Chapter Twelve #2
"Rest. Complete rest. He must not attempt to move the leg under any circumstances.
I have taken care of it, but it is temporary.
I will return tomorrow with proper materials to create a more permanent support.
" Crawford reached into his bag and produced a small bottle.
"Laudanum, for the pain. A few drops in water, no more than three times daily. It will help him sleep."
"And the other injuries?"
"Keep the ribs bound—I will show your mother how to change the bandages. For the head, there is little to be done but watch and wait." He paused, his kind face creased with sympathy. "I am sorry, Miss Whitcombe. I wish I could offer you more certainty."
"You have done everything you can. We are grateful."
Crawford departed with promises to return the following morning, and Lillian was left alone with her father in the dim, medicinal-smelling room.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking his hand once more. His eyes had closed while she spoke with Crawford, but they opened again at her touch.
"How bad is it?" he asked. "And please do not lie to me, Lillian. I am injured, not feeble-minded."
"Your leg is broken. Your ribs are cracked. You struck your head rather harder than is advisable."
"I gathered as much from the pain." He shifted slightly on the pillows, wincing. "And the prognosis?"
"Rest. Time. No climbing onto roofs for the foreseeable future."
"That last should not be difficult to manage." He attempted another smile. "I confess the experience has rather dampened my enthusiasm for home repairs."
"I should hope so." Lillian squeezed his hand, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "You frightened us, Father. You frightened Mother terribly."
"I know. I am sorry for that. I thought..." He sighed, a sound that turned into a cough, which turned into a grimace of pain. "I thought I could manage it. I used to be able to manage such things. I forget, sometimes, that I am no longer the young man I once was."
"You are not old."
"I am older than I feel. And apparently more fragile.
" His eyes found hers, and Lillian saw the fear beneath his characteristic humor; the awareness of mortality that a brush with death inevitably brings.
"I might have died, Lillian. Lying on those flagstones, looking up at the sky, I thought… I truly thought..."
"But you did not. You are here. You are alive."
"Yes." His hand tightened on hers. "Yes, I am. And I intend to remain so, if only to spare your mother the inconvenience of managing without me."
Lillian laughed despite herself; a wet, choked sound that was half sob. "She would be lost without you."
"She would manage. Your mother is stronger than she appears.
" He studied her face with the keen perception that injury had not dulled.
"But enough about me. Why was the Duke of Wyntham escorting you home, Lillian?
And do not tell me you were merely visiting Lady Rosanne.
I may be bedridden, but I am not blind."
"Father..."
"I heard your mother talking to him moments ago. A duke does not escort a country girl, unless..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "What is happening between the duke and you, Lillian?"
"Nothing." The word came out too quickly, too defensively. "We are….He is Rosanne's brother. I see him when I visit. That is all."
"That is not all. I have been managing people for thirty years, child. I know when someone is hiding something." He reached up with his free hand and touched her cheek. "You are flushed. Your eyes are too bright. And there is something in your expression that I have never seen before."
"I am merely worried about you."
"You are worried about me, yes. But that is not what I see." He let his hand fall back to the bed, his expression softening. "I will not press you. Whatever is happening, or not happening, between the duke and you, it is your business. But Lillian…...Be careful."
"Careful?"
"He is a duke. You are a gentleman's daughter of modest means. The world does not look kindly on such mismatches, however the hearts involved may feel."
"There is no mismatch. There is nothing."
"Lillian." His voice was gentle but firm. "I am not asking you to explain. I am only asking you to be careful. You have always led with your heart, even when your head counseled otherwise. It is one of your finest qualities, but it can also be your greatest vulnerability."
Lillian could not answer. The words caught in her throat, tangled with the memory of Daniel's lips on hers, his hand at the nape of her neck, his voice rough with wonder as he called her remarkable.
"Rest now," she said instead. "Mr. Crawford said you must sleep."
