When it started raining, Gareth thought there was probably something wrong.
Granted, that was no sure thing. It was autumn in England, and the last few days had been sullen and drizzly, enough so he’d been keeping to the flagstone paths in the garden rather than risk his leg on the wet ground. He’d been expecting to feel a drop or two any moment and to go inside when they became steady.
Instead, the clouds overhead opened.
By the time Gareth reached the shelter of the house again, he was muttering under his breath, curses he’d picked up from his men and which, therefore, he cut off quickly as he glimpsed a female figure at the end of the hall. Wiping the water away from his face, he saw it was Mrs. Brightmore, gripping Fitzpatrick’s shoulder firmly and glaring sideways at Fairley.
Outside, he heard the rain already beginning to slack off.
“Because other people aren’t there for our convenience, that’s why,” Mrs. Brightmore was saying. “Even—especially if we can do things they can’t.”
“So I shouldn’t bother—?” Fitzpatrick began, his voice muffled and nasal. Now Gareth saw he was holding a handkerchief to his face. Blood had already liberally spotted the white cotton.
“That’s entirely different.”
“Why?” asked Fitzpatrick.
“I’ll explain later. When your nose isn’t broken.” She turned back toward the hall, saw Gareth, and gave him a look that mingled relief and apology. She didn’t quite hide her resentment at feeling both. “Dr. St. John,” she said, “I’m so sorry to disturb you, particularly now, but we seem to have a situation.”
“So I see,” he said and repressed a sigh.
“We can, however, wait for you to”—Mrs. Brightmore waved a hand—“to be more comfortable. Michael, go upstairs and have one of the servants bring some towels. And a pot of tea. Then go to your room and wait for me there.”
“But—”
“I really don’t think—” Gareth began even as Fairley opened his mouth to protest.
“Now, please,” said Mrs. Brightmore.
The tone sent Fairley up the stairs without further ado and even made Gareth flinch. Inwardly, of course. He cleared his throat. “I’m much obliged, ma’am, but I’ll see Fitzpatrick now. I have,” he added in response to the dubious look on her face, “worked under far worse conditions.”
The nose was indeed broken, Gareth saw once they’d gotten into his office, and bleeding copiously, as such things often did. Fitzpatrick was bearing the pain decently well for a boy his age, but he stifled a yelp when Gareth touched his face. There was some bruising as well, or would be. “Will I be seeing the other fellow after this?”
Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Not a fight,” he mumbled. “Practicing.” He glanced over at Mrs. Brightmore, straightened his shoulders, and added, “Broke a lamp too. One of the round ones with pendant things.”
“Having trouble telling the difference between the library and a cricket ground, are we?” Gareth asked, recognizing the description. From where Mrs. Brightmore was sitting, hands folded very properly in her lap, he heard a sound that might have been suppressed laughter. He fought back a smile of his own, reminding himself he didn’t actually like the woman and therefore didn’t want to join her in anything so comradely as humor.
“We’ll pay. Pocket money and that.”
“Mm.” Not really his concern. Gareth placed one hand under the boy’s chin. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”
Straightening a broken nose was, by now, one of the tasks he could perform in his sleep. To Fitzpatrick’s credit, he didn’t cry out, just sucked in air and grimaced. Gareth had seen worse from men twice his age.
“That’s the worst of it,” he said and shifted his hands, putting one on each side of Fitzpatrick’s face, fingertips pointing to the nose. He tried to be careful of the bruises. “This is just going to be a bit odd.”
Had there been another sound from the side? A sound a woman might make perhaps if she were shifting her weight to get a better view? No matter. Mrs. Brightmore wasn’t his concern either.
Gareth closed his eyes. Shifting his focus was easy—he’d done it since he was younger than Fitzpatrick or even Fairley—and correcting the injury would be almost as simple. Child’s play, one might say, certainly compared to what he’d been doing a few years ago.
When he opened his eyes and looked at Fitzpatrick, he saw a man-shaped web of gray-and-silver threads in all different sizes, thickest near the boy’s heart and brain, thinner out near his hands and feet and on the surface of his face. Now a few of the latter were broken, the thickest running down the bridge of his nose. It hadn’t snapped entirely, Gareth saw as he looked closer, but it was worn away in parts, and the rest was unraveling.
