For several moments, the agony of injury was everything. But presently Timothia’s senses triumphed a little and she dragged herself up, leaning on one elbow. Dazed, she wondered what had happened. She had taken a fall, but her clouded mind could not recollect the occasion of it. That it was bad she knew, for she had let go of the rein. Had her horse bolted?
Peering about as best she could for the inconvenience of her position, she saw with relief that Faithful was grazing some distance away. Thankful for his phlegmatic temperament, she gathered herself together, for she must get up. If she could only get Faithful to come to her, she might catch the rein and so pull herself to her feet. How she would mount again, she could not imagine, for she had undoubtedly hurt herself rather badly. But she would deal with that problem as it arose.
Taking a breath, she called to the horse, but her voice was too weak to carry. She would have to sit up! She pulled in her left knee for extra support, making ready. But as soon as she made a motion to shift the right leg a dizzying sensation of pain flared up instantly.
Timothia closed her eyes, biting her lip on a groan. As the pain dulled a little, she peered at the leg, trying to see what damage had been done. In a moment, the ache became localised at her ankle. Heaven send she had only sprained it!
Dragging at the mustard petticoats of her habit, she freed the ankle, but could see nothing for the leather boot that covered it. A feeling of helplessness began to invade her. What was she to do? Perhaps she should just lie here, succumbing to lassitude. Someone was bound to come by sooner or later.
Setting her teeth, she berated herself severely. What kind of a stupid female was she? To have come off her mount was bad enough. But she was made of sterner stuff than this, was she not? If she could only get a trifle of help, she was sure she could get up. Only when she put her weight on the leg would she be able to judge the severity of the problem.
But to her consternation, as she tried to glance about for some means of succour, she was overcome by wave after wave of dizziness. She could barely see. A problem that worsened as despairing tears forced their way through her tight-shut eyelids. Then, as her eyes opened again, she saw through blurred vision two running figures coming in her direction.
Relief swept over her, and she gave in momentarily to the weakness threatening to consume her, sobbing thankfully as she sank back onto the ground.
Moments later, two men were upon her. Rough-clad working men in homespun smocks over corduroy breeches, one of middle years, the other a thick-set youth, leaning over her with sweaty faces contorted in concern.
‘Miss? Are you hurt, missy?’
‘Don’t be daft, boy!’ said the elder. ‘If she weren’t, she’d ’a got herself up by now.’ To Timothia he touched his forelock. ‘We were working our land, ma’am, and saw you fall. Is it bad?’
‘It is my ankle, I think.’ Timothia pulled up onto her elbow again and reached out a hand. ‘Help me, pray!’
Wiping his own hand first on his breeches, the man gingerly assisted her to a sitting posture. Then his jaw dropped. ‘Why, it’s Miss Timma, ain’t it?’
She peered frowningly at him. It was a round-featured countenance, burned brown from working out of doors, and vaguely familiar. ‘You know me?’
He nodded. ‘It’s Clent, ma’am. I’m one of Mr Leo’s tenants.’ He pointed. ‘We have the farm up yonder.’ Nodding at the younger man, he added, ‘This here’s my son, ma’am. Bit of a noddy, but he’s right at heart.’
Timothia was in no fit state to respond appropriately to this disclosure. ‘Can you help me up?’
‘Was you meaning to ride again, missy?’ asked the younger Clent. ‘Shall I fetch the horse?’
He received a clout round the head from his father. ‘Nodcock! How d’ye think the missy is going to ride in that state?’
The young man did not appear to resent the blow. ‘Well, shall I fetch the horse?’ he repeated.
‘No, no, for you will never catch him,’ Timothia said, distressed to find her voice a trifle faint. ‘He—he would not come to you, and if you chase him he will only run off. He won’t stray. He may even follow me wherever I go.’
‘Ah, you’ve put your finger on the nub, ma’am,’ put in Clent doubtfully. ‘For where you’re to go has me in a fair puzzle.’
Timothia was as much puzzled. It was becoming difficult to maintain concentration, for she was beginning to feel sick and rather faint. ‘I think—I think I had better…’
Her voice faded, and she put a hand to her head, aware in some corner of her mind of the increased concern in the features of her would-be rescuers.
‘Seems to me as I’d best send Ned here for Mr Leo,’ observed Clent in anxious tones.
That did penetrate. Send for Leo? Oh, no! She could not have Leo find her in this condition—and here on his lands!
‘No, no…pray do not bother Mr Wetheral. I think—’ Breaking off, she asked hesitantly, ‘What—what day is it?’
Both the farmer and his son gazed at her, the younger in blank amazement, the elder in growing concern.
‘Lor’, miss!’ exclaimed the lad. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘You must’ve taken a knock on the head, ma’am,’ opined the other.
‘No, no, I am sure I have not.’
