Chapter 8
Clara pressed a hand to her side, but the stitch dug into her as she ran.
Panting, she sped around the house and positioned herself before the front door, just as a black carriage with polished burgundy lacquered sides came to a stop at the head of the driveway.
The coachman pulled on the reins, halting the matched gray geldings, and a liveried footman jumped down from the back of the vehicle, ready to pull the steps down for the occupants.
The claret silk draperies inside the carriage twitched back, revealing a face so white and pale, it could have been cut from paper.
Clara’s heart sank, even as her side ached.
There was no mistaking that face, much as she’d hoped that perhaps, just perhaps, there had been an error, and someone else had dropped in on her unexpectedly.
But as the footman opened the door and held out a hand to assist the occupants within the vehicle, there was no denying who had come to see her.
A hand clad in the thinnest kidskin glove came forward to take the footman’s proffered assistance.
At the same time, an ankle covered in clocked white silk stockings appeared and rested lightly on the step.
The shoe came from an exclusive cobbler on Bond Street, cunningly worked in lilac leather, a delicate red heel displayed beneath, and topped with a buckle encrusted with brilliants.
Though mist still hung over the day, a parasol of pale pink also emerged from the interior of the carriage to shield its owner from any possible sunlight that might unfortunately change the color of their skin.
Mrs. Mary Ballantine always labored greatly to ensure that no hint of red or, God forbid, brown ever marred her flesh. That was reserved for people who made their livings in the out of doors, and she was certainly not one of that sort. Not anymore.
The woman with the parasol stepped down onto the driveway, the gravel barely crunching beneath her foot, as if afraid of offending her with its ill-mannered noise.
She gave Clara one sweeping, discontented glance, from the toes of Clara’s scuffed shoes, to her plain and functional gown, to the top of her unkempt hair as it slipped from its pins.
“Madam,” Clara said, breathless, sinking into a curtsey before smoothing her hand over her wayward tresses. “What a pleasure. I was under the impression you were arriving next week."
“London grew tedious,” Mrs. Ballantine drawled. “We needed a country escape.”
“Your own estate in Berkshire is en route. Surely, it would have been more comfortable for you to bide awhile there before making the long journey west.”
Her mother-in-law arched one sable brow. “I see that you are already desirous of our departure.”
“I—no! Only…” Clara fidgeted with her skirts. “You find me ill-prepared to accommodate you and Mr. Ballantine.”
While she spoke, a spindly gentleman of middle years also emerged from the carriage. He wore a sober gray suit, and he adjusted his powdered wig, which had been set askew by the rigors of travel. His cheeks were florid, his silvery eyebrows abundant, and his expression weary.
“I’ve need of refreshment,” Edward Ballantine clipped. “The inn last night in Swindon was appalling, and what they served for breakfast even more so.”
Mrs. Ballantine gave Clara another unimpressed glance. “You are wheezing, gel.”
“A little winded, merely. I was in the glasshouse when your carriage unexpectedly arrived.” Clara also felt obliged to note that she was far past the age of being called gel by anyone, but she dared not voice that objection to her mother-in-law.
“That glasshouse.” Mrs. Ballantine rolled her eyes.
“I told Arthur, I told him it was an unnecessary expense, and all for only one person’s benefit.
But,” she added with a heavy sigh, “he did insist on indulging you. He gave you this place, after all, when it would have done just as well to bequest the house to us, his parents, who have more need of such an ample estate. But that imbecile of a solicitor said the will could not be contested, and so here we are, standing out in the cold like a pair of penniless orphans on the steps of a palace.”
Mrs. Ballantine gave a visible shiver of discomfort.
“Why has someone not come to fetch our luggage?” Mr. Ballantine glanced back at where the footman labored to bring down the sizeable trunk lashed to the carriage.
“Given that I did not anticipate your arrival,” Clara answered with an apologetic half-smile, “I hadn’t had the opportunity to hire some men from the village to attend to your needs.”
