Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hugh tugged at the branches, wincing as another broken bit found its way through his gloves.
Blood welled on the leather, but he shook it off and renewed his efforts.
Between the rain sluicing off the trees where the one had fallen and the dim light of the storm, all he could see clearly were Bailey’s legs sticking out from under the trunk.
“Bailey!” he tried for the third time in as many minutes. “Can you hear me?”
If the footman went so far as to groan, the sound was lost in the roaring of the wind.
Hugh turned his back on the broken limb and reached behind him with both hands to grasp it. Leaning away from the wind, he dug his boots into the ground and heaved.
The sudden movement nearly knocked him off his feet. He stumbled forward and turned to find that the branch had snapped loose. Now he could see Bailey’s pale face, scratched and bleeding as well. Hugh rushed back. “Bailey!”
The footman’s eyes fluttered open, blinked, then focused on Hugh. “What happened?”
“A birch came down,” Hugh supplied, breaking off a smaller limb that threatened the footman’s face. “I distinctly remember you shoving me out of the way. You may have saved my life.”
Bailey grimaced. “Just doing my job, sir.”
From the distance, voices called. Hugh couldn’t make out the words, but he shouted back. A few moments later, Georgie’s father, Mr. Foster and some of his assistants, and several of the villagers trotted into the clearing.
“Good to see you up and about, Vicar,” the colonel said, clapping Hugh on the back and nearly setting him to staggering again. “Looks as if you could use a hand.”
“Or your regiment,” Hugh agreed. “Any news of the boys?”
“Made their way to the house on their own,” the colonel told him. “Safe and sound. Georgie and the other duchesses are with them.”
Hugh sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.
Mr. Foster was studying the tree. “There and there,” he said, pointing. “We should be able to lift it off.”
Hugh held up a hand and knelt next to Bailey’s head. “If they lift, can you move?”
The footman’s face scrunched, as if he were testing his muscles. The tree jiggled. “I can. Heave away!”
It took several heaves, with Bailey wiggling a little farther each time, before the footman was free. His trousers were ripped, and Hugh couldn’t like the angle of one of his legs. Bailey was also panting from the effort. So were the men who had lifted the tree.
The colonel bent. “You shouldn’t walk on that, lad. We’ll get you up, but I’ll carry you.”
As the others gathered around the footman, Hugh took Georgie’s father aside. “Sir, with all due respect, that’s a heavy burden.”
“Do you take me for a weakling, sir?” he demanded, stiffening.
“Never,” Hugh assured him. “Nor do I take you for a fool. Bailey has to be one of the largest members of the staff serving Tyneham Manor. I propose the two of us take it in turns.”
The colonel nodded. “Acceptable proposal.”
If only all my proposals were so acceptable.
Hugh couldn’t help his smile as he turned to assist the others in getting Bailey on his feet.
Georgie’s father squatted, and the footman managed to drape his tall frame over the colonel’s shoulders.
Colonel Bancroft’s body strained the cut of his coat as he rose.
Bailey’s boots dangled within inches of the ground, but it would have to do.
With Mr. Foster on one side and one of the villagers on the other, they began their slow trek out of the woods.
The wind was abating a little as they came into the gardens, but once away from the trees, the rain sheeted down like a waterfall. The colonel’s face paled, and his breath came in gasps. Hugh moved nearer Georgie’s father.
“My turn, I believe.”
The colonel didn’t argue this time.
It took several of the men to transfer the footman to Hugh’s back.
He’d heard other ministers preach about carrying the burdens of others, but he’d never thought about the weight.
Not only was Bailey all muscle, he was stiff with cold and soaking wet.
Within moments, Hugh’s legs were trembling and his teeth were chattering.
“Let me down, Vicar,” Bailey pleaded. “You can’t do this.”
“We can, and we will,” Hugh countered, struggling up onto the flagstones of the terrace.
Ahead the door to the house opened, and light streamed out, welcoming them. The rest of the men stepped aside to let him stagger in with his burden. Other hands reached for Bailey, and Hugh sagged.
Then Georgie was there, holding him, wetting him with her tears, far warmer than the rain. “Oh, Hugh! I was so worried!”
He held her only a moment before stepping back. “I’m a sodden mess. I wouldn’t want to ruin your gown.”
“Who cares about a gown!” She all but threw herself at him again.
And Hugh held her, murmuring into the silky hair that stroked his cheek. Had he thought he had nothing to offer her? This he could do: provide comfort and support. Cheer her when she soared, catch her when she stumbled. With her wealth and position, she likely needed only that.