‘Thursday,’ stated the younger Clent matter-of-factly.
‘Is it?’
He nodded, repeating it slowly. ‘Thursday, miss.’
More than ever did Timothia desire that Leo should not find her here. He would think her a very simpleton! ‘Pray, could we not—might you not between you help me get to your farm?’
‘The farm! I’d not take that risk, ma’am,’ said the farmer firmly. ‘You might have taken a concussion. And especially seeing it’s you, Miss Timma, I’d be afeard of Mr Leo’s wrath.’ With which, he turned to his son and grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Now you listen to me, boy! Go directly to the farm, unhitch the cob from the plough, and ride as fast as the devil to Wiggin Hall.’
Timothia heard it with consternation, but was curiously relieved at the younger Clent’s eager response.
‘I can do that. And am I to tell Mr Leo as how the missy is here?’
‘Nodcock! You’ll tell Mr Crieff, as is the butler. Say as Miss Timma fell off the horse and is hurt, and we’re in a puzzle how to bring her off safe. Understand?’
‘Fell off the horse and is hurt,’ repeated the boy obediently. ‘I can do that. I’ll be as quick as winking.’
With which, he sped off across the turf in a manner likely to prove his boast. Timothia watched him go, beset by gratitude not unmixed with apprehension. If only Leo was at home! Yet if he was, and he found her here…
Her distressed mind failed to grapple with the problem, and the pain at her ankle was increasing so that she was willing to compound for anything so long as someone brought relief. With a sigh, she sank back on the ground and closed her eyes.
She must have lost consciousness for a while because the next thing she was aware of was a cool sensation at her brow, her hands being chafed, and a woman’s voice, scolding.
‘To think I’ve a simpleton for a son, and a husband with not much better wit! Why didn’t you think to remove this boot first thing? Now it’ll have to be cut, for this ankle is swollen up proper.’
‘Oh, no,’ moaned Timothia faintly, taking in the sense of this.
Another round face came into view above her. That of a female, and adorned with a large mob-cap, an apron visible over an ample bosom. Evidently this was the farmer’s wife.
‘So you’re awake again, ma’am. Now just you lie still until Mr Leo gets here.’
‘What if he ain’t home?’ demanded her spouse.
‘Then we’ll just have to fetch Miss Timma to the farm. I dare say as our good neighbour and his lads will fashion a hurdle for her at need.’ A podgy hand wiped Timothia’s face with something comfortingly wet. ‘This’ll keep you cool, ma’am. It’s a hot day for a mishap like this.’
But Timothia had been seized by the notion of being taken to the farm. If she could get there, someone might go for Edith to come and rescue her. But when she tried to put this to Clent’s wife that efficient dame would have none of it.
‘We ain’t doing nothing, ma’am, not until Mr Leo gets here, or until we hear from my boy as he ain’t been able to find Mr Leo at home.’
‘If he ain’t gone tearing off in the wrong direction,’ said his fond father gloomily.
‘You keep your tongue, Clent! Now don’t you fret, ma’am. I can’t deny as my Ned ain’t got a deal of wit, but he won’t let you down, never fear.’ As if to justify her confidence, there came a distant sound of hoofbeats. ‘Ah, now, there he comes.’ But a moment later, ‘Oh, no, it ain’t! It’s Mr Leo—and riding fit to bust hisself!’
Timothia was moved to struggle up. She could hear it herself now. From between the two hills that had so startled her wayward memory came a horseman, thundering across the ground. Recognising Leo’s black, Timothia felt a rush of warmth at her heart, and a swell of fresh tears made the vision dance in her sight. That Leo should come for her—and hell for leather too!
‘Let’s hope as he don’t come off, and all!’ uttered the pessimistic Clent, and received a cuff from his wife for his pains, who adjured him once more to hold his tongue.
In very short order, the horse was thudding to a stop, and before Timothia knew what had happened Leo had flung himself off his mount, thrust the reins into the hands of Clent, and was kneeling beside her with one supporting arm about her back.
‘What has happened to you? My God, my God, Timma, what have you done?’
Grasping feebly at his lapel, Timothia could only choke out a confused explanation, looking up into Leo’s blessedly familiar features. ‘So stupid! A—a moment of—of inattention. My ankle, Leo! I don’t know why I came here—it was a mistake—I am all too conscious of it. You must not pay any heed! Pray don’t put yourself out—’
He cut her off curtly. ‘That will do! If you can only talk nonsense, it will be better for you not to talk at all.’
Timothia let out a weak laugh. ‘I might have kn-known you would not be in the l-least sympathetic.’
Leo grinned down at her. ‘So you might.’
She felt him hug her closer, and sank into the welcome strength of his embrace, dissolving into tears. His voice softened.
