A Passionate Endeavor (2 page)

“And what, may I ask, is being said?
Certainly nothing kind. Whispers never portend comfort.”

“I mayn’t tell,” she responded.

Charley’s red face loomed large. “I told ‘er
you weren’t usually so pigheaded. I think you should give ‘er a
chance. I mean, sir, it’s not like she’s carryin’ a saw on
‘er.”

“I’m surrounded by a turncoat, a believer,
and a perceived performer of miracles. How can I refuse?” he asked,
dryly. “I must insist, however, that you do not apply any potion,
or leech, or knife to my person.” He hated to appear the
coward.

“Agreed.” She moved forward to examine the
wound. “May I ask how you sustained this injury?”

“I was thrown from my horse during battle and
fell on an exposed rock, breaking my leg.”

“And a surgeon on the field set it?”

“No,” he said, as a fresh wave of pain
radiated from the flesh wound. He looked toward Charley and blinked
rapidly to regain control.

“You depended on Charley to set it?” she
asked with a horror-struck expression on her face.

“It was that or the surgeon’s method. And as
my batman had been killed in the same skirmish, I chose Charley. He
is an admirable fife player.” He turned to see Charley grinning.
“And he agreed to accompany me home as a batman-intraining.”

“And proud I am of it, too,” said the impish
boy.

Nicholas was annoyed he had submitted to the
will of the nocturnal group, but had little time for thought as
Miss Kittridge pushed him back and tucked under the ripped edges of
his breeches. He closed his eyes to prepare for the pain. She was
so gentle. And her hands were so small yet capable. Nicholas
concentrated on… on anything except what she was doing.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“About a month ago. It was magnificent
timing.” He paused to concentrate on his words instead of the pain.
“A day after the battle, a letter from my sister found me,
informing me of the advanced ill health of my father. I secured
leave—easily enough with this injury—and set off with Charley’s
help. It was only a matter of traversing parts of France on a poor
version of a wagon, and swimming the channel, don’t you know,” he
said with a wry smile.

Charley grinned.

The girl was immune to his attempts at humor,
unfortunately. She pressed her thumbs into the upper muscle of his
leg. Lost in a morass of pain, he tensed involuntarily.

“Try to relax, if you can. If you can’t, it’s
all right,” she said.

She ran her hands along the length of his
thigh, feeling first the top and underside. She changed positions
and moved her hands upward and around to encircle his thigh. He
felt an uncomfortable tightening and groaned.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Nicholas opened his eyes and watched her slim
hands move perilously close to, well, blast, to his unmentionable
parts. If not for the unbearable pain and chills, he was sure he
would embarrass himself if this lasted much longer. He had
abstained from women of the willing persuasion for many months.

Miss Kittridge was so close that he could
smell the clean, feminine essence of her. He felt paralyzed by the
entire scene before him. He was in a truly laughable situation—with
pleasure and pain vying for control. Her hands stopped, and she
glanced at him. He could feel her breath on his face. He pushed her
away.

“Enough with the examination,
Doctor
.”

She avoided his gaze, and moved to the end of
the bed. Without a word, she picked up his foot and ran a finger up
the sole. His toes curled. She rolled his foot, then ran her hands
up past his calf to his knee, feeling the top knobby part and the
sensitive underside. He squirmed.

“Ticklish are you?”

“No. That is undignified.”

She leaned back. “Well, you’ve certainly
sustained a considerable injury to the femur, or rather the
thighbone.”

“A magnificent display of medical deduction,
miss,” he said. He moved her hand from his knee as he sat up.
“Well, what is your diagnosis?”

“You will, of course, have to allow my father
to perform a full evaluation. But, I believe your little fife
player performed a commendable job. There seems to be a small
splinter of bone that might not have adhered itself to the main
formation. I daresay that only time will tell if it will heal
properly.”

“And what is the alternative? There is always
an alternative, is there not?”

“The alternative, which my father might
recommend, would be to reset the bone. That would entail breaking
the bone again.”

“An unappealing choice. But would it promise
to relieve the pain?”

“Possibly,” she said. “But, you must allow my
father to give you his opinion. You know, he really is the most
talented physician in all of Europe.”

“Ah, the recommendation I expected many
minutes ago,” he said with a small smile. “What a proud, good
daughter you are. But I thought physicians never touched a
surgeon’s job.”

“My father has progressive ideas. He believes
a gentleman entering the medical profession must become an expert
in both areas.”

“Most progressive. He must not have been
popular in the Royal College of Physicians.”

“Yes, you are correct. But the College of
Surgeons respected him greatly.”

Nicholas shivered as he struggled to sit up.
All the former waves of heat left his body. Miss Kittridge grasped
his wrist at the pulse point.

