Chapter 25
Vera nibbled her lower lip and glanced at the clock. She had stayed behind to help with Anne, who had a stomach ache. Vera suspected that it might have something to do with the vast quantities of cake the girl had eaten the day before.
The little girl roused her sympathies to a degree that Vera was inclined to give her anything she wanted. This was an excellent object lesson that doing so wouldn’t be beneficial for Anne; Vera would have to learn to tell her “no” and “that’s enough.”
Stephen had gone to visit Mr. Davis, who lived miles away. The man had a particularly stubborn lung condition that wasn’t responding well to medicine. Still, Stephen had left in the early afternoon and it was now full dark.
“He should be back by now,” Vera murmured for perhaps the third time.
Jacqueline said, “I’m sure he’s fine. You forget that he traipsed all over India by himself. I daresay the back alleys of Calcutta are far more dangerous than the countryside of Devon.”
“But the weather.” Vera glanced at the rain-lashed windows.
“He grew up here; he’s used to it. Besides, he has the carriage and his coat.”
There was a frantic knocking at the front door. Vera stood—she recognized the cadence of that knock, though she had no idea who caused it. There was an emergency, one that required a doctor.
“Oh, Vera, no,” Jacqueline chided. “Not in this weather.”
Vera was already striding toward the hall. She wasn’t a physician; she was no Stephen, but she could still do something to help. She’d learned quite a bit while under his tutelage these past months.
“Please,” a man was saying when she reached the hallway. “She needs help.”
“I’m sorry.” Roland’s tone was firm. “The doctor is out.”
“Roland, what is it? Perhaps I can help.”
Roland didn’t dare contradict her, but his frown said enough.
A young man dripped water onto the flagstones of the entry. He gripped his sodden hat in his hands, unintentionally wringing the water out onto the floor.
“It’s my wife, miss. She fell. Hit her head. My sister’s with her, but please, come quick. She’s not right.”
A chill rolled down Vera’s back; her stomach clenched.
Head wounds were notoriously tricky. They could be nothing—no more than rest and a regimen of waking the patient—or they could be finicky and fatal.
There wasn’t anything Vera could do if it was the latter.
Still, there was a patient’s husband standing before her, asking for her help. She wasn’t going to turn him away.
Vera turned to Jacqueline, who’d followed her out into the hallway.
The woman frowned at Vera’s resolute expression and shook her head. “Very well, but take a footman with you.”
“My lady, Lord Winthrop has the carriage,” Roland protested.
“We have two, do we not?”
“Yes, my lady, but the curricle isn’t sturdy enough to navigate the roads in this weather. They’ll be thrown into a ditch.”
Vera nodded brusquely, already pulling on the thick gloves and cloak she kept hanging in the entryway for occasions such as these. “That’s fine, Roland. We’ll take the cart.”
“You’ll be soaked through.”
“It will make my bath all the more enjoyable when I return, then,” she said lightly.
Vera was bluffing—she didn’t relish the thought of being cold and drenched any more than the next person, but she sensed that if she showed an ounce of weakness, Jacqueline or Roland might forbid her from leaving at all.
The terror in this young man’s eyes as he watched them debate transportation affected her greatly. He kept glancing toward the door as if he longed to run back home to his wife. What was Vera going to tell him—that he’d ridden all this way, only for her to be afraid of a bit of rain?
“Very well.” The baroness nodded. “Have Mr. Frederick prepare the cart.”
Vera picked up her basket and nodded at the man. “Lead the way.”
Hours later, Vera stood and stretched, pressing a hand to the dull throbbing at her lower back. Mrs. Crawford was going to be fine, as far as she could tell. The woman had fallen on a freshly washed floor and hit her head on the corner of the kitchen table on her way down.
Head wounds bled like the dickens—no wonder the woman’s husband had thought she was dying. It didn’t help that she’d lain there stunned for a few moments before she rose—by the time she realized she was bleeding, a small puddle had formed.
“I fainted all over again, didn’t I?” she’d said, sheepishly, holding a towel to her head. “Never liked the sight of blood. It makes me queasy.”
