Chapter Nineteen #3
Richard nudged Nesta into a canter and put more distance between them. If it was Shacklock, he wouldn’t be able to recognise Richard at this distance, though he might conceivably recognise the horse.
The Ashbys of Long Chill Farm were coming in on the milk scheme.
But it had taken Richard longer than he had allowed for to explain everything.
This was mostly because they had heard about it from Hugh Orde, of The Bottoms Farm, and while the Orde brothers were fair farmers, they handled language like someone playing the piano in boxing gloves.
He was tired out with untangling misconceptions and repeating everything for clarity’s sake. Now he wanted his bath and his supper.
Nesta knew they were going home, pointed her ears like a compass needle and wanted to trot.
It was colder and the fog was thicker, and dusk was setting in as well, but the dreary grey light was enough, and the track was straightforward to the plantation and through it, after which Nesta would know her way home blindfolded.
He rode without thinking about anything much, his mind tired.
Into Long Wood. It seemed even quieter under the conifers this time, and it was darker, but at least it was warmer. He let Nesta walk, not just for her sake but for his – trotting for long periods was tiring. He wondered again about Alice. Was she—
Something struck him a heavy blow from behind across the shoulders and neck, throwing him off balance at the same moment as Nesta, alarmed, shot forwards, so that he came off over her tail, and hit the ground heavily on his back.
The breath was knocked out of him. He had a muddled impression of a tall figure looming over him holding something clublike, and then there was a savage pain in his head and everything went dark.
Someone had a sore throat, eyes like hot marbles in their sockets, and an appalling headache. A feverish cold? It wasn’t fair, he thought weakly, that he should suffer for someone else’s beastly cold. Then he realised that the someone was him. He was not well…not well at all…
Fever dreams…Things too big and too loud and the wrong shape…The walls growing soft, flapping like pastry…The headache was no longer inside him – he was inside it…
Someone was wiping his face with something cool that smelt of lavender. The kindness of it made him want to weep. He was burning and shivery at the same time, and every bit of him hurt. Everything that touched his skin hurt him in a way he recognised. I have a fever, he said, but he made no sound…
He woke, with that feeling of renaissance when a fever has been and gone.
Cautiously he explored his sensations. Tongue like a strip of carpet, headache still present but retreated to a background grumble.
He raised a hand and felt his face – very bristly – and his head – ouch!
Tender. And finally opened his eyes. He was in his own bed in his own room.
In a chair near the bed Afton was sitting, looking at him with a faint smile. ‘You’re back with us,’ he said.
Richard tried to speak, and managed, ‘Water.’ Afton helped him to sit up, presented him with a cup, and he drank thirstily. ‘Thanks.’ His voice still creaked with unuse. He felt his chin again. ‘How long?’
‘You had an accident on Tuesday. This is Saturday.’
‘Four days?’
‘How are you feeling? The doctor will be coming back in an hour or two.’
‘Doctor? What’s wrong with me? And why does my head hurt?’
‘You don’t remember, sir?’
Richard stared at him as he tried to riffle through his thoughts, but his mind felt strangely stiff, like a cramped muscle. ‘Remember what?’ he heard himself say.
‘I’d better call your brother, sir,’ Afton said, and pulled the bell cord. He poured Richard some more water, and Richard drank.
‘What happened to me?’ he asked.
‘Everyone would like to know that. You went out on your horse on Tuesday and we know you went to Hundon’s. His lordship has spoken to Mr Woodrow. He said you were intending to ride over to Long Chill.’ He paused, with a questioning look.
Richard shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. ‘I don’t remember any of that.’
‘Mr Woodrow has been to Long Chill. Mr Ashby says you were there for a couple of hours, then you set off, saying you wanted to get home before it got too dark.’
The door opened and Giles came in. Later, Richard would remember how drawn his face had been. He came to the bed and took hold of Richard’s hand. ‘You’re awake! How are you, old chap? Fever gone? How’s the head?’
‘Beastly,’ Richard said.
‘The doctor will be here soon. You had us worried. How did you get that crack on the skull?’
Something flickered in Richard’s mind, something about a Grimms’ fairy tale. He caught at an image of a giant with a club, but it was gone before he could grasp it. ‘No idea. Can’t remember anything. Afton was just telling me.’