Mrs. Ballantine waved her hand, dismissing the topic. “We will take refreshment in the back parlor.”
“Yes, of course,” Clara stammered. She glanced back toward the house, but there was no sign of Desmond, Gideon, or the others. Even Cyrus seemed to have absconded from his duties menacing her.
Could she dare hope that the highwaymen had hidden themselves somewhere? Even better, perhaps they’d abandoned her house entirely, and somehow taken Hugh with them.
Clara gestured for her in-laws to go into the house, but they were already in the process of entering, sweeping past her without a single glance. She left the footman wrestling with the trunk to follow Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine.
Inside, the highwaymen were once more absent.
Moving down the hallway, Clara poked her head into the numerous receiving rooms that populated the ground floor.
She eventually found her in-laws ensconced in the back parlor.
Mrs. Ballantine sat on the divan, her skirts spread out in pretty pale rose silk swaths, whilst Mr. Ballantine moodily stared out the windows that looked upon the gardens.
“The topiary needs tending,” he said without turning around. “Looks like a bunch of rabid animals.”
“I’ll bring someone in soon,” Clara assured him.
Her mother-in-law eyed Clara again, clearly disapproving.
“You have dressed yourself like a slattern,” she said tartly. “It is ill-becoming in a widow to attire herself thusly, and reflects poorly on her righteous grief for her late husband.”
Clara smoothed her hand over her hair, though it likely did little to tame her unruly tresses, before attempting to flatten her wild skirts. This, too, had small effect on her appearance.
“Apologies, madam.” She attempted to smile. “On my own, as I am, I give little thought to how I look.”
“Well, you ought to,” Mrs. Ballantine sniffed. “One would think our dear Arthur left you destitute, when we know that is hardly the case.”
“A liberal hand, he had,” Mr. Ballantine added, “when it came to you. Indulging your whims as he did, when he hadn’t much cause to gratify them. Not when you failed to gratify his.”
Her father-in-law glanced critically at her abdomen.
Clara’s face heated, and she fought the impulse to rest her hand on her stomach. Granted, it wasn’t a flat stomach, but it had never swelled with a child. Clearly, Arthur’s parents still harbored resentment about that—as though Clara had any choice in the matter.
Mrs. Ballantine plucked the small brass bell from a nearby table and rang it sharply. When no one appeared, she rang it again with more force.
“Olive is visiting her family in Shrewsbury,” Clara explained in the tolling silence. “I’ll have to fetch the refreshments myself.”
“Yes, do,” Mrs. Ballantine said crisply. “Tea and sugared cakes and fruit.”
“And cheese,” added Mr. Ballantine, his hands clasped behind his back. “Don’t forget the cheese.”
“I shall see what my larder can provide.” Clara turned and hastened from the parlor.
Exiting the chamber, she ran straight into the solid wall of Desmond’s chest. A yelp leapt from her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What is the fuss about, Clara?” Mrs. Ballantine’s question snapped from the parlor. “We come to the country for peace, not to hear you shrieking like a cat in heat.”
“Apologies, madam.” Clara stared up at Desmond, whose face seemed set in granite. She hissed, “You must hide yourself. All of you. They cannot know you’re here.”
When he opened his mouth to object, she pressed her fingers to his lips. Unexpected heat jolted through her at the feel of his lips against her skin. His eyes went wide, as surely hers did, as well.
At this moment, it was astonishing she could feel anything other than aggravation.
His fingers wrapped around hers, allowing her to touch his lips an instant longer, before he pulled them away.
“They cannot stay,” he insisted.
“The Ballantines do as they please. They always have. And right now, what they please is for me to serve them tea and something to eat.” She shook her head and moved down the hallway, with Desmond keeping pace.
“Damn. I have to see to Hugh, as well. Go to the glasshouse and fetch my trug. Meet me in the kitchen.”
