Chapter Eighteen
Justin wondered if it was too early in the morning to pour himself a glass of brandy.
He had an inkling that Cordelia would react the way she did, but not the severity of it.
Try as he might, he simply could not go back to the mountains of work that required tackling.
He’d been attempting it for the past few hours.
He looked at the soil samples perched in their glass vials on his desk.
Peverill had taken a handful with him when he left this morning, and Justin hoped that the scientists would be able to give him good news on that front.
The nutrient levels in Hollyhead’s soil were the only front left, unfortunately.
Everything else in his life was promptly turning to ashes.
Strauss and Gilbert had written to him separately, both stern in their lettering.
In not so many words, they had told him to return to the firm soon or to not return at all.
They would be all too happy to buy him out and find another bachelor fresh out of school who they could coax to work fourteen-hour days.
Justin had half a mind to tell them to bugger off. Though the three of them were excellent business partners, there would be no love lost there.
But then what would he do? Consent to being a pauper duke?
Why not? a quiet voice asked him.
Justin scoffed at that. Why not? A million reasons. Because he had a life he had worked hard to build. Because London was his home. Because when he was a boy his life had been planned to the letter, and for all intents and purposes, it was a good life.
Because he wouldn’t betray Charles Nichols.
Justin checked the grandfather clock. It was nearly noon.
Reaching in a drawer of the desk he acquired his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco.
Better to get into the habit of smoking when he was flustered and utterly defeated rather than reaching for a bottle.
He knew what kind of destruction came of that; in fact, it was the fate that Alice and Charles had saved him from.
When Sam had mentioned his early memories of Hollyhead in the stable yard a few weeks ago, Justin had lied to him.
Of course, he remembered the place. How could he not?
Those early memories were tinged with the pain of hunger, the ache of a black eye.
In fact, some of the only memories he had of his father were of him swigging from a bottle of liquor.
Alice had been the one bright point in his life, making sure he got enough to eat and that he had fresh clothes.
When she told him she and Charles were taking him in, he did not understand at the time what kind of sacrifice they were making.
But he promised himself he would make it worth it—for them, at least.
“Justin!”
He stood so fast he hit his thighs on the desk. “Damn and blast!” he swore, tipping some burning tobacco onto the desk. “Yes!” he replied, brushing the tiny embers onto the carpet and crushing them with the heel of his boot.
Looking up he saw the top of Bea’s head peeking over the small mountains of paperwork.
He could hear her sniffling and silently swore to himself.
He’d decided since venturing into the company of women that he had a quota of one crying female per day.
Beyond that he felt rather drained and unsure of how to offer comfort.
“Bea?” he asked, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. “What is it, love?” Justin reckoned that Cordelia would have broken the news about being sent away.
“It’s… it’s,” she said, but broke into sobs. Her eyes were ringed in red and were puffy.
“Hold on,” Justin said, reaching in his jacket pocket. He produced a handkerchief and handed it to Bea, who promptly blew her nose into it.
“Better?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Portia and Lia… they’ve gone.”
“What?” he asked, doing his best to understand between the sobs.
“Gone!” she practically shouted. “They left on horseback.”
“Where?”
“They—they told me not to say…” she began, but Justin raised an eyebrow.
“The abandoned abbey,” she replied. “But it’s started to rain, you see. They were rushing off.”
Justin stood from the desk and adjusted his coat. “Right,” he said, snuffing out his pipe. “I’ll go after them.”
Bea was hot on his heels as he strode down the long hallway and into the foyer. Mrs. Norris was wringing her hands on her apron, staring out one of the windows. “A rider’s coming,” she said, her face taking on a yellowish color.
Rain had just started as Justin opened the door, squinting his eyes as he walked out into the stable yard. There was indeed a rider approaching, skirts billowing on either side. He saw that it was Portia. Her honey-colored hair was plastered to her face, her mouth set in a grimace.
“She’s riding recklessly fast!” Mrs. Norris observed, the pitch in her voice raising an octave as Portia drew closer.
“Help!” she shouted as she approached. She was riding Buttercup who whinnied loudly as they clattered onto the flagstones. The girl nearly crumpled off the dappled mare, yelping as Justin pulled her off. She weighed nothing in his arms.
“My shoulder!” she groaned. Setting Portia on her feet, Justin could see the hollow place where her shoulder had been pushed from the socket.
Portia practically screamed.
“I’ll fetch the doctor,” Mrs. Norris said.
“No, you won’t,” Justin replied, doing his best to maintain some measure of calm. “The rain is coming down harder and the longer this is out of the socket the more difficult it will be to put back in.”
Mrs. Norris raised her eyebrows, understanding what he was insinuating. She opened the door as the company, now drenched from the heavy rainfall, fell back into the foyer. “Bea,” Mrs. Norris said, “go and find Dolly. Tell her to send for the doctor and not to waste a moment’s time.”
Bea hesitated for a moment, but set off when Justin shouted, “Go!”
Portia lay on the floor, sobbing and clutching her arm.
Rivulets of water and sweat were pouring from her forehead.
Justin knew how painful a dislocated shoulder could be.
He’d done it one sweltering summer in India during routine training.
He’d helped set a few in his day, but it had been over seven years.
“Portia,” Justin said, keeping his voice low. “I need you to take a few deep breaths for me. The next part will be difficult, but I promise that it will bring near instant relief.”
She did not reply, instead holding her arm and nodding.
She’d gone a deathly pale color. Mrs. Norris and Justin got her into a sitting position on the floor.
“Mrs. Norris, remove your belt, please,” he said, and the old woman went to work undoing the buckles, the jangling of the keys and Portia’s ragged breathing echoing off the walls.
“Here you are,” she said, handing the belt to Justin.
Sighing, he held the belt up to Portia’s mouth. “Bite,” he told her. She needed no further instruction. Taking the bits of leather between her teeth, Portia closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.
Justin took her delicate arm in his hand, bending the elbow. “On the count of three,” he began, and Portia nodded her head. “One… two…”
On the two, Justin rotated her arm and felt the click as joint met bone again. Portia let out a ragged scream as her shoulder was popped back into place. Justin swallowed his own urge to yell and was heartily relieved when the joint appeared to be normal.
“My God,” Mrs. Norris said. “These girls will put me in an early grave at the rate they’re going!”
“Don’t…” Portia said. “You need to go.” Her dark-blue eyes focused on Justin’s. “You need to go; she’s trapped.”
“Blessed angels!” Mrs. Norris’s voice rang like a bell. “Trapped, you say?”
“I’m going after her,” Justin replied, throwing open the door so violently the frame shook. Buttercup was waiting sedately, blowing hard after a long run. Without ceremony, Justin swung up onto her back, well-practiced after the last few weeks of riding, and kicked her back into a gallop.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Norris was shouting, but the rain and wind drowned out her voice quite quickly. If Cordelia was trapped, he needed to get there, and fast.