‘We were hoping you’d tell us,’ said Giles, taking the chair that Afton had vacated. ‘The first we knew was when Nesta came in alone.’
‘She’s not hurt?’
‘No, no, don’t worry. She hadn’t even broken her reins.
She walked in cool as a cucumber and went straight to her stall demanding to be let in.
So of course Giddins sounded the alarm. At that point we had no idea where to start looking for you, and it had got dark and the fog was getting thicker… You don’t remember any of this?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Some were for waiting a bit to see if you walked in, but it wasn’t like you to get thrown and not keep hold of the reins, and it was getting colder too, so I was worried. I sent out search parties in different directions. And then, while we were waiting for news, thank God you were brought in.’
‘Brought in?’
‘One of the Orde brothers – the one with the squint?’
‘That’s Samuel. The elder,’ Richard supplied.
Giles nodded. ‘He came in carrying you. Good job the man’s built like an oak tree because he’d carried you all the way from Long Wood.
He was on his way home and found you huddled up on the path at the edge of the plantation.
Probably saved your life. You were unconscious and we found a pretty nasty wound to your head.
Later we found bruising across your shoulders.
And you’d obviously been lying out on the cold ground for some time so you took a nasty chill.
It’s been a hellish few days. Arbogast is no doom-sayer, but I could see he was worried.
How did you hit your head, old fellow? I was wondering if you rode under a branch, but the plantation isn’t that sort of wood. ’
‘I tell you, I don’t remember,’ Richard said, and was surprised to find himself sounding tearful.
But it was rather frightening to have a gap in your consciousness like that.
‘I don’t remember going out on Nesta or seeing Woodrow.
I remember…’ he screwed up his eyes with effort…
‘beefsteak and kidney pie. I wanted a second helping but someone had the last.’
‘That was dinner, Monday evening. After dinner we played cards.’
‘I remember that. You bid three no trumps without proper cover in diamonds. Kitty was furious.’
‘Kitty’s never furious. What else?’
‘Went to bed. Then – nothing.’
‘Arbogast says it’s not unusual to have amnesia after a severe blow on the head. He said the memory sometimes comes back after a few days, especially if something prompts it. When you’re better, we’ll ride out to Long Wood and see if anything comes back to you.’
Richard moved to get up. ‘I’m better now.’
Giles pushed him back. ‘Not until Arbogast gives you the once-over. I’m not risking losing you again.
’ He gave him a taut look, and said, ‘Made me realise how important you are to me. Perhaps I don’t say it often enough, but I’m damned fond of you, little brother.
And you’re to take care of yourself until your head is officially better. ’
Richard settled back on the pillows. To be truthful, he didn’t feel all that good, and moving had made his head swim. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just so long as I get a shave. I feel as if I’ve got a hedgehog nesting on my face.’
‘Afton can shave you,’ Giles said.
‘I’ll shave myself.’
‘No, you won’t. Until you’ve been shaved by Afton, you don’t know what luxury truly is. And when Arbogast says you’re no longer at death’s door, we’ll ride out together and see if Long Wood sparks any memories.’
Giddins asked to see Giles, and told him that he had heard something from Sam Orde. ‘It’s not always easy to understand what he means, my lord—’
`Yes, I know,’ said Giles.
‘But it seems when he found Mr Richard, there were certain marks in the ground. You know how the track under the trees there is soft earth and pine needles? There were what I gather were deep gouges, and as far as I can make it out, he thinks Mr Richard must have dragged himself along for some distance. So although he was found at the edge of the wood, my lord, his accident probably happened further back.’
‘Thank you, Giddins,’ Giles said. ‘I’m not sure that makes any difference, but it’s good to know. Orde didn’t see any evidence of what Mr Richard might have hit himself on?’
‘No, my lord. I’m wondering if he went off the track for some reason, deeper into the woods. I can’t explain it otherwise.’
Giles shook his head. ‘We’ll just have to wait until his memory comes back.’
It wasn’t until a few days later that Giles told Richard Lord Shacklock was dead. ‘They found him that same evening – the day you had your accident. He shot himself.’
Dr Arbogast had insisted that Richard have a full week in bed, saying you couldn’t be too careful with head wounds, so he was not able to go to Shacklock’s funeral. He would have felt awkward about going in any case, given the bad blood there had been between them, so he was glad of the excuse.