Джорджетт Хейер - Sprig Muslin

“Yes, of course!” Hildebrand said eagerly. “But I don’t know how to get there, or—or where to find the doctor, or what to do if he should not be at home!”

“Oh, do try not to be so helpless!” cried Amanda. “This woman will tell you where he lives, and if he is gone out you will follow him—and do not dare to come back without him!” She then turned on Mrs. Chicklade, and said: “Tell him eaxctly where to go, for you can see how stupid he far

“I am not stupid!” retorted Hildebrand, stung to anger. “But I was never in this part of the country before, and I don’t even know in which direction I should ride!”

“No!” retorted Amanda, already halfway up the steep stairs. “I don’t know either, but I wouldn’t stand there looking like a gaby, and saying how—how—how!”

With that, she sped on her way, leaving him seething with indignation, but considerably stiffened by a determination to prove to her his worth.

Amanda found the landlord tightening the bandages round Sir Gareth’s torso, and directing the post-boy to fetch up some brandy from the tap. She was thankful to perceive that in this large, stolid man she had acquired a helper who could apparently act on his own initiative, and asked him anxiously if he thought Sir Gareth would live.

“There’s no saying, miss,” he replied unencouragingly. “He ain’t slipped his wind yet, but I’d say he’s lost a deal of claret. We’ll see if we can get a drop of brandy down his throat.”

But when the post-boy came back with this restorative, closely followed by Mrs. Chicklade, it was found to be of no avail, for it ran out of the corners of Sir Gareth’s mouth. The landlord thought this a shocking waste of good liquor, and set the glass down, saying that there was nothing for it but to send for the doctor. When Amanda disclosed that Hildebrand had already sped forth on this errand, the post-boy was loud in his disapproval. He said that the young varmint would never be seen again, and at once launched into a graphic description of the hold-up.

Until that moment, the Chicklades knew no more than they had learnt from Hildebrand, which was very little. So strange a story as was now recounted immediately convinced Mrs. Chicklade that she had been only too right when she had strongly counselled her husband not to have anything to do with a desperately wounded man. She had known from the moment of clapping eyes on Hildebrand that there was something havey-cavey about him; and as for Amanda, she would like to know, she said, how she came to be hand-in-glove with such a murdering young rascal.

“I wish you will stop thinking he is a highwayman!” said Amanda. “It was all make-believe—just funning!”

“Funning?”gasped Mrs. Chicklade.

“Yes, I tell you! He never meant to fire his pistol: indeed, he promised me he would not!”

“What did he want to take and cock it for, if he wasn’t meaning to fire it, miss?” demanded the post-boy shrewdly.

“Oh, that was in case you would not pull up!” explained Amanda. “To fire over your head, and put you in a fright. And although I didn’t wish him to do so at first I must say I am excessively sorry now that he didn’t, because if only he had there would have been no harm done.”

“I never did!” exclaimed Mrs. Chicklade. “Why, you’re as bad as he is! I believe the pair of you was in a plot to rob the poor gentleman, and what I want to know is how you came to wheedle yourself into his company, which it’s as plain as a pikestaff you must ha’ done, and very likely too, for a bolder piece I never did see, not in all my days!”

“Easy, now!” interposed the landlord, in his deep voice. “I’ll allow it’s a queer-sounding business, but you’ve no call to speak so rough to the young lady, my dear. Who is the gentleman, missie?”

“I can tell you that!” said the post-boy officiously. “He’s Sir Gareth Ludlow, and a bang-up tulip, and him and her was putting-up in Kimbolton last night. He hired me for to carry them to Bedford.”

The landlord looked Amanda over thoughtfully. “Well, now, miss, you ain’t his wife, because you’ve got no ring on your finger, and he don’t look to me old enough to be your pa, nor yet young enough to be your brother, so what’s the game?”

“Ah, answer that if you can!” said Mrs. Chicklade.

“He is my uncle,” replied Amanda calmly. “And also he is Mr. Ross’s uncle. Mr. Ross is the man who shot him, but quite by accident. In fact, Mr. Ross and I are cousins, and it is true that we were hand-in-glove, but only to play a trick on Sir Gareth. But Sir Gareth recognized him, and I daresay he knew that he was not at all to be trusted with a pistol, because he told him not to brandish it about, and said he was a young fool. Didn’t he?”

“Ay,” responded the post-boy reluctantly. “But—”

“And then you got off your horse, and of course my cousin thought you meant to attack him, which was the cause of the accident. Because that put him in a fluster. And then his horse began to be very restive, and in the middle of it all the gun went off. He never, never meant to fire at Sir Gareth! He wasn’t even looking at him!”

“He said to the gentleman, If you come a step nearer,I’ll fire! he said. Yes, and he threatened to blow the head off my shoulders, what’s more!”

“It seems to me a great pity that he didn’t do so!” said Amanda. “I am quite tired of talking to anyone so stupid! If you had a particle of commonsense you would know that if he had wished to escape he might have done so when you were helping me to bind the neckcloths round Sir Gareth! And if he had meant to shoot Sir Gareth, he wouldn’t have fallen down in a swoon, in that silly way, which you know very well he did!”

“Swooned off, did he?” said the landlord. “It don’t surprise me. He was looking just about as sick as a cushion when he came bursting in here. Seems to me it’s likely as not it happened the way you say it did, miss, but there’s no sense in argufying, whatever the rights of it may be. Martha my dear, you take the young lady to the other bedchamber, where she can wash the blood off her hands, and put on a clean gown. When you’ve done that, you can pop a brick in the oven, because the gentleman’s powerful cold. And as for you, young fellow, you can fetch up his baggage, and help me get the clothes off him, so as he can be laid between sheets comfortable.”

