Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (3 page)

A shudder ran through him as he finished the tonic, his expression decidedly aggrieved.

“My horse.” He gestured weakly towards the tree line.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be taken care of,” her father said as Hannah looked to see the miller, Mr Jenkins, and his sons cresting the hill.

“Your carriage has arrived, my lord.” She winced at the sight of the sturdy cart being pulled by Mr Jenkins’ heavyset horses. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it was the closest vehicle at hand and the most suitable for the purpose.”

The viscount attempted to push away from the tombstone but fell back with another groan.

“Don’t try to move,” Hannah scolded. “The miller and his sons will lift you.” Shifting to make room, she hesitated when the viscount grasped her forearm.

“You’ll accompany me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, her tone softening. The poor man must fear abandonment. “I won’t leave you alone.”

“Good.” His hand fell from her arm as he succumbed to unconsciousness once more.

It was a mercy, Hannah concluded, as manhandling the injured lord onto the back of the cart was not easily accomplished. After being helped aboard by the miller and her father, she covered the viscount with a blanket before cradling his head on her lap to protect it from the jouncing, springless cart ride. Naomi arrived just in time to deliver Hannah’s bag and offer assurances she would manage the running of the household.

“
Promise
you’ll keep an eye on Rachel?”

“I’ll tell her to be careful,” Naomi said, gripping Hannah’s fingers.

Hannah hoped their younger sister would heed the warning, as Rachel had a tendency to be somewhat cavalier when it came to her reputation. Hannah wouldn’t put it past Mr Trowbridge to attempt to compromise the girl, thereby forcing her to accept his hand.

“Don’t worry.” Her father reached to pat Hannah’s shoulder as the horses strained to get the heavy cart moving. “The Lord is watching over us.”

While Hannah admired her father’s faith in the Almighty’s providence, she feared his tendency to ignore their grim reality would lead to their downfall. With a muttered prayer to a God she sometimes struggled to trust, Hannah hoped her family would be fine without her. She’d stayed away for a night or two before, assisting a new mother in caring for her brood. But one look at her patient and she imagined her stay at the manor could be prolonged . . . that was if the viscount lasted the night.

“I’ll inform Mr Grantham of Lord Blackthorn’s return,” her father said, walking beside the lumbering cart. “And I’ll arrange for his horse to be stabled at the smithy. The Pottses will have more than enough to contend with caring for the viscount, even with your help.”

“I’m sure they will.” Hannah nodded then waved her sister and father goodbye.

The Pottses, to their credit, took their employer’s unexpected arrival in their stride and rushed to prepare the master suite. It was one of the handful of rooms in the enormous, grey-stone mansion they kept in partial readiness in anticipation of the young viscount’s unlikely return.

Appointed to oversee William’s affairs upon his father’s death, Mr Grantham had wasted no time in dismissing the rest of the staff and closing up the manor after William’s departure years before. Hannah was one of the few members of the local society to visit the dark and imposing edifice. Unlike the local villagers, her concern for the aging caretaker and his wife—left to manage with minimal funds and virtually no assistance—overrode her apprehension. While she gave due respect to the curse that not even her father discounted, she refused to be intimidated by something that could have no possible bearing upon her.

Twice whilst being carried up to the master suite, Lord Blackthorn roused and groaned in pain.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Hannah patted his arm when he began to thrash about. Attempting to sit up, he grabbed hold of her sleeve.

“Where am I?”

“You’re home, my lord, at Blackthorn Manor.”

He slumped back, his eyes fluttering closed, and memories of the boy she’d played with as a child overlaid the image of the man lying on the old door they were using as a stretcher. As far as anyone knew, the viscount had never married and was all alone in the world. Hannah was surprised he’d made the effort to return, considering his condition. Maybe he had nowhere else to go.

“It’s a wonder all the rough ’andling didn’t wake ’is Lordship,” Mr Potts mused after the viscount had been transferred to the bed that dominated the enormous room.

“It’s the fever.” Hannah said.

After dismissing Mr Jenkins and his sons with a word of thanks, all three eager to depart the fearful surroundings, she wasted no time wrestling the viscount’s knee-length boots from his feet.

“Mrs Potts, could you heat some water? I’ll need to clean His Lordship’s wounds.”

“Of course, Miss Hannah.” The motherly woman bustled for the door, clearly dismayed at the sight of the man they all remembered as a lanky but otherwise healthy-looking lad now in such a sorry state. “I’ll have Mr Jenkins send his youngest lad to assist us with the to-ing and fro-ing. The family will be glad of a little extra coin.”

“I’m sure they will.” Hannah nodded, privately concerned about who would provide the coinage if the viscount were to die. The caretaker’s meagre allowance barely covered the cost of the elderly couple’s survival, and Hannah had no money to speak of.

“I’ll set some broth to simmering on the stove while I’m at it,” Mrs Potts added, and Hannah smiled her thanks before returning her attention to her patient. Her stomach knotted when she considered what she was about to do. Despite having assured her father she was up to the task of nursing the returned lord, she owned to considerable misgivings at the prospect of undressing and bathing him. To make matters worse, he regained consciousness while she and Mr Potts were attempting to wrestle his greatcoat and jacket from his body.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” He sat up in the bed, shoving Hannah and her frail assistant aside with alarming ease.

“Undressing you so I can assess the extent of your injuries.” Hannah picked herself up off the floor and returned to his side.