And it would be his joy and honor to provide it, for the rest of their lives, if she’d have him.
* * *
Morrigan watched as they stretched Bailey out on the game room carpet. Sir Winfred’s precious billiards table had been deemed too high to allow easy ministration. She tried not to notice the old fellow’s relief.
“Well, you’ve banged yourself up nicely,” she told Bailey, crouching to wipe at the weeping scratches across his face with a wetted washcloth.
“You know me, always doing my best at the task,” he joked. Then he winced as she must have hit a tender spot.
“Sorry,” Morrigan murmured.
“Looks like it’s broken,” Mr. Nestler, the manager of the Home Farm, said, straightening from where he’d been examining Bailey’s right leg.
She hadn’t realized it before now, but the village didn’t have its own physician.
Many of the women made poultices and helped with childbirth, but the farmers were the most likely to know how to set a broken bone.
Sir Winfred, who’d been standing between the group and the billiards table as if to guard it, shook his head. “That’s the end of your work at Tyneham Manor, then, my lad. Can’t have a lame footman.”
Bailey’s eyes widened.
Her Grace the First swept closer. “Nonsense. He isn’t a horse who must be put down, Sir Winfred. We’ll splint it carefully. I’m sure he’ll heal well and be back at his post in no time.” She smiled in Bailey’s direction.
He attempted to smile back, but it looked pained.
“You heard Her Grace,” Morrigan told him. “You’re to heal and get back to work.”
He eyed her a moment before twisting to look at the lead duchess. “Likely I’ll need a nurse, Your Grace, as I won’t be able to fetch and carry even for myself.”
Her mouth twitched. “I believe that can be arranged.”
“Imp,” Morrigan teased him as the duchess moved away. “You think I’m going to be your personal servant for however many weeks it takes to recover.”
He shrugged, then winced again. “I could always ask Dorcus.”
Morrigan threw the washcloth at him. “Don’t you dare!”
He caught her hand and held it to his chest. “I wouldn’t, Morrigan. You know you’re the only one for me.”
“Hush now,” she murmured, mindful of the many others around them. “They’ll be dosing you with laudanum soon for the pain. You wouldn’t want to say something you shouldn’t.”
“Like I love you? Like I’d be the happiest man on earth if you agreed to marry me?”
Morrigan stared at him. “What?”
He tugged on her hand. “I promised you a meeting in the picture gallery, where I planned to go down on bended knee, but I won’t be bending my legs for some time, and I don’t want to make you wait. Whatever I have is yours, Morrigan—heart, strength, hopes, future. We’d be better together. Marry me.”
She tossed her head though her pulse was starting to pound again. “I still haven’t heard a proposal now, have I? Someone tried to tell me what to do, and you know that never goes well.”
He groaned. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”
She bent and brushed her lips across his forehead. “Or the making of you. Yes, Tom, I’ll marry you. Someone has to, and I’m more likely to be able to manage your odd starts.”
“I’d want no one else to try,” he said. “Now give us a proper kiss, my love, before Mr. Nester sets the bone. I’ll need something pleasant to think of, and I’d rather it was you.”
* * *
Georgie sat beside Hugh on a wooden bench in the stillroom, clinging to his hand. She simply could not release him, not when she’d come so close to losing him.
Sophia bent and dabbed witch hazel on his scratches, and he grimaced. She sighed and stepped back. “I may distill these ointments, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at using them.” She handed Georgie the cloth. “Here, Georgie. You do it. Your touch is gentler than mine.”
Georgie had to release him then, but only so she could pivot and face him fully. Scratches marred his cheeks and chin, there was a gash in his nose, and Sophia had already cleaned and bandaged his battered hands.
“And you’re sure nothing’s broken or sprained?” she asked, searching his face.
“I’ll be sore for a few days,” he assured her. “And I’ll likely have bruises, but the weight of the tree missed me, thanks to Mr. Bailey.”
“And how is our other patient?” Claudia asked, sailing into the room, Anastasia at her heels. The pug came to settle at Hugh’s feet as if determined to keep him company.
“Doing better than expected,” Sophia told her. “Bailey?”
“Mr. Nester thinks it will be some weeks before our valiant footman can use his right leg again,” Claudia reported, “but I’m not sure Bailey cares at the moment. He and Morrigan are engaged.”
Georgie stopped anointing Hugh’s scrapes to grin at Claudia. “Oh, how marvelous!”
“They certainly think so.” Claudia rearranged some of the bottles cluttering Sophia’s work table, and the other duchess shook her head fondly.