Chapter Seven
Oliver stared at Emily, her curls a dark brown from the melting snow, her face flushed from the sudden heat.
At least her lips held colour now—small mercies.
Now they were closeted in this farmhouse, he had doubts about his plan.
The prospect of having his arm mauled by a farmhand who knew how to set animal bones made him feel as though his nerves were on fire.
“Are you all right?” Emily asked, her brows drawing together. There was still a hint of dried blood on the side of her face, and a large purple bruise. He wondered idly where his handkerchief had gone.
“Define all right.” He reached out his good hand to brace against the wall. “I’m alive.”
“We need to get you out of that coat and shirt,” she said, starting forward, but he stepped back.
“Absolutely not. I refuse to let you manhandle me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I put your arm in a sling, didn’t I?” Somehow, despite her obvious discomfort, she had the gall to look put out by his refusal. “I can help.”
“I would rather you made no such attempt,” he said stiffly.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, very well. It’s your arm.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
The door opened, and Mrs Chambers bustled back in, the children behind her, peering in. Oliver grimaced. He’d been around children plenty enough; his sister’s son was an unruly chap, always running off to cause mischief. But he would much rather his suffering had no audience.
“Here,” Mrs Chambers said, laying two piles of clothes across the narrow bed. “I’ll get working on a tray to bring you when you’re decent.”
“Would it be possible to have a little assistance?” Emily asked, and the saccharine note in her voice ought to have been the warning he needed. “My husband’s clothes will have to be cut off in order to free his arm.”
“Oh! Of course, my dear. I’ll send my husband up.
Come with me, and I’ll get you nice and dry in a jiffy.
” She beckoned Emily out of the room, and although Oliver should have felt relieved by the fact, he felt a little panicky.
Pain, he knew, was causing his mind to work overtime, coming to countless irrational conclusions.
What if something were to happen to her out of his sight?
His head ached. He felt hot and cold all over.
“Look after her,” he called to Mrs Chambers, who clucked reassuringly and offered him a kind smile. It ought to have reassured him, appeased his concerns, but all he could see was the bruise on Emily’s face.
While undoubtedly she should take some responsibility for their predicament—if she had not interfered, he might have been happily married and ensconced with an agreeable woman by now—he had caused the accident.
Her welfare entirely depended on him. And if these kind people saw through their lie, if she were more hurt than she appeared, then—
The door opened once more, and the same thin man from downstairs entered the room. “Right, my lad,” Mr Chambers said with a friendly grin. “Let’s get you out of them wet clothes before you catch your death. The missus said you needed ’em cutting free.”
“Regrettably,” Oliver said.
“Shame to ruin these clothes, but best to get you out of them.” He held up a bottle of what appeared to be whisky. “Here, let’s get this down you first. Warm you up and make the experience a mite less unpleasant.”
Only a mite—but that was enough for Oliver to grab the bottle and upend it in his mouth. Burning liquid sloshed down his throat. He swallowed several mouthfuls before Mr Chambers motioned for it back. Reluctantly, Oliver did as instructed.
“Don’t want you to have too much, or you’ll feel it tomorrow morning.”
“Of the two evils, sir, I rather suspect that is the lesser,” Oliver said.
“Oh, call me Gregory,” Mr Chambers said cheerfully. “We don’t stand on ceremony much around here.”
“Then please call me Oliver.”
“Right you are, Oliver. Now”—he dragged a chair to the centre of the room—“I recommend you sit on this. Never mind the cushion—what is wet will dry, that’s what I say. And I don’t want you fainting on me.”
Feeling more than a little faint, Oliver sank on the chair as instructed.
“Don’t mind me,” Gregory said as he began plucking at the knot of the string. “Might as well preserve this blanket as well as possible. Your wife fashioned this for you?”
“Yes. Emily.”
“Nice name, Emily.” Oblivious to Oliver’s flinch, Gregory tossed the blanket aside and began cutting through the coat, the greased material evidently a challenge. Agony seared through Oliver, and he gritted his teeth, doing his best to ignore the blackness on either side of his vision.
The whisky had set the room spinning, but didn’t feel as though it had numbed all that much of the pain.
“Another drink,” he gasped.
Gregory brought the bottle to Oliver’s lips and tipped. Oliver eagerly gulped another few mouthfuls, only coming up for breath when the older man drew the bottle away. “That’s enough for now, my lad. You’ll want more when Old Tom comes to set the limb.”
Yes, by the sounds of it, he very much would.
Gregory returned to his sawing. “Been married long?” he asked, as though they were in a drawing room over tea rather than in this bare, pitiful room with Oliver’s broken arm swinging sickly within the confines of his clothes.
“Not long,” he managed.
“Ah. Thought you had the look of newlyweds. Well, if you want my advice”—Oliver most certainly did not; the last thing he wanted right now was a well-meaning lecture about how best to conduct a marriage—“then you’ll take each day as it comes.
Listen to her. She might have her nagging complaints, but sometimes she’s right, and you’ve got to respect it. A happy wife makes for a happy life.”
Gregory finally tugged Oliver’s coat free, and Oliver decided the best course of action was to pass out from the pain.
