Chapter 13
Thirteen
Eleanor
“Greybourne!” Eleanor shrieked, lifting her damnable narrow skirts and racing for the weedy thicket where the professor had disappeared so abruptly.
On the river below, a burly man in a floppy hat hastily pushed a rowboat from shore with an oar. She knew she must remember details, but her entire world had exploded when the indomitable baron had fallen. She could not think clearly while Greybourne lay injured—or possibly dead—in the brambles.
She sprinted down the lane and shoved through the overgrown weeds and gorse, heart pounding until she thought she must faint.
By the time she found him, he was returning to his knees, holding his head.
Offering prayers to the heavens, El lent him a steadying hand, and he actually accepted it.
It was a warm June day and neither of them wore gloves.
The contact of flesh to flesh was so electric, she nearly dropped him.
Ignoring her unexpected reaction, she let his big hand engulf hers and clung hard so he might shift to his feet.
Thorns tore at their clothing as they staggered back to the footpath.
She shut out the obscenities he muttered under his breath.
She’d heard them all before. What mattered was that he was alive to curse, that his hand was warm and strong in hers.
She was tall for a woman. Greybourne was half a head taller and a great deal wider and heavier. She could not have carried him. But once on his feet, he seemed stable enough.
She knew better than to suggest returning to the house where he might sit and let her examine his head. She simply steered him that way while he was still dizzy, giving him no opportunity to argue.
Andrew limped hurriedly down the lane to offer his shoulder. Unfortunately, that simply reminded the stubborn fool that he was holding her hand. He dropped it and stumbled forward without help, muttering louder and rubbing his head.
“Shall I fetch Dr. Walker?” Andrew fell behind to ask her, already having learned enough of his noble lordship’s habits to know better than to ask him.
“Yes, do, and Mr. Russell. Grey was hit from behind. I saw a boat push off. What if that was Mr. Comfrey’s killer? He might be hiding hereabouts!” Eleanor was very afraid this meant they shouldn’t sign the bank’s lease. What kind of criminal refuge had Gravesyde become?
Andrew hobbled off for the curricle as quickly as he could, leaving Eleanor to steer Greybourne inside, through the parlor, and to a kitchen chair.
Since Andrew had been with her, she’d left her maid at the inn.
Peg wouldn’t have brought bandages or had any notion of what to do either. Washing the wound seemed practical.
Greybourne brushed impatiently at El’s hand when she tried to examine his poor head. “It’s no more than a lump. The wretch will be well gone. I should have been wearing my hat.”
“There is a bump the size of a goose egg pushing up through all that thick mane of yours, my lord. And a gash that needs tending, although any infection daring to reach your thick skull will have a hard time of it.” Eleanor had studied the fireplace stove earlier.
It was crude, but she was used to crude.
She threw in kindling some workman must have gathered and set it alight, planning on heating water to clean the wound and preparing tea.
Until she turned to fill the kettle at the pump and remembered. “Is the well spring-fed?” She’d made that up to please Andrew but she had no real idea how wells worked.
“Most likely from the river but safe enough, especially if you boil the water. I do not expect there to be tea hereabouts, if that’s what you’re after.
You should have gone with Andrew.” He staggered to his feet again.
“There is a reason this is the tallest house in these parts, when all else only have lofts.”
Her teacher parents had seen to it that El was very well educated. Her mind made the same leaps as his and she grasped his point instantly. “For the river view? Smugglers? Is that likely this far from the coast?” She followed on his heels, expecting him to topple at any moment.
“Thieves, smugglers, pirates, if you will. There is most likely a hiding place for the goods in the cellar. We have not explored there.” He headed back out the door.
“I cannot carry you out of a cellar if you collapse there! Instead of rushing off like a senseless hare, sit down and let us discuss this like sensible people, while waiting for Mr. Russell. What kind of goods would anyone steal on that pathetic excuse of a stream?”
She caught his elbow and tugged him back to the parlor—where they’d laid out poor Mr. Comfrey just two days ago. She supposed if she must learn to live in a village where so many people died, she must learn to deal with their memories. “Do you think Comfrey discovered them?”