‘Come, don’t cry!’ he said gently. ‘We must get you to Wiggin, and—’
Timothia raised her head. ‘Not Wiggin! I cannot possibly go to your house.’
‘You can’t possibly stay here,’ he countered. ‘Now, stop making nonsensical objections and leave this to me.’ He drew back a little, glancing down at her leg. ‘How to get you there, though, without causing you a great deal of pain?’
Timothia was too overwrought to think, but the question was in fact rhetorical. For Leo, thrusting down on the surging anxiety in his breast, entered into debate with the Clents as to the most practical solution. A coach was out of the question for there was no fit track for it and the jolting must put Timma through unnecessary agony. By the time a hurdle had been fashioned and brought, he could have carried her back to Wiggin. No, the only thing for it was to take her up before him on his horse.
The scheme was not to be accomplished without difficulty. Just as Leo was working out how to manage it, young Clent most fortunately came riding up on the farmer’s cob.
‘Ah, excellent!’ said Leo. ‘A stout arm immediately to hand. Ned may lift Miss Dulverton up to me. I will mount first. Do you, Clent, go to the other side of Barbarian here, to be ready in case of difficulty.’
Mrs Clent was detailed to hold the horse’s rein, and Leo turned back to Timma. ‘I am going to stand you up, Timma. Don’t try to help. Only put your arm about my neck.’
By this time, it was as much as Timothia could do to obey, although a number of expostulations passed through her brain. How could Leo hold her? And how were they both to fit into his saddle? Then she felt herself lifted, Leo’s strong arms under her shoulders.
‘Don’t put your foot to the ground!’ he warned.
Timothia was panting with effort, even so small an effort as holding her knee bent. For on rising the blood drained speedily from her head and she sagged against Leo.
‘Faint…’ she murmured.
His arms cradled her to his chest. ‘Hold up! I forbid you to faint! At least, not yet.’
This bracing treatment had the effect of encouraging Timothia to pull herself out of the dizzy spell. She steadied herself on her sound leg, and pushed away a little, grabbing Leo’s upper arms for support.
‘Well done! Gently, now. Ned, take hold of her!’
But the young Clent, for all his brawn, turned brick-red, hesitating. ‘Hold the missy, sir?’
‘Come on, man!’ urged Leo. ‘Hold her round the waist so that you may lift her up to me.’
‘Ned Clent,’ said his mother shrilly, ‘just you do like Mr Leo says, or I’ll fetch you such a basting as you’ll be sorry for!’
Thus adjured, the youth seized his charge with alacrity, and as Timothia felt his large hands clasp strongly at her waist she could not forbear the ghost of a smile. She could not doubt but that the rotund little form of the farmer’s wife would carry out the threat, comical though the image might be.
But next moment all desire to laugh had dissipated. The exquisite torture that followed left her breathless. For she saw Leo mount up, and then lean down to her.
‘Reach up to me, Timma, and clasp your hands behind my neck. Hold tight, now!’
Complying as best she could, Timothia then felt herself lifted from two directions, and her injured foot caught inevitably at the horse’s flank. She cried out, and heard Leo curse. When next she was able to take anything in, she found herself seated across Leo’s saddle-bow, his arms encircling her. He caught at the reins.
‘That’s it. She will do now. All right, Timma?’
Her ankle ached unbearably, and she could not help but grasp at Leo’s coat, sinking her head onto his shoulder. But she uttered as strongly as she could, ‘I will do, thank you.’
She heard Leo express words of thanks to the Clents, and she recalled how much in their debt she was. She tried to add her voice to Leo’s.
‘My thanks, too—you have done so much!’
She could not be sure that she had been heard, for the horse was already moving. She tried to look back, anxious that her rescuers should not think her ungrateful, but Leo intervened.
‘There will be time enough to express your thanks, when you have recovered. Try to relax, Timma. I will walk Barbarian. It will take longer, but I think you will find it more comfortable. And I can hold you the more easily, for I daren’t attempt to settle your knee about the pommel—the jolting would be a deal worse.’
Timothia was only too relieved to leave such decisions in his capable hands. She nodded wearily, for even this slow progress, in the position she had been made to adopt, caused her foot to rock with every motion of the horse’s back, sharpening with each jar the agony at her ankle. It was fortunate that Barbarian was such a big stallion. She could not think that Faithful would so readily have carried the weight of two. Faithful!
‘My horse,’ she uttered fretfully, bringing her head up. ‘Leo, I had forgot him. Did you see him? He had not bolted—was grazing somewhere near.’
‘What, did you not notice?’ Leo said, on a note of surprise. ‘No, I suppose you would not in the condition you are in. He came over to investigate while we were mounting you. He is following at a little distance.’
‘You will see him safe?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You know he does not like—he will not go to anyone he does not know.’
‘Tarbert can manage him. Don’t let it trouble you.’ He shifted his arm to give her more support. ‘This is agony for you, is it not? I am sorry, Timma. It will be over soon.’
