.

“Sir, we require your assistance,” she repeated, which broke Arthur from his surprise.

Not bothering to dispute the lady’s plan, he set his valise aside and crouched beside her. The farmer groaned as the cart shifted again, and the lady fell to her knees beside the fellow, taking his hand in hers.

“We will have you free in no time, Mr. Evans. Hold tight,” she said. Then, casting her eyes to Arthur, she added, “Pull slowly at first. I need to ensure his foot isn’t caught before you drag him fully out, lest we cause more damage.”

And without waiting for Arthur to confirm that he understood, the lady relinquished her place at Mr. Evans’ head and lay down in the dirt, her face lowered to spy beneath the cart as she called to the men.

“Lift!” she cried. The cart shuddered and lifted, toppling over a remnant milk can as the men’s arms shook.

Giving Mr. Evans a careful tug, Arthur watched the lady for any sign, but she merely waved for him to continue, and Arthur dragged the farmer free. Before the cart was set back down, the lady leapt to her feet and ripped off her cloak.

“Over here, sir. We must get him off the ground,” said the lady as she placed the article on an open patch of road, beckoning for Arthur to follow. Another man came to his side, and together, they lifted poor Mr. Evans enough to get him atop the fabric.

From a first glance, Arthur couldn’t tell if the leg was broken, which was a good sign in and of itself. No unnatural bends or protruding bones was a miracle, but a long gash ran down Mr. Evans’ thigh, oozing far too much blood .

Snatching up his bag, Arthur knelt beside the lady and pressed his fingers to Mr. Evans’ pulse. “We need to get him into town.”

“Oakham is still some miles away by road. Our situation isn’t ideal, but we need to stop the bleeding here and now, and though I appreciate your assistance, sir, I do not need more people mucking about,” she said as she tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to the wound, though it did little good.

“He is a physician,” said Mr. Bacon, who held his handkerchief to his nose whilst staring at the broken and bleeding man.

“That is well and good,” replied the lady in a dry tone, “but as Mr. Evans isn’t suffering from a cough or fever, there’s little a physician can do at present. We require a surgeon.”

Then, without hesitation, she lifted the edge of her skirt and pulled it back to reveal her petticoats. Some of the menfolk blanched at that as readily as they did the blood and turned away. The lady tugged at the linen, and when it held firm, she scowled.

“Fetch me a knife!” she called, which set the men moving once more.

“I am trained as a surgeon-apothecary as well,” said Arthur.

The lady paused, and her gaze darted to Arthur. “You know what you’re about, then?”

“I studied in London, alongside some of the greatest doctors in England,” he replied, flicking open the clasp to his bag and digging inside for the vial of laudanum and the leather case that held his suturing kit.

One of the gawkers stepped forward, handing the lady a knife. She nodded and began slicing at her petticoats. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not instantly defer to your expertise. Plenty of inept people study at the feet of the greats, and I will not risk Mr. Evans’ future. If we do not get his wound cleaned and bound up quickly, he’ll die.”

Arthur’s brows rose at her dismissal, though the lady paid him no mind as she took a handful of the fabric and held it tightly to the wound. Their crowd was growing as another cart stopped because of the impediment, bringing with it more spectators, who watched with varying looks of horror and astonishment.

“We need to wash the wound. Does anyone have water?” she called to the crowd, which sent the others scurrying about. Arthur sat on his heels, staring at her.

Perhaps he ought to feel offended at her distrust, but he couldn’t help but acknowledge the wisdom in her statement. Simply because someone earned a degree, gained a title, or even spent a lifetime using his skills to earn his bread, it didn’t make him good at his work. There were many among his colleagues whom he wouldn’t trust to treat a living soul.

“I give you my word, madam, that I am a skilled doctor. I take my profession seriously and have done my utmost to excel at it,” he said, giving those words the weight they deserved. “I know what I’m about, and though I cannot guarantee Mr. Evans’ safety, I promise I will do everything in my power to heal him.”

The lady straightened, drawing in a sharp breath before nodding. “Then I defer to you, Doctor.”