He grudgingly lowered himself to the leather couch. His head must truly be pounding for him to give in so easily. “Or he was one of them,” he said crossly. “So far, his actions do not strike me as that of an honest man.”
“Mr. Bosworth is in a better position to determine that. Once we settle in, Andrew might ask about to see who else may have rented from Comfrey.”
“Settle in?” He turned to glare at her, winced, and rested his brow on his hand. “You mean to stay after discovering this may be a smuggler’s refuge?”
“You know perfectly well you wish to stay and solve the mystery. Is there a better accommodation?” El took the seat beside him and demurely crossed her hands in her lap, longing to clean his wound and bandage his poor head.
He’d cut off her hands at the elbow if she tried. Or escape while she boiled water.
“The manor, and I’m not about to stay in that place. It’s worse than an inn, with people coming and going and dressing for dinner and all that.” He sank back against the seat, finally resting his head there.
“You are willing to sacrifice comfort for privacy? Or for the mystery?” She couldn’t help asking. She’d been his assistant for a year, but she knew nothing of his private life, just his often irrational propensities.
“There is a story here,” he admitted. “Irrelevant to my book. But I take objection to having my head stove in. I want the scoundrel caught.”
El bit back a snort at his lordship’s priorities. He didn’t show interest in a stranger’s demise, but let peril descend on his own head. . .
A rattle in the yard caused her to glance out the window.
A farm cart drove up, driven by an elegantly-dressed African gentleman and the foreign-looking lady physician, carrying an infant.
They made an intriguing pair. Eleanor hadn’t seen many foreigners and thought it fascinating this small village had two.
“Dr. Walker is here. I’ll be right back. ”
Handing her plump infant to the darker-skinned driver, Dr. Walker climbed down on her own. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she muttered, hurrying inside with her black bag.
Eleanor held out her arms for the kicking bundle creating difficulty for the driver’s hold on the reins. “Allow me, please. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Eleanor Leonard, assistant to Professor Greybourne. Thank you for coming so swiftly.”
“Daniel Walker. We live around the corner and were just on our way to the manor when your brother came by. We sent him after Rafe.” His accent sounded American as he handed over the sturdy babe.
“I want to take a look at the path where the professor was hit. Our home is not far from the river, and I’ve occasionally noticed activity on that bridge on nights I come home late.
I thought they were fishing. It may be time to investigate. ”
A man with a purpose, he tied up his pony and hurried down the lane, leaving Eleanor with the burbling infant. Grinning at his one-toothed gibberish, she carried him inside.
Grey couldn’t shout at a lady doctor, El noted, hiding a smile. He meekly bent over so Dr. Walker could examine his head.
“I’ll need to shave around this a little, apply alcohol and a bandage.” The Hindu lady rummaged in her bag.
“Certainly not,” Grey objected, abruptly standing. “I will not go about like wounded infantry. I wish to examine the area where the deuced brigand hid.”
He stopped and stared as El blocked his exit, kicking infant in arms. “Mr. Walker has gone to examine the area,” she informed him politely, not removing herself from his path.
“Sit down and let Dr. Walker at least clean the wound. I truly do not wish to find your corpse expired in the cellar. I do not even wish to enter said cellar.”
She stepped forward.
He stepped back, still staring at the happy babe.
“His name is Moses.” Dr. Walker removed alcohol and bandages from her bag and set them on the floor since there was no table. “He is learning to walk and can be dangerous. You may hold him while Miss Leonard makes you some nice hot tea.”
“We have no tea,” El said with regret. “We have not signed a lease, so have not stocked supplies.” She tickled the babe’s brown toes, making him giggle. She liked children. They were so easy-going and simple.
Of course, compared to Grey, grown men were easy-going and simple.
The miraculous physician produced a tin canister from her satchel. “I carry this for emergencies.”
“A magic bag,” El crowed in delight. She shoved Moses at her employer, forcing the grouch to extend his arms and sit down until he learned to grip the wriggling bundle.
Grey appeared to have been struck by lightning.
He froze, finally letting the physician tend his wound, while he gingerly held his burden and studied the child as if he’d never seen one.
Perhaps he hadn’t. El couldn’t remember him ever visiting family.
He may have sprouted from under a cabbage leaf, fully grown, for all she knew.