Timothia shook her head, biting her lip on the tell-tale gasps that she guessed must have given her away. ‘It makes no matter,’ she managed, speaking in short bursts. ‘I am only glad—to be no longer lying out—in that field. Besides, it is…quite my own fault. I cannot think how…how I came to be so stupid.’
‘It happens to us all,’ Leo reminded her reassuringly. ‘Thank the lord you chose to come off on my lands!’
This comment served only to recall to Timothia’s hazy mind the foolish realisation that had caused her to lose concentration. She fell silent, conscious of a degree of embarrassment swelling the sum of her discomforts. It was a question whether the intermittent waves of faintness, accompanied by a growing nausea, were a worse affliction than the spasms at her ankle. The one must necessarily be aggravating the other, she supposed. By degrees, she sank into a half-dreaming, half-waking state, where thoughts no longer followed one another in logical sequence, and the only effort she was aware of making was to keep herself from crying aloud. This was a simple refusal to give Leo added concern about her well-being, because there was nothing he could do to ease her.
But Leo was all too aware of that frustration. If he could have flown Timma back to his house in a minute, he would have done it. He had all to do as it was to keep her secure, and hold his restive mount at a walk. He knew each time the uneven ground caused a jolt at Timma’s injury, for he could feel her so close against him that he could not miss her indrawn breaths against the pain, try as she might to conceal them. Would he might have spared her!
Yet he must thank providence that he had been still idling near the stables when young Clent came hurtling into the yard on his father’s cob. Another few minutes, and he might have already been away with Valentine. That did not bear thinking of! Timma thrown, and he not by to come to her aid? He would never have forgiven himself. It had taken some few precious moments to get the boy’s story from him, overcome as he was with the importance of his message.
‘Pa said as I was to tell it to Mr Crieff, Mr Leo, sir,’ he had stated doggedly, apparently unable to grasp that telling it to Leo himself was of even more urgent necessity.
But as he had begun the news with a mention of Timma’s name Leo had been in no case to wait for common sense to penetrate his slow wits.
‘Never mind Crieff! Tell me at once what has occurred, Ned!’ he had ordered tersely, holding the cob’s bridle fast. ‘Where is Miss Timma?’
‘Fell off the horse and is hurt, Mr Leo, sir,’ the sturdy youth had answered, repeating the litany he had rehearsed.
Leo had felt as if someone had punched him in the ribs. He had known his own voice came out hoarsely from lack of air.
‘Where?’ He had repeated it impatiently as the young Clent had stared at him stupidly, obviously thrown by his reaction. ‘Where, boy? Is she at the farm?’
Ned had shaken his head dumbly, wide-eyed. ‘Not at the farm, Mr Leo, sir.’
‘Where, then? Speak, man!’
The youth had pointed at the hills. ‘Over yonder, in the fields as is lying fallow these five year.’
Leo had thrown a hasty order to his groom to saddle Barbarian instantly, and then turned back to Ned. ‘How badly is she hurt? Do you know, Ned?’
He had nodded. ‘I know that, Mr Leo, sir. Hurt bad, she is. Couldn’t get up, nor Pa wouldn’t get her up. She couldn’t ride, Mr Leo, sir. Nor she didn’t know it were Thursday!’
‘Where the devil is that horse, Tarbert?’ Leo had yelled, driven by still deeper anxiety. Then he’d said sharply to the boy, ‘But she is conscious? She is talking?’
Ned had nodded again. Then his eyes had lit. ‘I remember, Mr Leo, sir! The missy said as how it were her ankle.’
A measure of relief had entered Leo’s soul. But, knowing Ned for a simple fellow, he had been unable to satisfy himself that the boy’s report had been accurate. Leaving a brief message for Valentine, he had leaped into the saddle and ridden like the wind. Every second’s delay had driven his anxiety deeper, for he had been unable to forbear imagining a series of horridly unpleasant consequences that Timma might have suffered in taking a toss. To find her relatively little harmed had given him immeasurable relief, bad as the injury was.
He wished now that he had thought to send someone for Dr Preseley at once. Still, it was no use thinking of that. He would have to cut Timma’s boot off himself. Mrs Clent had explained that her husband had been too flustered to think of removing it. A pity, because now it would cause Timma an agony to be rid of the thing—besides ruining a perfectly good pair of boots. But that was a small thing. First and most important was to get Timma to his house.
It came into sight a few moments later, and he at once brought this to Timma’s attention, encouraging her.
‘See there, Timma! We are almost home.’
