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SIR GERALD EXITED HIS study in time to see the accident and Marisa’s earnest attempt to save her mother from harm. But Lady Craethorne, though half a head shorter, was a stone heavier than her daughter and so brought Marisa to the floor with her, ending up in an unceremonious pile of skirts at the bottom of the staircase. Marisa disentangled herself at once and helped her mother as she struggled to sit up.
Sir Gerald hurried to his wife’s side. “Rebecca, my dear, are you hurt?”
“I...I don’t know.”
Her bonnet had come off and several stray curls now framed her face, which had blanched white, no doubt with shock. He helped her up, but as soon as she placed weight on her foot, she clung to her husband’s arm for support.
“My ankle! Oh, dear, it...it feels as if it might be broken!” And with that, she fainted, falling helplessly against him.
Sir Gerald picked her up in his arms with no great effort. “My poor love,” he whispered. Then, to Dudley, who had just entered the front hall, he barked, “Send for Dr. Smithson.”
“Yes, sir, at once.”
Marisa followed Sir Gerald upstairs, watching her mother’s pale figure with concern, and held the door as he carried her into her chambers and laid her gently on the four-poster bed. He called to Gertie to bring smelling salts, and the young abigail arrived in seconds, clutching a bottle of the malodorous crystals, which she passed to him with a trembling hand.
One whiff brought her mother to, and she pushed the offensive stench away, trying to sit up.
“Lie still, Rebecca.” Sir Gerald pressed her back down against the pillows. “You fell, and then you fainted. I’ve sent for the physician.”
“Oh, heavens.” She moaned. “The least movement of my foot is sheer agony.” She turned her head to look past her husband to Marisa. “Dearest, were you injured?”
Marisa came forward and grasped her outstretched hand. “No, Mama, I’m not hurt.”
“Bring two large pillows to place under her foot,” Sir Gerald ordered Gertie. “And we must have ice fetched from the deep cellar.”
“I can see to the ice, Papa.” Marisa’s gaze met his directly for the first time since their argument the day before.
Sir Gerald considered her and then nodded. “Very well. Have several large pieces crushed fine then wrapped in a towel and brought up at once.”
Marisa gave her mother’s hand a reassuring squeeze and hurried back downstairs.
* * * *
THE DOCTOR ARRIVED an hour later. Sir Gerald and Marisa, who’d awaited him with no small amount of anxiety, rushed to the entry hall to greet him. Despite the application of the cold-packed cloth, Lady Craethorne’s right ankle had swollen far beyond what was normal for a simple sprain.
The physician proceeded upstairs to check on the patient. Long minutes ticked by as Marisa perched on the bottom step of the grand staircase. Sir Gerald paced, looking more worried than he had in a very long time.
Dr. Smithson finally joined them again in the front hall. “I’ve instructed the maid on the proper wrapping of restrictive bindings for Lady Craethorne’s ankle. Ice should be used off and on through the day, if any more is available. After that, the foot should be soaked often in a bowl of water as warm as the lady can tolerate. It is most likely only a bad sprain that a few weeks’ rest will set right. For now, she is to rest until I come back tomorrow to check her progress.”
Sir Gerald assured the doctor that his instructions would be followed and saw the man to his waiting carriage. “I shall go at once and see if my mother needs anything more to be comfortable,” Marisa said as he came back into the house.
“Marisa.” He stopped her, this time with a gentle hand on her arm. “Earlier, you...called me Papa. You have not done so for a long time, and I do not know why you would do so now, after our...unpleasantness...yesterday. I can only hope you will overlook our argument as I intend to. I realize now how surprised you must have been by my great hopes for you.”
“To tell the truth, sir, I was completely at a loss. I was unaware, you see, that you have friends so highly placed in the ton.”
“You could not. They are from my past and I have had no reason to speak of them. But they will make you welcome in London, dear. There is no need to fear.”
“No, of course not. I’m sure they’ll be most kind.”
“You may depend upon it. Now, child, go to your mother. If she needs anything, please see to it, or if you cannot, inform me at once.”
* * * *
MARISA READ TO HER mother for several hours that afternoon from a novel that she had purchased when she was last in Dorchester. The authoress, identified simply as “A Lady,” told the story of two sisters who viewed life in very different ways.
Lady Craethorne found it exceedingly silly, she assured her daughter, yet protested when Marisa offered to put it aside. “After all, I must have something to alleviate the boredom if I am to be confined to this bed for the next few months.”
“Months? Didn’t the doctor say a few weeks at most?”
“Oh, what foolishness. I am the one with the pain, and I am certain it will take much longer than that to heal.”
“Mama, you worry for nothing, and I know you will be in the best of health in no time at all. You must heal soon, for you’ve looked forward to London.”
“That, indeed, is true. Well, perhaps you are right. I will reserve judgement for a few days, at least. But I declare, nothing has pained me so greatly since—” she stopped, then smiled. “I suppose you are old enough, dearest, to know of such things. I doubt if it will be more than a year or two before you are married and then soon having children of your own. At least when a woman is confined, she has a precious babe when her ordeal is over.”
She sighed and Marisa suspected she’d turned her thoughts from the present and her injury to someone else and a time long ago. “You think of Henry, Mama, do you not?” She asked the question with the utmost gentleness.
Marisa had been but a child of eight, but she still recalled the exuberance that filled Craethorne Manor at the birth of her little brother, Henry, and the overwhelming grief that chased their joy away when the infant died at the age of six months from an unrelenting fever. She’d been convinced that the fever would spread and take them all. Were it not for the kindness of her governess, Miss Bainbridge, who consoled her and explained as best she could what had happened, Marisa would have been frightened to death.
Lady Craethorne nodded, wiping away a tear. “I remember him often, dearest. He would have been such a handsome boy now and so like his father, I’m sure of it. I regret now my reluctance to have another child. There should be an heir, someone to pass the legacy of the baronetcy on to. I believe that every man wants a son, and I have deprived my husband of that.”
“He appears content enough.” Marisa hoped the observation would cheer her mother.
“Yes, I suppose so, which is truly a blessing. For it seems that all I shall have to show for this confinement is a pile of bandages and an ankle with a tendency to swell all out of proportion to the other whenever the weather turns foul.”
“Your ankle would never swell, Mama.” Marisa smiled. “It is much too delicate and refined for that.”
“Refined, perhaps—” Lady Craethorne eyed her injured foot with a frown “—but I am afraid it will never be delicate again. Ah, well, at least I’m not a young girl still trying to establish herself. I may grow old and fat at my leisure, for I believe my husband’s devotion to be unwavering.”
“Are you certain of that, Mama?” Marisa had never suspected Sir Gerald of infidelity, but could that not change in the whirl of a London Season? “Can any man’s attentions be counted on to be forever constant?”
Her mother regarded her with an arched brow. “I admit that I have been so concerned with your debut that I have spent little time with my husband of late, so I suppose there is some truth there. A woman should always be interested in her husband’s activities, just as he should inquire how the wife passes her time. It allows for much more congeniality in a marriage, and a man and his wife are closer as a result of it.”
“I will try to remember that when I am married, Mama. It’s sound advice, I believe. But now, I think I should leave you. Dr. Smithson said you needed rest. Shall I call Gertie for you?”
“No, my dear. I need nothing at the moment except time for some quiet reflection. Please tell her to come to me a half hour early, if you would, for dinner. I will require extra time to dress.”
“Surely you are not coming down to table?”
“No, I shall not attempt that at present. I’ll dine in my sitting room, and perhaps I can persuade my husband to join me there.” Lady Craethorne took Marisa’s hand. “I pray you know what a comfort you are to me, dearest.”