Amanda cast a doubtful glance at Sir Gareth, but as she could think of nothing she could do to revive him, and the landlord seemed dependable, she allowed herself to be led by her disapproving hostess into the room beside the one to which Sir Gareth had been carried.

By the time Hildebrand returned to the inn, announcing that the doctor was following as fast as he could in his gig, not only had Amanda changed her gown, but she had further alienated Mrs. Chicklade by demanding milk for Joseph. Mrs. Chicklade said that she couldn’t abide cats, and wouldn’t have a pesky kitten in her kitchen, getting under her feet, but as her lord happened to come in just then, wanting to know whether the brick wasn’t hot enough yet, and told her not to be disobliging, Joseph got his milk.

Chicklade reported that Sir Gareth had come out of his swoon for a brief period, when his boots were being pulled off. He had muttered something unintelligible, and had sunk back into unconsciousness before he could be got to swallow any brandy, but Chicklade considered it hopeful that he had even for no more than a minute shown a sign of life. Hildebrand came hurrying in, to be met by these joyful tidings; and so great had been his dread that he would reach the inn only to find that Sir Gareth was dead that he burst into tears. This excess of sensibility did nothing to recommend him to Amanda, but considerably relieved the unbearable tension of his nerves. He was able, in a few moments, to listen with tolerable composure to the news that, during his absence, he had acquired two new relations.

“Do you perfectly understand?” Amanda asked anxiously. “Sir Gareth is our uncle, and you held him up because we had made a plan to play a trick on him.”

He was far from understanding, but he nodded, adding, in a hopeless tone, that when Sir Gareth came to himself he would promptly disown him.

“Of course he will not!” said Amanda. “He wouldn’t dream of doing such an unhandsome thing!”

This remark was quite incomprehensible to him, but before he could demand enlightenment the doctor had arrived, and he was left to puzzle over it in solitude.

The doctor was surprised to be received by so youthful a lady, and although he accepted without question that she was his patient’s niece he was much inclined to think that Mrs. Chicklade would be a more competent assistant to him in any surgery that he might have to perform. But when he saw what she had already done for Sir Gareth he changed his mind. While he unpacked his bag, and Chicklade went off to bring up a bowl of hot water, he asked her a good many questions about the affair, shooting a curious look at her every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows. He said finally that she was a very remarkable young lady, and begged pardon for having doubted her fortitude.

In the event, the operation of extracting the bullet was a sight which tried her fortitude severely, and it was only by a supreme exercise of will-power that she managed to remain at the bedside, handing Dr. Chantry the various instruments, and swabs of lint, which he from time to time called for.

Sir Gareth came round under the doctor’s hands, and uttered a groan that made Amanda wince in sympathy. The doctor spoke to him in in heartening accents, and he opened his eyes. After a bewildered moment, he seemed to realize what had happened to him, for he said, faintly, but perfectly clearly: “I remember. Not the boy’s fault!”

The doctor directed Chicklade, under his breath, to hold him, but after a very few minutes of endurance he lost consciousness again.

“Ay, and just as well,” grunted Dr. Chantry, when Chicklade, rather alarmed, drew his attention to this circumstance. “It’s in devilish deep, I can tell you. No sense in bringing him round, poor fellow, till I have him tied up comfortably.”

It seemed to Amanda a very long time before this last operation was performed, and she could not believe that Sir Gareth would find it comfortable. But the doctor said that by God’s mercy the bullet had not touched a vital spot, which made her feel very much more cheerful, until he added that no one could say yet how it would turn out, though he hoped that with perfect quiet and good nursing all might be well.

“But he won’t die, will he?” Amanda asked imploringly.

“I trust not, young lady, but it’s a nasty wound, and he has lost a great deal of blood. I can tell you this: if you hadn’t behaved with such presence of mind he wouldn’t be alive now.”

But Amanda, who had always longed to play a heroine’s part, could only see herself as little better than a murderess, and impatiently brushed this aside, saying: “Tell me exactly what I must do to make him better! Everything I must do!”

He patted her shoulder. “No, no, you’re too young, my dear! Now, don’t fret! I don’t anticipate that there will be any complications, but what we want is an experienced woman to look after him.”

“I’ll send round to Mrs. Bardfield, sir,” Chicklade said.

“Oh, the midwife! Ay, an excellent notion! There’s little to be done for him at present but to keep him quiet, but I shall send my boy over with a cordial, and some laudanum, in case he should grow restless. I’ve given him something to make him sleep, but if the wound should become inflamed he may develop a little fever presently. No need to be unduly anxious, however. I shall be over to take a look at him this evening, never fear!”

For a long time after the doctor’s departure, Amanda remained seated beside Sir Gareth’s bed. To her eye, Dr. Chantry did not compare favourably with such members of the faculty as had previously come in her way, but she could see that whatever it was that he had obliged his patient to swallow had certainly been of benefit to him. He was still dreadfully pale, but he no longer lay in a deathlike swoon. He seemed to be heavily asleep, but from time to time his hand, which was lying outside the blankets, twitched, or he moved his head restlessly on the pillow.

At noon, Chicklade came softly into the room, and whispered to her that Mrs. Bardfield was below-stairs, having come up from her cottage at the other end of the village to take a look at her patient.