With an effort, Timothia brought her head up, forcing her hazy vision to focus. Home? The combined effects of pain and nausea made it difficult to see. In a dim corner of consciousness she half expected to find herself looking at Dulverton Park. For a moment or two the sight of the great secluded mansion nestling in the lee of the surrounding hills seemed an alien thing. Its grey square shape, squatting among the belts of trees around it where it lay below her eye-line, was nothing like home. Then the image adjusted in her mind’s eye, and she recalled that it had once been home—to her mother. Upon her marriage, Mama had come from here to Dulverton. And over the years Timothia had grown almost as familiar with the place—as familiar as Leo had become with the Park. Was it coincidence that she should return here thus, where Leo had offered her a home?
‘I will head for the front,’ he said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘It will be easier to bring you through the main doors.’
In a moment Timothia did not care, only as long as she could be released from this hideous journey. The inconsequent thoughts were swept away, for their progress to the house was necessarily downhill, and the increased jolting shot spasms of agonising pain up her leg. She wished desperately for an end, and longed to be in a horizontal position that she might sink into the stupor that threatened every second to overcome her.
She saw little of the approach to Wiggin Hall, bar the occasional flash of the sun on one of the sixteen windows set between a dozen fluted pillars. Leo had taken a course across the rolling lawns, ignoring the drive that wound around them, and Timothia recognised with relief the approach of journey’s end as Barbarian’s hooves scrunched on the gravel of the drive, and a battery of shouts and running footsteps smote her ears.
‘He is here, sir!’
‘With Miss Timma and all.’
‘That’s her Faithful, that is, coming behind.’
‘Crieff, send someone instantly for Dr Preseley!’ called out Leo’s voice over her head. ‘Is Mrs Salcombe at hand? Ah, there she is. I will need you, ma’am. Tarbert, look to Miss Dulverton’s horse!’
‘I have him, sir.’
It seemed to Timothia, in the glimmers permeating through her half-shut eyes, that a veritable crowd accompanied Barbarian’s progress to the front steps.
‘Good Lord, Leo, have you really Timma there?’ cried a voice Timothia recognised as the horse at long last came to a halt. ‘What in thunder has gone amiss?’
Leo hailed it with relief. ‘Valentine, is that you? Thank the Lord! Take her from me, would you? But mind you keep her foot off the ground.’
‘Here, fellow, hold the horse!’ ordered Valentine, grabbing a nearby servant.
‘Timma, we are arrived,’ Leo said gently. ‘Come, your agonies are almost over. Valentine is waiting to catch you.’
Timothia thrust her lids fully open, saw the anxious eyes in Valentine’s pretty features, and gasped out only, ‘It is my ankle,’ then all but fell as she was lowered from the horse, into his waiting arms.
She could hear Leo’s voice issuing orders right and left, and knew that she was being carried immediately behind him.
‘The downstairs parlour, Valentine. I must first get that boot off. Crieff, get me a knife. Make sure it is good and sharp! Mrs Salcombe, do you run ahead and prepare. And someone fetch me brandy. At once!’
Footsteps clattered ahead as Leo led the way up the short stone stairway to the high portico, and through the open double doors into the airy hall. A medley of voices penetrated Timothia’s consciousness.
‘This way, Valentine.’
‘Take care, sir! The doorjambs!’
‘I have her safe, don’t worry.’
‘Lay her down, sir. The head here, sir, where I have piled the cushions.’
‘No, no, the other way, Mrs Salcombe. It is the right ankle that is injured and I cannot get at it from that side. Give me those cushions!’
Profuse apologies followed from the housekeeper, and a flurry of movement at the sofa, presumably to change the arrangements to suit Leo’s purpose.
‘There, Valentine, all is ready.’
‘Here we go, Timma. Gently, now.’
Timothia felt a softness at her back, and her head came blessedly to rest upon a bank of cushions.
‘Not her legs! Wait a moment. We must support the ankle… There, that will do it.’
Her legs were laid down, and as the injured foot came to rest its protest drew a groan from her lips.
‘Have you the cognac there? Give me the glass!’
Timothia felt her head raised. Something cool was put to her lips, and Leo’s voice came from near at hand.
‘Timma, drink this!’
Timothia forced her eyes open again. Leo’s features, looking stern and determined, met her dazed vision. ‘What—what is it?’
‘Brandy. Open your mouth, and drink. It will help you bear the pain when I remove your boot.’
She tried to shake her head, a protest more against the promised additional pain than a refusal to drink. But Leo was insistent, and she did as she was bid, feeling the fiery liquid burn down her throat. She spluttered a little, but felt the better for the warming sensation that swept through her chest.
‘Take this, Valentine.’
Timothia found Leo’s face again, and Valentine somewhere behind, hovering with a glass in his hand. Both were exhibiting anxiety, but Leo met her eyes and smiled. He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it.
‘You’ll do now, dear one.’
Timothia’s heart contracted, and tears stung her eyelids. But Leo was turning away to speak to Valentine, and he did not see. He stood up, and Timothia closed her eyes again, fighting for control. There was a murmur of voices, and she thought she heard mention of the doctor.