Desmon stared at her for a moment, then gave her a small salute before striding in the other direction. Fortunately, he kept his footsteps light.
Clara hurried on toward the kitchen. Once there, she careened from kettle to preparation table to larder and back again.
Ordinarily, she and Olive attended to the Ballantines, and with far greater forewarning.
On her own, and with nothing in readiness, it became an all-out war to serve something, anything, in a relatively timely fashion.
There was some bread, and cheese, and leftover roast of beef that could be thinly sliced, but no cakes or sugarplums, which would have to be fetched from the village—yet there wasn’t time.
It would have to be a lean repast, of necessity.
Desmond appeared at the servants’ door, her trug looking miniscule in his large hands. Silently, he set the container down on the table and watched her ricochet around the kitchen, wearing a faintly puzzled frown.
“Let me help,” he said.
She went at once to the trug and pulled out the willow bark.
“Hand me a mug,” she commanded.
Desmond did as she bade him, bringing her a glazed earthenware mug. She put the willow bark into the mug.
“Bring me the kettle,” she said, as she lightly crushed the bark with a wooden spoon. When he obeyed, she poured boiling water over the willow. At once, fragrant steam rose up in curlicues. She took a crock from nearby and drizzled honey into the brewing tea, which would make it more palatable.
“There’s a mortar and pestle on the shelf,” she threw over her shoulder.
Desmond retrieved it, and looked on wordlessly as she ground up the yarrow. From a basket, she retrieved clean cloths and made a poultice of the yarrow.
“Grab the tea,” she said to him. “We’re taking these to Hugh.”
Without waiting for him to acknowledge her command, she sped from the kitchen and darted down the hallway, then upstairs to her patient’s room.
Her steps faltered slightly. Dear Lord, she had just been ordering a highwayman around as though he was a footman.
She must be losing any semblance of rationality.
In the Blue Bedchamber, she found Hugh damp with perspiration and shifting uncomfortably beneath the bedclothes. He offered her a tight but kind smile. Standing at the foot of the bed was Gideon, watching Hugh with a small frown of concern.
“Apologies for the delay,” she said, peeling back the blanket to look at Hugh’s leg. The wound was a little angrier now, red and slightly puffy. She took the poultice and secured it in place so that the medicinal herbs would have good contact with the injury.
“No need for apologies,” Hugh said through clenched teeth. “So long as I see your sweet face, any wait is worthwhile.”
“Charming the doctor won’t get you out of drinking this.” She motioned for Desmond, who handed her the mug, and she presented it to her patient.
Hugh took a sniff of the steaming liquid, and grimaced. “Surely there’s some rancid cabbage I could eat, instead. It has a far more pleasant flavor.”
“Rancid cabbage won’t bring your fever down. Now, drink.” She pressed the cup to his lips.
He sipped, and made another face. “Must I?”
“You sound like a petulant child,” she said, “not a fearsome highwayman.”
“At heart, I’m just a wee lad.” When her expression revealed that she would brook no argument, he sighed, and then drank down the contents of the mug.
When he was done, he laid his head back on the pillow.
“It should help you sleep a little, as well.” Clara stroked Hugh’s forehead, pushing back the damp strands of his hair.
“Will I dream of you?” Hugh asked.
“I make no guarantees as to the content of your dreams,” she answered softly. “But I hope they’re pleasant.”
“Then I will dream of you.”
Her cheeks heated. “Never have I had such a flirtatious patient.”
“As I said, I don’t flirt without meaning it. Just wait until I’m well again. I’ll be chasing you around the bed.”
I might want to be caught.
The thought leapt into her mind, and her face warmed even more. “Rest, now.”
No sooner had the words left her lips, than a thud followed by woman’s outraged yelp came from downstairs.
“Oh, hell.” Clara hastened from the Blue Bedchamber. “The Ballantines.”
“Even worse,” Desmond said right behind her, with Gideon following. “Cyrus.”