Chapter Twelve
"He was on the roof. I told him...I told him to wait for the men from the village, but you know how he is, Lillian. You know how stubborn he can be when he has decided something must be done."
Lillian's mother stood in the entrance hall of their house, her face pale beneath the careful composure she was struggling to maintain.
Her hands were clasped tightly before her, the knuckles white, and there was a tremor in her voice that Lillian had never heard before; not through years of financial difficulties, not through the quiet disappointments of a life that had not turned out quite as expected, not through any of the small crises that had marked their modest existence.
This was different. This was fear.
"Where is he now?" Lillian asked, her own voice steadier than she felt. Behind her, she was acutely aware of Daniel's presence. A solid, silent figure who had followed her into the house without invitation and now stood just inside the doorway, uncertain of his place in this family drama.
"Upstairs. In the bedroom. Mr. Crawford is with him, the physician from the village. He came as quickly as he could, but..." Mrs. Whitcombe's composure cracked, just for a moment. "There was so much blood, Lillian. From his head. And the way he fell, the sound of it..."
"Mama." Lillian crossed the space between them and took her mother's hands, holding them firmly between her own. "Tell me what happened. From the beginning."
Mrs. Whitcombe drew a shaky breath. "The roof.
You know it has been leaking—the corner above the study, where the tiles came loose in the spring storms. Your father has been meaning to have it seen to for months, but the expense…
..And he thought perhaps he could manage it himself, just a temporary repair until we could afford to have the work done properly. "
"He climbed onto the roof himself?"
"This morning. Early, before I was awake.
I found his note on the breakfast table; he said he wanted to assess the damage, to see what materials would be needed.
" Mrs. Whitcombe's voice wavered. "He must have been up there for some time.
One of the beams had rotted through, apparently.
He stepped on it, and it gave way, and he. .."
She could not finish. Lillian saw the image her mother could not speak: her father falling, the sickening crack of impact, the blood pooling beneath his head on the hard ground below.
"How far did he fall?"
"Fifteen feet. Perhaps more. He struck the flagstones beside the kitchen garden." Mrs. Whitcombe closed her eyes. "The cook heard him cry out. She found him lying there, not moving. We thought, for a moment, we thought..."
"But he is alive."
"Yes. Yes, he is alive. He regained consciousness before Mr. Crawford arrived. He knew who I was, where he was. He even tried to apologise for frightening me." A ghost of a smile crossed Mrs. Whitcombe's face. "That is your father, is it not? Apologising for his own injury."
"That is indeed Father." Lillian squeezed her mother's hands once more, then released them. "I am going to him. Will you..."
She hesitated, glancing back at Daniel. He stood where she had left him, near the door, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes dark with concern.
He looked, Lillian thought, profoundly out of place; this tall, aristocratic figure in his fine riding clothes, standing in the modest entrance hall of a country gentleman's house, surrounded by worn carpet and faded wallpaper and all the small evidences of genteel poverty.
And yet he was here. He had ridden beside her, and he had followed her inside, and he showed no sign of leaving.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Whitcombe said, seeming to notice him for the first time. "Forgive me, I did not realis?e…...Lillian, you did not tell me you were…."
"His Grace was kind enough to escort me when we received the news," Lillian said quickly. "We were…...I was visiting Lady Rosanne when the message arrived."
It was not precisely a lie. It was simply an incomplete truth, and Lillian found she could not bring herself to offer more—not now, not with her father injured and her mother frightened and the memory of that kiss still burning on her lips like a brand.
"That was very good of you, Your Grace." Mrs. Whitcombe's voice had steadied slightly, the demands of social propriety providing a familiar framework within which she could compose herself. "I am sorry to have received you in such circumstances."
"Please do not concern yourself with my comfort, Mrs. Whitcombe." Daniel's voice was low, careful, stripped of its usual clipped formality. "I am here only to be of assistance, if assistance is wanted. If my presence is an intrusion, I shall leave at once."
"No, of course not. You are very welcome.