‘Should not you wait for him, if he has been sent for?’
‘Who knows whether he will be immediately available? It has waited long enough. I am sure Preseley will say I should go ahead.’
Preseley? Oh, but what of his daughter? Little redheaded Jenny, who must be disappointed in her hopes now that Timothia had been brought home to Wiggin Hall. Home? What was she thinking? This was Leo’s home, not hers. But what had he said? Dear one. His voice cut into her inchoate thoughts.
‘Timma, I’m afraid this is going to hurt.’
It was an understatement. There was a cutting sound, and such a resurgence of pain that Timothia only now realised that it had before dulled a trifle. Like a scorching fire, it endured for several seconds, until Timothia came within an ace of begging for a halt. Then her foot was moved, and a wave of violent agony hit her. Her head swam, she was aware of a scream somewhere in her mind, and then she knew no more.
A pulsing throb penetrated into Timothia’s unquiet dreams, and she shuddered into wakefulness. The throb continued, and at length she identified its source. Her ankle! Oh, yes, she remembered now. She had fallen from Faithful’s back. Leo had brought her to Wiggin. She was on the sofa in the parlour downstairs.
Her lashes flickered on surroundings she did not recognise. What was this? A tester above her head? Daylight streaming from the windows, two of which were open to the sun-filled air. Between them, a chest of drawers, and a large armoire across the room. She was in a bedchamber! Lifting the sheet in sudden question, she discovered that she had been stripped of her habit and every garment under it, barring only her shift.
Timothia started up, and saw that her bared foot and ankle were protruding from the blankets, resting upon a pillow. To her fascination, despite the continuous throbbing ache, she discovered the huge puffy goitre that protruded from her ankle.
‘It is twice the normal size!’ she uttered in a dazed voice, noting that quite half her foot had grown.
‘I’m afraid that was my fault,’ came Leo’s voice.
She started, looking frantically about. He was standing by a small table on her other side. He grinned at her shocked expression.
‘You need not look like that. All the proprieties have been observed. Mrs Salcombe is here. Look!’
Timothia followed his pointing finger, and discovered that the elderly housekeeper was seated in a chair on the other side, just out of the periphery of her immediate vision.
‘What a turn you gave us, Miss Timma,’ said the woman, clasping pudgy hands against her tubby waist over the bombazine gown. ‘Thank goodness Mr Leo was able to fetch you back safe!’
She was well known to Timothia, who knew her to be well disposed towards her, as were most of Leo’s staff. Her kinship, as well as her special friendship with the scion of the house, had ensured a warm welcome whenever she came to visit. Which, in the past, had been oftener than she could count.
‘You are very good, Mrs Salcombe,’ she said with a smile, sinking back onto the pillows. ‘I trust that it was you who put me to bed?’
‘Gracious me, ma’am, I should think it was! You was still in the swoon you fell into when Mr Leo took off the boot—which I can’t say that I was sorry for.’
‘Nor I,’ put in Leo ruefully, perching on the other side of the bed. ‘It was the very devil to get the thing off. I had to hack it about quite dreadfully, and I am very sure that the injury has become even more inflamed because of it.’
He sounded distressed, and without even thinking what she was doing Timothia put out her hand to him. His fingers closed about her own, and warmth enveloped her.
‘You have done altogether too much for me, Leo, and I am very grateful. Thank you.’
‘Nonsense!’ he said curtly, and withdrew his hand. Did she suppose he could have done less? He saw that her eyes had clouded, and was instantly conscious of regret. He should not have spoken like that. She must still be in a state of shock, poor Timma, though she sounded a good deal more coherent.
It had been Valentine who had pointed out to him that she had fainted away. He had been glad of it, for she had screamed with the pain, and he had known how much he must have hurt her. Whatever else might be at fault, Timma was the pluckiest female of his acquaintance—proven in the way she had borne the ride home with scarce a murmur. Had she not lost consciousness, he would have found it hard indeed to continue.
But, the boot once off, both he and Valentine had agreed that he had done the right thing, for the ankle had swelled visibly before their eyes. Leo had hastily lifted his cousin in his arms and borne her upstairs to this bedchamber, detailing Mrs Salcombe to undress her as quickly as possible while she was still unconscious, so that she would not suffer any further discomfort. Valentine had gone off hastily on the next errand which they had agreed between them would be the best solution to Timma’s present situation, and he had himself waited outside the door until the housekeeper and a maid had completed their task.