“I was much the same before I took this position,” Vera admitted with a smile. “I barely notice it now—it’s like wiping a child’s nose to me.”
“Ugh, my Michael’s nose might be worse than this scratch, that’s for sure. At least in winter.”
“It’s amazing such small creatures can create such a great mess.”
“Isn’t that always the way, though?”
In the end, Mrs. Crawford needed only three small stitches.
It was Vera’s first time doing the procedure all on her own from start to finish—she was used to Stephen holding a lamp close and looming over her, humming his suggestions or approval as she went.
Mr. Crawford had the dubious honor of holding the lamp—he looked the other way the entire time, gulping like he was about to be sick upon the floor.
Vera smiled and shook her head. It seemed that it was the way of things—normally strong men couldn’t handle seeing their dear wives in any sort of distress. But Mrs. Crawford had swabbed the floor clean before they arrived with one hand while the other clamped the rag to her head.
“Are you sure you won’t stay the night?” the woman offered again with a kind smile. “It’s no trouble to rouse Michael. Or you can have our bed, and we’ll sleep in the sitting room.”
Calling it a sitting room was being generous—there was one small sofa and two wooden chairs near the front window. Still, Vera was touched by her words. Mr. and Mrs. Crawford had humble means but offered what they had, freely. It was a stark comparison to Vera’s own mother and father.
“Thank you for the kind offer, but if I’m not home within the hour, the baroness will send a search party after me. I’d best be going. Besides, I think the rain’s about to let up.”
It was a lie and they both knew it. If anything, the storm had gained momentum. Much like an idiot who kept ordering rounds of ale at the pub, it was getting louder and more boisterous as the night went on. Still, Vera thought she saw a slight flicker of relief in the woman’s eyes.
“And don’t forget—neither you nor Mr. Crawford will be sleeping well tonight,” she added.
She turned to the husband. “You’d better not go to bed at all—watch the clock and wake her every hour on the hour.
Ask her a few basic questions. If you cannot wake her, or if she loses her senses, come and get the doctor. I’m sure he’ll be home by then.”
Mr. Crawford nodded with wide eyes.
Vera smiled at his serious expression. “I don’t expect any complications. Everything looks fine.”
She had no doubt Mr. Crawford would fulfill her orders to the letter.
It had been all she could do to make him go and change into dry clothes once they arrived at his house.
Vera smiled wider and did her best not to show how wet and cold she was.
The thought of a warm bath was all that had kept her going the entire evening.
That and soup. Oh, how she hoped Mrs. Portence had saved some soup!
Even the footman had fared better than she had—he had a long, oilskin coat that he buttoned up to his chin. Not that she could resent the fellow for it—this was her first storm on the outside of a carriage, and he’d weathered many. She could hardly begrudge him better preparation.
The baroness had chosen him for this task on purpose—Mr. Frederick was fifty if he was a day, and though his figure was still large and imposing, he had grey around his temples and a wife and four children that he loved dearly.
He was protection and as close to a chaperone as the baroness had managed, considering the conditions.
“Are you ready, Mr. Frederick?” She smiled brightly and tried not to show how little she looked forward to the miles-long journey back to Bertforth House.
Mr. Frederick nodded and led her outside, where he’d already hitched the horses. Vera was thankful they were exceedingly docile, as thunder rolled like a great bass drum across the countryside, punctuated by the sharp crack of lightning and the banshee howling of the wind.
The horses were drenched, the poor things. They stood, heads lowered against the gale. Vera couldn’t help the sympathy that panged her heart. Mr. Frederick helped Vera up and took the spot next to her. She gathered her sodden woolen cloak around her and tried to ignore how cold she was.
Vera smiled to herself. How different things were now than when she’d started as Stephen’s assistant! Just this very night, she’d neatly stitched a woman’s head, all by herself. Now she was headed home in a terrible gale. She’d gained knowledge these past weeks—knowledge and courage.
Mr. Frederick gently slapped the wet reins against the wetter horses and pointed them toward home.