Джорджетт Хейер - The Reluctant Widow

This, after the first hour, proved to be more difficult than he had bargained for, and he more than once thought wistfully of the bed made up for him in the best spare bedchamber. He had removed his riding boots and hidden them behind a chair, and his feet grew steadily colder as the night advanced. He was obliged at last to cast one of his pillows over them, which alleviated his discomfort so much that he presently began to drop asleep. Had Elinor but known it, he only half believed in his own arguments and had no very real conviction that an adventure did in very truth await him. He was at that stage in his development when, without having given up all hope that the wonderful would happen, only a part of his eager brain expected it. For this reason, it was with a feeling of delighted incredulity that he was aroused, when just slipping over the border between waking and sleeping, by a sound coming from the direction of the concealed cupboard. It jerked him fully awake and he raised himself on his elbow, hardly believing his own ears. But there could be no doubt about it. Someone was lifting the trap door in the cupboard.

With a gasp of excitement Nicky snatched up the pillow covering his feet, restored it to its place at the head of the four-poster, and slid from the bed to the floor on the farther side of it, his pistol firmly held in one hand. The moon was not shining in at the unshuttered window, but there was a fault gray light in the room enabling him to discern the outlines of the few pieces of furniture.

He heard the scroop of the panel sliding back and caught the reflection of a beam of yellow light cast on the wall. Whoever had entered by the secret stair had brought a lantern with him. Nicky’s heart beat fast, but although his mouth certainly felt a little dry suddenly, he was honestly delighted. He took care to remain crouched down behind the bedstead and breathlessly awaited events. The beam of light shifted. He heard shod feet softly crossing the room in the direction of the doorway and could scarcely refrain from raising his head to peep. The door handle turned with a tiny scraping sound and a creeping draft informed Nicky that the door stood open. He tried to peer under the bed and was rewarded by a glimpse of an oblong of that yellow light lying on the threshold of the room. Another instant and it disappeared. The unknown visitor had stepped out into the corridor. Nicky resolutely counted up to twenty before he allowed himself to rise from the floor. He was alone in the dim room, and the door, as he had guessed, stood open. He stole to it, taking care to cock his pistol, and saw the yellow light at the head of the uncarpeted stair. Again it halted. The unknown stood still, probably listening for any sound of stirring in the house, Nicky thought. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he could vaguely perceive the outline of a figure. He flattened himself against the wall and waited. Apparently satisfied that the house slept, the figure moved again, going stealthily down the stairs. Nicky followed at a discreet interval, his stockinged feet making no sound on the wood floor. He was so excited by this time that the heavy thudding of his heart made him feel almost sick. He stole down the stairs, sliding his hand along the baluster rail and letting it take most of his weight, to obviate any treacherous creaking of the stair boards. The hall below was closely shuttered and in dense darkness, save for the oblong of light cast by the intruder’s lantern. Nicky reached the foot of the stairs in time to see the beam light up the door of the bookroom. It stopped suddenly and veered round, as though its holder had heard some sound and was turning to discover the cause of it. Nicky instinctively stepped back, collided with the suit of rusted armor behind him, and brought it clattering to the ground, himself with it. With an exasperated oath he scrambled up, thankful that his finger had not been upon the trigger of his gun, and called out, “Stand fast! I have you covered!”

The beam of light found him out. Before he was fairly on his feet again there was a flash of whiter light, a loud report, and he was knocked over again, and knew as he fell that he had been hit. He managed to get up onto one elbow and to fire in the direction of the lantern, but although his ball shattered the lantern it missed its holder, who became lost in the thick darkness. Nicky heard the shriek of bolts drawn back and shouted frantically, “Barrow! Barrow!” The next instant a shaft of moonlight and a current of cold air streamed in through the open front door, and he knew that his quarry had made good his escape.

Upstairs in the yellow bedchamber Mrs. Cheviot had just dropped off to sleep. The first shot roused her and even as she started up, scarcely crediting her ears, the second followed it and brought her out of bed in a flash, groping for her slippers. She had kept an oil lamp burning low beside her bed and she turned it up with trembling fingers. Hastily struggling into her dressing gown she ran out of the room, calling, “Nicky, where are you? Oh, what in the world are you about?”

“I’m in the hall,” his voice answered her, a trifle faintly but reassuringly cheerful. “The devil’s in it that I missed the fellow!”

She hurried down the stairs, holding the lamp up, and saw him rather unsteadily picking himself up. “Nicky! Good God, do not tell me he did indeed come back?”

“Come back? Of course he did!” Nicky said, cautiously feeling his shoulder. “What’s more, I should have had him if you would not keep a damned suit of armor in the stupidest place anyone ever thought of!

Oh, I beg pardon! But indeed it is enough to try the patience of a saint!”

“Nicky, you are hurt!” she cried, quite horrified. “Oh, if I had dreamed that anything was likely to happen I would never—My poor boy, lean on me! Did he fire at you? I heard two shots and I was never more shocked in my life! Good God, you are bleeding! Let me help you into a chair this instant!”

“I think he winged me,” said Nicky, allowing himself to be assisted to a tattered leather chair and sinking down into it. “I never touched him, but I did shatter his lantern, and that would have been pretty fair shooting, I can tell you, if I had been aiming at it. But it is the most cursed mischance, Cousin! I have no notion who he was or what he wanted, except that he was making for the bookroom, which I guessed he would be in any event.”

“Oh, never mind that!” she said, setting the lamp down on the table and running to shut the front door.