He had been watching Timma from the bedside, torn by mixed sensations. Distress at the pale cast of her features, the flaxen locks spread about the pillows. And another feeling, less welcome, and even more disturbing. To his relief, she had woken a few moments later, pulling him out of it. He had not had time to think of the implications of her present situation on the current disturbed relations between them, but that she should thank him in the manner of a guest had brought them forcibly to his mind. She had withdrawn her gaze from his, and Leo found himself subject to a feeling of constraint. He was relieved when she turned a frowning gaze upon him, breaking the silence.
‘My horse, Leo. What happened to him?’
‘Tarbert has him safe,’ he replied, seizing the subject. ‘He is quite unharmed. We will send to Bickley presently to fetch him home, never fear.’ He grinned. ‘Meanwhile, Faithful is welcome to eat his head off in my stables.’
Timothia laughed weakly. ‘I have no doubt he will, insensitive brute! He could think of nothing better to do even while I was lying out there half fainting. I called him, hoping to pull myself up by the rein. But would he come?’
‘You mean he refused to leave off nibbling at the grass? The selfishness of horses never ceases to amaze me!’
Although Timothia smiled, she said nothing more for several moments, for the reminder of her accident brought a resurgence of consciousness to add to her discomforts. She bethought her of her rescuers.
‘I must send to thank the Clents.’
‘No need. I have already despatched some small token to Mrs Clent through young Ned. He rode over with your gloves, hat and whip, which I was too preoccupied to think of.’
‘That was kind, Leo. Thank you.’
‘I wish you will stop thanking me,’ he uttered tetchily. ‘Anyone would suppose we had been strangers!’
Timothia bit her lip against an upsurge of distress. But Leo was already remorseful. His hand covered hers where it lay on the coverlet. ‘I didn’t mean it. Pay no heed to me!’ He gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I am still in shock, I believe. To see you lying here, so white and still!’
He was gripping her fingers, and Timothia winced. Leo saw it, looked down, and realised what he was doing. Releasing her, he shifted a little away.
‘Was I in a swoon for long?’ she asked.
‘Mercifully, yes,’ he replied. ‘It took me a good ten minutes to remove the boot. Then I carried you up here, and left you to Mrs Salcombe and a maid.’
‘It’s been about a half-hour, Miss Timma, no longer,’ the housekeeper assured her. ‘Here, do you have a sip of this before the doctor arrives.’
Timothia eyed the cup she was proffering with some suspicion. ‘Is it more brandy?’
‘Brandy? Gracious, ma’am, no, indeed!’
‘It is a herbal infusion,’ Leo said quickly. ‘I only gave you brandy for the shock. This is camomile, so Mrs Salcombe says, and intended to help you to relax.’
‘You had better have some brandy yourself,’ said Timothia, with an attempt at humour as the housekeeper presented the cup to her lips. She sipped a little of the liquid, but very soon brought a wavering hand up to push it away. ‘No more, I thank you.’ Suddenly weary, she closed her eyes.
She was looking drawn, and Leo was aware again of that unsettling sensation of distress. ‘Are you still in much pain?’
‘It is throbbing a trifle,’ she admitted, thrusting her eyelids up again.
Inevitably, Leo thought, after what he had been obliged to do to that boot. Aloud, he said coolly, ‘I dare say it will do so for some while yet. But Preseley will be here at any moment. I hope that he may be able to make you a degree more comfortable.’
Timothia did not look forward to the doctor’s coming with any comfort at all, for he was bound to maul the ankle about in order to find out just what injury she had sustained. But she was at least the more at ease for lying down, and, it had to be admitted, for having had her clothes removed—not to say the offending boot. Her head was no longer subject to the dizzy faintness she had been experiencing, and the nausea had subsided. She was able to think more clearly, and was inclined to believe that the brief respite of unconsciousness had done her good, despite the throb at her ankle.
A knock at the door made Leo rise quickly from the bed. ‘I dare say this is Preseley now.’
So indeed it proved, for Timothia recognised him the moment he entered the bedchamber. Dr Preseley was a dapper little man in his early forties, of attractive appearance and a kindly bedside manner. He was neatly dressed as befitted his calling, in a dark suit and a modestly knotted cravat. He did not affect the physical wig, as did so many of his colleagues in the same profession, but wore his own hair tied in the nape of his neck. It was, Timothia noticed for the first time in her life, the colour of faded autumn leaves. Preseley had served as physician to both the Dulverton and Wetheral families throughout most of her own and her cousin’s growing years, following in his own father’s footsteps. There had been a Preseley on hand to minister to the ailments of the local gentry for two generations. Unfortunately, this Preseley had no son to continue the tradition.
Timothia was at once struck by the resemblance she was now able to perceive in his grown-up daughter, to whom he had obviously bequeathed his stature as well as the colour of his hair and the set of his features. It was the more noticeable because, to her instant consternation, Jenny Preseley herself followed her father into the room.
‘My poor dear Miss Dulverton,’ began the doctor, advancing towards the bed. ‘I am so sorry to see you in such a case. Your ankle has suffered, as I understand it?’