It didn’t take much effort at this point, or even much thought, to reach out and weave part of his energy into the threads, shoring up the unraveling parts and bridging between the broken ends. He worked, carefully aware of how long he’d been out of practice, making sure all of the fastenings joined snugly to one another. He pulled his senses back a little and saw the threads were whole again. Not as good as new—he could still see the edges—but they’d heal the rest of the way soon enough. He closed his eyes again and refocused on the world as he usually saw it.
Fitzpatrick’s face was still covered in blood, but his nose had stopped bleeding. The straightening had held too, and there was no incipient swelling or even bruising. The boy raised a hand to touch it. “It…doesn’t hurt!”
“No,” Gareth said, turning away to run a clean handkerchief under cold water. “It won’t. Though I don’t recommend hitting it with anything for a little while. Certainly not a cricket ball.”
“I’ll take it right out of my plans, sir, I promise,” Fitzpatrick replied, clearly regaining his old self by the minute.
“Right,” said Gareth and handed him the handkerchief. “Wash, and let’s make sure there’s no bruising.”
Now that he had a moment, he reached for the buttons of his jacket. He’d already gotten rid of his hat. There was only so much he could do about the rest of his clothing until Mrs. Brightmore took herself and Fitzpatrick out of his office. Furthermore, she was a widow. She was, or had been, a fraud, and Gareth didn’t feel particularly obligated to retain his soaked jacket for the sake of her theoretical modesty.
Healing always made Gareth hungry and a little cold. Under the circumstances, neither was doing much for his temper.
He glanced over at Mrs. Brightmore, not sure whether it was to warn her or gauge her likely reaction, and found himself meeting her eyes. She’d been looking at him, it seemed, and Gareth thought he saw surprise in her pretty face. Perhaps even astonishment.
A greater man wouldn’t have found the realization gratifying. Gareth had no pretense to greatness.
***
Of course he was smug. Wretched man. His smile, polite enough to the casual observer, was only barely on the correct side of a smirk.
Olivia looked straight back at him, refusing to drop her gaze. She couldn’t do anything about her blush, curse it, but she told herself she had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I had no idea you were so talented, Dr. St. John,” she said, trying to sound casual and knowing she didn’t quite manage it.
“As you said, it’s an extraordinary school. I don’t think the average doctor would have sufficed.” A lock of his wet hair was hanging in his face. It should have made him seem less equal to the conversation. Instead, Olivia had the purely idiotic urge to brush it back.
She didn’t look down at her hands, but she flexed her fingers, making sure they stayed laced together and her hands stayed in her lap. “A sound judgment. And certainly one that’s been helpful today.”
No, she still sounded breathless. Damn her stays, Olivia thought. She should have followed Charlotte’s example and left them off long ago.
“Much obliged,” St. John said again. He looked away, and Olivia felt a moment of satisfaction, but it was only to continue unbuttoning his jacket. “Towel, please,” he added, and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or Fitzpatrick. She passed him a towel anyway.
The jacket came off slowly, not that Olivia was watching, and the white shirt underneath had been considerably dampened by the rain. She caught a glimpse of tan skin and dark hair, and observed that St. John’s arms and chest weren’t badly developed, for all that he was thin. Not badly developed at all.
Not that she was looking.
She swallowed, lifted her gaze to the shelf of books above St. John’s head, and found an opening. “I hope my classes have been helpful, then,” she said. “I didn’t know you were seeking information for yourself.”
St. John paused, towel midway to his head. “I hadn’t been,” he said mildly, as if it were a matter of no import, and resumed drying his hair.
A hit, Olivia thought, but a quick recovery. She pressed what advantage she had. “I beg your pardon,” she replied, trying to echo his offhand tone. “I should’ve known you’d be well schooled in theory.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Practice does well enough for me.” The towel came down, and St. John met her eyes again. “I’ve had a few years of it, after all.”
“I’ve washed my face,” Fitzpatrick announced. “May I go now, sir?”
St. John snapped his gaze back to the boy with a speed that made Olivia smile. To his credit, he did provide a quick but thorough inspection before he replied, “You can,” but the words were too quick. There was a retreat there.
“Thank you, Dr. St. John,” said Olivia, rising from her seat. “I’ll try to avoid any further interruptions.”
“Please do,” he said. “Or wait until I’ve dried off.”
Olivia took herself out, wondering who’d won that round. It was a waste of time to consider it, she told herself. Scoring points was childish. She didn’t want to fight with the man, and she certainly didn’t wish Fitzpatrick hadn’t interrupted.
Not at all.