“My injuries are fatal. Let a man die in peace.”

“You may be right, my lord,” she said, her tone sympathetic despite the buffeting she’d just received. “But at least let us make you more comfortable.”

Glowering, he gave a reluctant nod, and Hannah set about divesting him of his coat, jacket, and breeches while doing her best to ignore his muttered imprecations. She felt no compunction about cutting the torn and stained shirt from his body, but once it was out of the way, her breath hitched.

Lord Blackthorn had grown into a well-developed specimen of a man. His muscled torso bore a light spattering of hair that formed an inverted triangle in the middle of his chest before trailing in a line down his belly towards the waistband of his undergarments. She lifted her gaze to his face and was relieved to note his eyes were now closed, his dark lashes standing out against his ashen cheeks. Being caught admiring the man’s body would have been mortifying to say the least.

Assuming a more professional air, she catalogued his injuries, fear causing her heart to race at their extent. A savage and barely healed wound on his thigh explained the limp, whilst sundry older scars marred his long and otherwise well-formed limbs and torso. But it was the injury to his shoulder and upper arm that was cause for concern. After carefully unwrapping the soiled bandage, she recoiled at the sight and smell of the suppurating wound.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured, and the viscount slowly opened his eyes.

“You’re wasting your time. Should have just left me at the grave.”

“I suppose we could have dug a hole next to your father and pushed you in.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “But we’re not heathens, my lord, even if we are beneath your notice.”

Frowning, he shrugged, the action inducing a moan. Hannah’s conscience pricked; the viscount wasn’t responsible for the actions of his father and grandfathers before him, and she could hardly blame him for keeping his distance.

It wasn’t a good sign when his eyes rolled back into his head, but she couldn’t help feeling relieved. Sponging down his too-warm and very bare flesh while he was aware of her actions would have made the task even more unsettling than it already was. Although she gave Mr Potts the task of bathing the viscount intimately, she was forced to help him dress their patient in clean underclothes that had once belonged to the previous viscount. The elderly caretaker couldn’t manage alone, and Hannah saw more than she should. There was nothing to be done for it, and Mr Potts let her know with a look that her secret was safe with him.

Having exhausted her healing skills, Hannah didn’t bother to hide her relief when Grace arrived later that afternoon. With her long black hair, fair skin, and green eyes, the young healer had a fey quality to her appearance that belied her studious dedication to her craft.

“Is there any hope?” Hannah asked while her friend examined the viscount, speaking softly in case he roused.

“There’s detritus still in the wound.” Grace scowled. “If the field surgeons had had any sense, they’d have done a thorough search for pieces of shrapnel and cloth.”

“But you don’t think they did?”

The two women exchanged a look, having seen the results of such negligence—and ignorance
—
before. Some surgeons even
introduced
foreign matter into wounds to promote healing, a theory Grace rejected.

“The bone isn’t broken,” she said. “But amputation would have been considered inevitable given the severity of the wound.”

“He must have refused.” Hannah reached to mop the viscount’s brow with a damp cloth. “Foolish man.”

Grace harrumphed, rummaging through her bag for the medical instruments she kept hidden in a secret compartment in the base. Gasping, Hannah clutched her friend’s arm.

“You can’t mean to perform surgery. He’s a lord . . . a peer of the realm. You know what will happen if you’re discovered.”

Grace brushed her aside and washed the instruments in the hot water Mrs Potts had brought in. “It’s hardly surgery. I’m just going to have a look and see if I can find what the butchers left behind . . . and debride the dead flesh,” she added with a shrug.

“If he dies, you could be blamed.”

“If I do nothing, he definitely dies. This way, there’s a slim chance he’ll recover.”

Hannah gave a reluctant nod and helped to prop up the viscount’s head so Grace could administer him an herbal draught.

With the advent of the scientific age, herbalism and traditional midwifery had fallen into disrepute, replaced by bloodletting, purging, and the use of mercury and other tonics Grace was convinced did more harm than good. Poorly trained physicians, usually younger sons of the gentry, ignored the most basic practices of cleanliness and common sense. In Grace’s opinion, surgeons were little more than glorified barbers, or “butchers” as she bluntly named them. While not necessarily disagreeing, Hannah feared her friend could face severe censure, even imprisonment, for expressing her disparaging opinions, let alone for her actions.

Worried for her friend, but troubled by more immediate concerns, Hannah studied their patient. “How shall we keep him from fighting us? He tossed Mr Potts and myself aside like we were March flies when we started undressing him.”

“The sleeping draught should help to keep him subdued, but we may have to tie him down.” Hannah blanched, and Grace eyed her pointedly. “Our only hope of saving him is to clean the wound and stop the poison’s spread. I can’t do that if he’s thrashing all over the place, so don’t go getting all missish on me.”

“Missish?”

Hannah had never been accused of oversensitive behaviour before, though she did require a breath to steady her nerves. Her previous nursing experience had been in the order of sitting by patients’ bedsides, wiping brows, and administering herbal tonics. Assisting with surgery was outside her purview.

“What would you have me do?” she asked, her determined tone masking her fear, or so she hoped.

“Climb atop the bed and kneel on his far side but nice and close,” Grace said, her tone quite reasonable despite the extraordinary nature of her words.

“I beg your pardon?” Hannah stared at her friend.