As she responded in the affirmative, Timothia’s eyes went directly to Jenny, as Preseley immediately bent over the injured member and ran his fingers gently about the swelling in the practised manner of a professional.
‘Dear Miss Dulverton,’ uttered his daughter, coming to the side of the bed that Leo had vacated, ‘I do hope you don’t mind my coming with Papa.’
‘I thought you were staying with Mrs Baguley,’ Timothia blurted out, surprise—not altogether welcome!—making her forget her manners. Realising how uncivil it must appear, she added quickly, ‘No, of course I don’t mind it.’
‘I am so glad,’ said Jenny, with a shy smile. ‘I was only staying with Mrs Baguley in London. Since my return I have been at home, except for accompanying her to parties.’
‘Otherwise, she is accompanying me on my labours of mercy,’ laughed her father, looking up. ‘She is quite useful to me, you know, for I am often in need of assistance.’
‘I have been attending my father since I was a child,’ put in Jenny.
Yes, thought Timothia, remembering. That was how she had recalled the girl, with her mop of red hair. It was more like burnished bronze now, enriched with gold, the red catching alight here and there as it filtered through the curling locks that fell prettily from under a chip straw hat. She was clad in the white muslin that stamped all the débutantes in these times, but of a cut that bore testimony to Mrs Baguley’s fashion sense. Timothia was obliged to admit that she looked enchanting. She felt a sigh from deep within her, and was glad when her attention was drawn from contemplation of the girl by her father’s next words.
‘Now, Miss Dulverton,’ he said apologetically, ‘I am going to hurt you a trifle.’
Timothia braced herself, but said lightly, ‘You cannot do worse than my cousin has already done.’
‘Oh, but I am sure he did not mean it, dear Miss Dulverton,’ came the pleading tones of Jenny.
‘Nor did Miss Dulverton, my dear,’ pointed out her father, laughing. ‘If you had known these two as long as I have, child, you would not take seriously anything they say about one another.’
Timothia wondered what Leo might have to say to that, and discovered, on looking about, that he had left the room. Only Mrs Salcombe remained, stalwart in her chair by the bed—presumably in her role as chaperon. She was relieved, for at least Leo had not been here to witness her discomposure at the appearance of Jenny Preseley.
The examination which Dr Preseley proceeded to carry out tried her fortitude pretty high, and removed any spark of interest she might have retained in the fact of Jenny’s unwanted presence. He must, he explained, feel for the wound.
‘I am suspicious of the extreme amount of the swelling, and I did not care for the description given to me by Mr Wetheral of your sufferings upon the event.’
He asked a series of questions at the same time, which Timothia answered only with difficulty, biting down on the protests at his ministrations that were ready to issue instead from her lips. But at last he appeared to be satisfied, and he laid the limb down again upon its cushion. Timothia sighed with relief, and relaxed into the pillows, trying to overcome the resurgence of dizziness brought on by the increased pain.
Dr Preseley came to the bedside. ‘Well, now, Miss Dulverton, I fear that you must resign yourself to a period of inactivity. I cannot be sure, you see, that you have not cracked a bone or two.’
Timothia’s chest went hollow. ‘Do not say I have broken it! But that will take weeks to mend!’
‘Not necessarily,’ said the doctor soothingly. ‘I suspect one or more fractures, for there are numerous little bones in the ankle, you must know. If it had been a serious break, there would likely be a deformity in the position of the foot. That, I am glad to say, is not the case.’
A ragged breath left Timothia’s lips. ‘I am relieved to hear you say so.’
‘But we are not out of the woods, my dear. What I wish you to do is to lie here quietly, and I am going to cradle this foot and ankle to keep it still. I will not attempt either to bandage or to splint you until tomorrow, when we will see what has happened to the swelling.’
Timothia gazed at him, quite horrified. ‘You don’t mean that I must remain in bed? But for how long? And how in the world am I to do all that is needful…?’ She petered out, unwilling to put into words the horrors she envisaged at being bedridden, even for a short time.
‘There are always ways and means,’ said Preseley, smiling a little. ‘I will advise the good Mrs Salcombe here, who will no doubt arrange everything to your satisfaction.’
Ways and means? Timothia was not in the least satisfied. Apart from the personal routines of the day, how could she remain in Leo’s house unchaperoned? Indeed, how could she remain here at all—under the circumstances?
‘But may I not be taken home?’ she pleaded. Although she could not, in truth, look forward with any degree of comfort to the prospect of another journey in her present state. Perhaps one night at Wiggin Hall would not prove harmful.
‘There is no question of your going home today,’ replied the doctor regretfully.
‘Well, tomorrow, then?’
He shook his head with decision. ‘I think, Miss Dulverton, that you must make up your mind to it that you will not leave this house for some little while.’