Emily paced the confines of the small hallway, glancing at the closed door before pacing resolutely away again. She’d eaten, changed into a thick dress that was far warmer than any she owned, and now all she had to do was wait for the stable hand to set Oliver’s arm.
The silence from inside the small bedroom had her irrationally certain that he had passed away, thus taking with him her best chance of returning home promptly. She felt sick and dizzy with worry.
“You’ll wear a hole in the carpet,” Mrs Chambers said with a trace of pity. “Here, come and sit with me. You’ll feel better for it. All that traipsing through the snow.”
Emily had given a highly abridged account of how they had come to be stranded, including their reasons for travelling in such appalling conditions.
Her story had not involved a runaway wedding, but it had involved them being married only a week or so.
Partly because she didn’t want to stray too far from the truth, and partly because she did not think she could accurately portray the role of well-established wife.
At that moment, the door opened and the stable hand—a pleasant-faced man named Thomas and referred to as Old Tom—emerged.
“He’s out,” he said to both Emily and Mrs Chambers.
“Passed out when Mr Chambers tried cutting his coat away from his arm. Nasty inflamed, it was, but it should be sorted now. A blessing he weren’t conscious for it, if you ask me.
” He dipped his head in what appeared to be an uncomfortable nod, then headed for the stairs. A moment later, Mr Chambers emerged.
“I imagine he’ll wake in the morning with a bad head,” he said, and gave an apologetic smile to Emily. “My apologies, ma’am.”
“Not at all.” Emily drew the shawl she’d been lent around herself. “May I see him?”
“You can, but there ain’t much to see.”
Perhaps not, but Emily would rather be present when Oliver awoke, so she could tell him the story they had concocted for the sake of their kindly hosts. They were honest, God-fearing people who would be scandalised at the prospect of sheltering two unmarried people in the same room.
Guilt clawed at her stomach at the thought of deceiving the people who had taken them in, whose clothes she wore on her back.
“There now,” she heard Mrs Chambers say to her husband behind her. “You leave them be.”
Emily shut the door on the family and stared at the bed. The way Oliver lay, sprawled across the pillow with his hair wildly mussed, made him appear as though he had tumbled into bed after some debauchery.
Someone, likely Mr Chambers, had changed him into clean, dry bedclothes that hid his poor arm.
For a long moment, she stared down into his face, relaxed and unconscious. The golden stubble on his chin, the chaos of his curly hair. She’d always assumed curls were angelic, but there was nothing angelic about this man. Despite his youth, there were still sharp edges to him.
An idle lord, yes, but not one without his own form of bitterness.
She dragged a chair closer, the room seeming as though it was spinning. The nausea in her stomach still hadn’t eased, and she closed her eyes for a second.
When she opened them again, she found Oliver watching her with an expression of consternation. A headache pulsed at her temples.
He attempted to rise, and she pushed at his shoulder. “Be still or you’ll hurt yourself.”
He blinked, gaze a little cloudy, and eventually focused back on her. “I was rather hoping it was all a bad dream,” he said, with a return to the slightly dry drawl she’d become accustomed to. “I presume your presence, and the fact I’m mildly inebriated, is a sign that it is not.”
“How is your head?” Emily asked. “Mr Chambers said you would wake with a bad head.”
Mr Beaumont snorted. “Perhaps if one never drinks. He allowed me only a few swallows.”
“I take it you are accustomed to a great deal more.”
He looked at her steadily. “If you are inclined towards judgement, I suggest saving it for another time.”
“I hardly see the need to argue with you,” she said, smoothing out the unfamiliar skirt. “Now we’re here, in this condition, there’s not much we can do but make the best of it.”
His gaze landed on the side of her face. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly well, thank you.”
He snorted, but instead of responding, pushed himself into an upright position despite her protests. “Where is the truckle bed? Have you requested one?”
“Not for you,” she said calmly.
“As the gentleman, it is my prerogative to bear the discomfort.”
“Oh, is that what you mean by ‘gentleman’?”
“And here I was thinking you wouldn’t argue with me,” he returned. Despite herself, she felt a smile twitch at her lips.
“Mrs Chambers asked how we met, and I concocted a story of you courting me and us marrying in a perfectly sensible way after the reading of the banns.”
“How very proper of us.”
“I thought that was better than claiming a runaway marriage.”
“And such a story would be unnecessary, seeing as you are of age,” he added. “Very well. How long have we been married?”
“Not long. Weeks, perhaps? I said nothing about where we live,” she added, feeling suddenly defensive. “So we can claim wherever you choose.”
“I hardly mind. We can say Dalston if it pleases you.”
“Nothing about this situation pleases me,” she snapped. “Moreover, I know nothing about the process of marriage. You, as the expert in the matter, should be in charge of deciding these things.”
“I, an expert?”
“More so than I,” she said, curling her fingers in her skirts. “After all, I have yet to meet a man worth marrying, and I do not expect to.”
“Intriguing,” he murmured, leaning forward, his gaze fixed on hers in a way that made her stomach drop. “Tell me, who was he? The man who broke your heart so admirably?”