Chapter Seven #2
“Lord Thomas,” Mrs. Frampton prompted with a reproachful look in her direction.
Rynn nodded and headed out the door. It required every bit of self-control she possessed to leave without finding out more.
If Ellen wasn’t mistaken, if a woman had really been found dead in Ladies’ Cove, it could have nothing to do with the Merrow or what had befallen the boat or its occupants, Rynn told herself stoutly as she hurried up the ornate front staircase to her patient’s room.
But her nerves were on edge, and that, coupled with the ache in her heart, made it hard to summon the smiles required as a chorus of “Happy Stephen’s Day” followed her.
A footman carried silver chafing dishes along to the dining room.
The housemaids bustled about with brooms and cloths cleaning up after last night’s celebration and preparing for the night’s festivities, which everyone had long looked forward to.
The garlands festooning the staircase and the mistletoe suspended from the huge chandelier that hung over the front hall twisted the knife still more by reminding her of how happy she had been at this time yesterday.
She’d hummed carols as she’d gone about her work, giddy with joy at the knowledge that the war was over, that Donal was home, that it was Christmas Day and they, all of them here in Ballyshannon Court and Bundoran and Ireland and all over the world, could freely celebrate for the first time in four years.
And then . . . and then—
The toast weighed like lead in her stomach as reality came crashing down.
So preoccupied was she with pushing the resulting tsunami of grief away that she entered the big back bedroom that their most
illustrious patient had claimed—it was the one he was accustomed to using from childhood—with the quickest of perfunctory
knocks, only to stop short just inside the door. Although Lord Thomas usually required assistance in such matters, he’d managed
to get himself up, dressed and into his wheelchair and was at that moment in the process of rolling himself toward the door.
Like her, he stopped short.
“There you are! I was growing concerned. Are you all right?” His eyes, a somber gray blue, moved over her anxiously.
Fair-haired and pale skinned, he was about six feet tall—she knew because lately they’d been getting him up on crutches for part of the day—and painfully thin.
At present his face was so gaunt that there were hollows in his cheeks and his bones seemed determined to press through his flesh, but she knew from the family photograph he kept beside the bed that before the war had left him in his present state he’d been sturdily built and quite handsome.
His exposure to mustard gas at Ypres the year before had weakened his lungs, leaving him with a chronic cough and labored breathing if he exerted himself to any degree at all.
But the real injury had been to his legs and spine.
An exploding shell on that same battlefield had peppered him with shrapnel.
By the time he was transferred to Ballyshannon Court in response to the fear that the Spanish flu then sweeping the military base where he was hospitalized would be too much for his weakened lungs and carry him off, the consensus had been that, aged only twenty-four and after two unsuccessful operations, he would never walk again.
Lately, though, thanks to Dr. Lowry’s dogged insistence on continuing treatment despite the dispiriting diagnosis and her own diligent efforts as his nurse, it seemed that maybe he would, after all.
“Why would you ask me that?” She was so rattled by then that the question was sharper than it should have been. The room was
warm thanks to the embers that glowed in the hearth, but she felt cold to the bone.
“Close the door,” he instructed, rolling forward.
Rynn realized she was still standing in the doorway with the door wide open to the hall and anyone who might be passing by.
She closed it carefully and, tray in hand, started across the room.
“I was sitting at my window last night, watching the storm clouds roll in over the mountains and waiting for you to bring
me my medicine and I saw you running through the garden. And not long after that, I heard gunfire.”
His eyes were fastened on her face.
Rynn’s stomach sank. Had all the world and its brother heard?
Why had she not thought of that, thought of the danger it might pose?
And she’d never, not with him, not with any of her patients, neglected to take proper care of them, including bringing their medicine on schedule.
And for her to miss the nightly dose for Lord Thomas, whose sleep was interrupted by the most intense coughing spells because of his damaged lungs, how to explain that?
“One of the nurses also mentioned hearing gunfire last night, but she lives in the village. With all the noise you lot were
making, I’m surprised you heard a thing.” Keep it light, she told herself. And deflect. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
“I told you, I was up here. As merry as everyone downstairs was, I doubt the other chaps did.”
Instead of attempting to lie—Donal had spent most of a lifetime telling her that she was beyond terrible at it because her
face telegraphed her every thought—she kept her back to him as she set the tray down on the table in front of the window.
A glance through the rain-streaked panes confirmed it: he would have had a perfect view of her running through the kitchen
garden. Fortunately, the west wing of the house would have prevented him from seeing her turn toward the cliffs, or anything
after that.
That didn’t stop her heart from thumping.
Casting a quick glance at him—he’d swiveled in his chair to face her—she managed a smile and assumed a rallying tone. “Look
at you! You got out of bed and got dressed and got into your chair all by yourself. Soon you’ll have no more need of me at
all.”
“I’m not a child, you know. I can do what I must.” There was no answering smile from him. “So, what happened? Why were you
running? Where were you going?”