" Mrs. Whitcombe glanced at Lillian, and there was a question in her eyes, a mother's instinct perceiving something unspoken, but she did not voice it.
"Please, make yourself comfortable in the parlor.
I will have tea brought. Lillian, go to your father. He has been asking for you."
Lillian nodded and turned toward the stairs. As she passed Daniel, she let her hand brush against his; the briefest touch, hidden from her mother's view, but enough to convey what she could not say aloud.
Thank you for being here.
His fingers twitched toward hers, almost imperceptibly, and then she was past him, climbing the stairs toward her father's room.
***
The bedroom was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light, and it smelled of blood and medicine and the particular staleness of a sickroom. Mr. Crawford, the village physician, was bent over the bed, his hands busy with bandages and implements that Lillian could not quite see.
Her father lay very still against the pillows.
For a terrible moment, Lillian thought….But no. His chest was rising and falling, slowly but steadily, and as she stepped closer, his eyes opened and found her face.
"Lillian." His voice was thin, roughened by pain, but it was unmistakably his. "You came."
"Of course I came." She moved to the side of the bed, taking his hand in hers. His skin was cool and slightly clammy, but his grip was stronger than she had expected. "What were you thinking, Father? Climbing onto the roof at your age?"
"I was thinking that the study carpet has suffered quite enough water damage, and that my daughter should not have to read her books in a room that smells of mildew.
" He attempted a smile, though it turned into a grimace as some movement shifted his injuries.
"I confess the execution left something to be desired. "
"Miss Whitcombe." Mr. Crawford straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth.
He was a man of perhaps fifty, with a kind face and capable hands, and Lillian had known him since childhood.
He had attended her through childhood illnesses, had set her wrist when she fell from a tree at age seven, and he had been a steady presence through all the small medical crises of her life.
But she had never seen him look quite so grave.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He is fortunate to be alive." Crawford moved away from the bed, gesturing for Lillian to follow him to the corner of the room where they could speak without being overheard.
"The fall was severe. He has broken his leg—the left one, above the knee.
The bone did not pierce the skin, which is a mercy, but the break is significant.
It will need to be set properly if he is to walk again without a permanent limp. "
"Can you set it?"
"I can. I have." Crawford hesitated. "I have done my best, Miss Whitcombe.
But I must be honest with you; I am a country physician, not a specialist. In London, there are physicians who deal with nothing but bone injuries, who have tools and techniques that I do not possess.
If your father's leg does not heal correctly. .."
He did not need to finish the sentence. Lillian understood. A permanent limp. Chronic pain. The possibility that her father, an active man who had always taken pride in his daily walks, his management of the estate, his independence, might never move freely again.
"What else?" she asked, because Crawford's expression told her there was more.
"Cracked ribs. Two, perhaps three—it is difficult to tell without the sort of examination that would cause him more pain than it would relieve.
They will heal on their own, given time, but he must remain still.
Any exertion could cause one of the cracked ribs to break fully, and if that were to happen.
.." Crawford shook his head. "Internal injuries.
Punctured lung. I cannot predict the outcome. "
"And his head?"
"The blow was significant. He lost consciousness for some minutes, which is concerning.
I do not believe the skull is fractured, but head injuries are unpredictable.
He must be watched closely for the next several days; any confusion, any persistent headache, any difficulty with vision or speech, and you must send for me at once. "
Lillian absorbed this information, her mind cataloguing the details with the same practical efficiency she brought to household management. Broken leg; serious but survivable. Cracked ribs; dangerous if not properly managed. Head injury; unpredictable. All of it requiring rest, care, and time.
And expense. The thought surfaced unwelcome but undeniable.
Medical care was not free. Crawford's fees were reasonable, but they would mount over time; visits, medicines, bandages, all the small costs of extended illness.
And if her father could not manage the estate during his recovery, if the income suffered, if the debts that already pressed upon them grew heavier still. ..
"Thank you, Mr. Crawford." She kept her voice steady, refusing to let fear color her words. "What do you recommend for his immediate care?"