“As long as you are not badly wounded! Oh, what in the world will Lord Carlyon say to this? I am culpably to blame!”

Nicky grinned feebly. “Hell say it was just like me to make such a botch of it. Don’t be in a taking! It’s only a scratch!”

By this time Barrow had appeared on the scene, a tallow candle held waveringly in one hand and on his face an expression compound of amazement and consternation. He was sketchily attired in breeches and his nightshirt, but he forgot this unconventional raiment when he saw Nicky clutching one hand to his left shoulder and came hurrying down the stairs, clucking with dismay. He was almost immediately followed by his spouse, scolding and exclaiming at once. Between them, she and Elinor eased the coat from Nicky’s shoulders and laid bare a wound which, though it bled nastily, Mrs. Barrow announced to be not by any means desperate.

“I believe you are right!” Elinor said, with a sigh of relief. “It is too high to have touched any fatal spot! But a doctor must be fetched instantly!”

“Oh, fudge! It’s nothing!” Nicky said, trying to shake them off.

“Be still, Master Nicky, will you?” said Mrs. Barrow. “Likely you have the ball lodged in you! But who fired at you? Sakes alive, what is the world acoming to? Barrow, don’t stand there gawping! Fetch some of Mr. Eustace’s brandy to me straight, man! Oh, dear, what a hem setout this is, to be sure!”

Elinor, meanwhile, had snatched Barrow’s candle from him and had hurried into the bookroom. She came back with one of the tablecloths she had been mending in her hand, and began to tear it into serviceable strips. Nicky was looking very faint and had his eyes closed, but he revived when Barrow forced some brandy down his throat, choked, coughed, and again said that it was only a scratch. Elinor ordered Barrow to support him upstairs to the spare bedroom, and followed anxiously in their wake carrying the torn cloth and the brandy bottle. By the time Nicky had been laid upon the bed Mrs. Barrow had fetched a bowl of water and was ready to bathe his wound. She and Elinor stanched the bleeding and bound the shoulder as tightly as they could. The patient smiled sweetly up at them and murmured, “What a rout you do make! I shall be as right as a trivet by morning.”

“Great boast, small roast!” grunted Barrow, covering him with the quilt. “I’d best ride for the doctor, no question. But who shot you, Master Nicky? Don’t tell me that plaguey Frenchy was in the house again, because I double-bolted every door, and so I’ll swear to, sure as check!”

“I don’t know if it was he or another,” Nicky replied, shifting uneasily on his pillows. “I didn’t mean to tell you, but he came in by a secret stair that goes down the bakehouse chimney. I found it this morning.”

Mrs. Barrow gave a scream and dropped the strip of linen she was rolling into a bandage.

“Do-adone, Martha!” said Barrow, happy to be able to take a lofty tone with her. “Master Nicky’s gammoning you. That old stair’s been shut this many a year!”

“Well, it has not,” said Nicky, nettled to find that Barrow knew of his discovery. “And I’m not gammoning you! I was in that room where the entrance to it is and I saw this fellow come out of the cupboard.”

Mrs. Barrow sat down plump upon the nearest chair and expressed her conviction that she was unlikely ever to recover from the shock her nerves had sustained,

“You shouldn’t ought to have stayed there without me to see you didn’t come to no harm, Master Nick!” said Barrow. “The cat’s in the cream pot now, surely, for what his lordship will have to say about this night’s work I daren’t, for my ears, think on! If it ain’t like you, sir, to be flying at all game, and never no thought taken to what may come of it! Ah, well, I’ll saddle one of the horses and fetch Dr. Greenlaw to you straight!”

“But what in the name of heaven can anyone want in this house?” demanded Elinor.

“There’s no saying what any Frenchy may want,” said Barrow austerely, “but you can lay your life, ma’am, it ain’t anything good.”

It was fully an hour later when the welcome sound of voices in the hall informed Elinor that the doctor had arrived at Highnoons. She had found time to dress herself. Mrs. Barrow had roused the obliging wench from the Hall and told her to make up the smoldering fire in the kitchen and to set water on it to boil, while she herself, taking a high tone with Nicky, bullied and coaxed him into permitting her to undress him and get him between sheets. He was so much discomfited by some of the more embarrassing reminiscences of his extreme youth which she saw fit to recall to his memory that his protests lacked conviction, and she had less trouble with him than might have been expected.

Dr. Greenlaw opened his eyes a little at sight of Elinor, but bowed to her very civilly before turning his attention to his patient.

Nicky smiled at him. “You are never done with us, Greenlaw!” he remarked.

“Very true, Mr. Nick, but I am sorry to find you in this case,” replied the doctor, beginning to unwind the bandages. “What scrape are you in now, pray?”

“The devil’s in it that I don’t precisely know,” Confessed Nicky. “But if only I had not missed the fellow I should not care!”

“Barrow has been babbling some nonsense about Frenchmen. Was it a housebreaker, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” Nicky said, with a warning glance cast in Elinor’s direction. “Well, what’s the damage? It’s only a scratch, isn’t it?”

“Ay, you were born under a lucky star, sir, as I have told you before,” said Greenlaw, opening a case of horrid-looking instruments.

“Yes, when I fell off the stable roof and broke my leg,” said Nicky, eying his preparations with some misgiving. “What are you meaning to do to me, you murderer?”

“I must extract the ball, Mr. Nicky, and I fear I shall hurt you a trifle. Some hot water, ma’am, if I might trouble you!”

“I have it here,” Elinor said, picking up the brass can from before the fire and hoping that she did not look as queasy as she was beginning to feel.