"The privilege of the infirm." Her father's eyes were already growing heavy, the exhaustion of pain and shock catching up with him at last. "Will you stay?"
"I will stay."
She remained at his bedside as his breathing slowed and deepened into sleep. And she thought about what he had said; about leading with her heart, about mismatches and careful calculation, about the difference between what she felt and what the world would allow.
She thought about Daniel, waiting downstairs in the parlor, out of place and awkward and utterly unwilling to leave.
And she thought, with a clarity that surprised her, that perhaps some things were worth the risk.
***
Two hours passed before Lillian emerged from her father's room.
She had sat with him while he slept, watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the labored rhythm of his breathing.
The laudanum had done its work, his face was peaceful now, the lines of pain smoothed away by drug-induced rest, but Lillian could not quite shake the image of how he had looked when she first entered the room: pale, diminished, somehow smaller than the vigorous man who had raised her.
He would recover. Crawford had said so, and Crawford was a competent physician despite his limitations. But recovery would take time, and care, and resources that Lillian was not certain they possessed.
She descended the stairs slowly, her mind already turning to the practical considerations that awaited: the household accounts, the medical expenses, the leak in the roof that had caused this disaster and still remained unfixed.
Her mother would need support. The servants would need direction.
And someone would have to write to their creditors, explain the situation, request patience with payments that would inevitably be delayed.
She was so absorbed in these thoughts that she almost forgot Daniel was still there.
But he was. Sitting in the parlor exactly where her mother had left him, a cup of cold tea untouched on the table before him, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that did not quite conceal the tension in his shoulders.
He rose as she entered, and for a moment they simply looked at each other across the modest room.
"How is he?" Daniel asked.
"Sleeping. The laudanum helped." Lillian moved to the window, looking out at the garden where, only hours before, her father had lain bleeding on the flagstones.
The stones had been cleaned, she noticed.
Someone had scrubbed away the evidence. "Mr. Crawford says he will recover, given time and rest."
"That is good news."
"Yes." She did not turn to face him. She was afraid of what she might say if she did—afraid of the emotions that were pressing against her chest, demanding release. "You do not have to stay, Your Grace. You have done more than enough already."
"I will stay as long as you wish me to."
"My mother will talk. The servants will talk. By tomorrow, the entire county will know that the Duke of Wyntham spent an afternoon in our parlor."
"Let them talk."
Now she did turn, surprised by the quiet vehemence in his voice. Daniel was standing where she had left him, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression fierce with something that looked almost like defiance.
"This morning," he said slowly, "in the folly, I kissed you. And then I told you that whatever I felt could not lead anywhere good. Do you remember?"
"I remember."
"I was wrong." He took a step toward her, then another, closing the distance between them with deliberate intent.
"I have spent my entire life being wrong about what matters.
I have told myself that control is safety, that distance is protection, that the only way to avoid being destroyed by emotion is to refuse to feel at all.
And then you..." He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"You appeared with your muddy hems and your practical observations, and you proceeded to dismantle every lie I have ever told myself. "
"Daniel..."
"Let me finish. Please." He was close now; close enough that she could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat, the fine lines of tension around his eyes.
"I do not know what this is. I do not know where it leads or what it means.
But I know that when I received word of your father's accident, my only thought was to be beside you.
I know that sitting in this parlor for the past two hours, waiting, not knowing if you were all right.
.." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly.
"It was worse than anything I have ever experienced. Worse than any fear I have ever known."
Lillian felt her eyes sting with tears she refused to shed. "You barely know me."
"I know enough. I know that you are the first person in all those years who has made me want to feel something. I know that when I am with you, the walls I have built feel less like protection and more like prison. I know that you see me, truly see me, in a way that no one else ever has."
"That does not change the reality of our circumstances."
"No. It does not." He reached out, slowly, and took her hand in his. His fingers were warm, his grip gentle but secure. "But perhaps the circumstances are not as immutable as we have been taught to believe."