“My lord, would you allow me to prepare for
you a pot of chamomile tea? It’s most calmative and has
antispasmodic properties. I daren’t press upon you an infusion of
wormwood for your putrid wound, for fear of distressing you,” she
said with an innocent expression on her face.

He was sure she was mocking him. He hated
feeling so weak and faint. It was with considerable effort that he
had managed to converse. He forced himself to continue, for fear of
losing his grasp on consciousness.

“What is your age, Miss Kittridge?” he asked,
turning the subject. She was so little. Really, like a mere flighty
bird.

She met his gaze and appeared flustered. “I
beg your pardon. I am advanced enough in years to prepare tea.”

“You cannot be more than fifteen.”

“I shall tell you, if you agree to the tea
and the infusion.”

He laughed before a series of coughs
constricted his throat. “All right, Dr. Kittridge. What have I to
lose? You are not hiding any barber’s knives in those pockets of
yours, are you?”

Charley grinned. “No, sir, I checked ‘em when
she was lookin’ at yer leg.”

Miss Kittridge’s eyes widened and she felt
for her pockets.

“We have provoked Miss Kittridge long enough,
Charley. How about if you go with Stevens to the kitchens to fetch
a pot of boiling water for the good nurse?” he said to the boy.
With a shake of the head and a murmur of agreement, the two
figures, one portly and old, the other small and young,
disappeared, shutting the door to keep out the growing crowd of
curious servants.

“And now, you must fulfill your end of our
bargain,” he said, looking up at her.

She looked back at him sheepishly. “I had
hoped you had forgotten,” she said, while picking an invisible
piece of lint from her sleeve.

“I never forget.”

“It’s quite rude to ask a lady her age.”

“But I am confused. Your stature and
physiognomy suggest a woman not past her girlhood. But your eyes
speak differently.”

“I am past my prime, if you must know. Soon
to be past seven and twenty to be exact.”

He was shocked. And now embarrassment flooded
him for having forced a spinster to reveal her age. No gentleman
beyond leading strings would have dared to stretch the barriers of
society’s unwritten rules of behavior toward the gentler sex.

She was looking at him. “I’m sorry to have
embarrassed you.”

He forced himself to form some words. Any
words. “No, no, it is I who must apologize. I should never have
presumed to ask.”

“It’s all right. Now you do not have to worry
about shocking me. I am quite the old maid.”

“Certainly not—”

She interrupted. “No, you misunderstand. I am
not asking for you to refute the fact—just explaining that I have
no maidenly airs to worry about. My work with my father has taken
away any silly sensibilities I might have had in my youth.”

There was a tap on the door.

“Enter,” Nicholas called out.

“
A woman of seven and twenty can never
hope

to inspire affection again
.”

—Sense and Sensibility

CHARLOTTE Kittridge knew she was just as
firmly on the shelf as the book she tugged in vain. She was the
fool who had overstuffed these inadequate shelves in the small
front parlor just two weeks ago. Charlotte looked down lovingly at
the tonsured crown of her father and the full head of black hair of
her only brother as they sat before a roaring fire meant to
displace the early morning darkness. She smiled with good
humor.

She realized with a small shrug that she also
had only herself to blame for her ill-natured thoughts about her
station in life. Charlotte had read a novel, for the first time,
during the trip from London to Wiltshire, much to her father’s
horror and her brother’s laughter. It was all about Elinor and
Marianne Dashwood, and it had filled her mind with heretofore
unknown thoughts. Given that Charlotte felt Elinor so akin to
herself, she wondered whether that practical lady or the author
herself, a mysterious “Lady,” would have approved of Lord
Huntington, he of the wild hair, arresting green eyes, and
impossibly broad shoulders. Surely not. There was not a trace of
the subtle gallantries of Edward Ferrars in the novel
Sense and
Sensibility
. Lord Huntington had a compelling presence that
made her feel unaccountably awkward when he spoke to her. A feeling
that happened but rarely in her small, familial world.

Charlotte would have liked to be surrounded
by lots of sisters and a mother of the Dashwood ilk, but fate had
chosen a different course for her.

Her father, seated in the worn leather chair
near the hearth, turned and peered at her over his spectacles. “So,
my dear, did Lord Huntington survive despite the dreaded chamomile
tea and infusion?”

Charlotte gave one last yank and finally
dislodged the massive volume. “Yes, Father, when I left him two
hours ago, he was sleeping. His Grace was also resting
comfortably,” she said. “But, the son is very weak and the fever
continues. I thought a restorative draught might help. I’ve
searched through the English texts, and am now into your books from
Paris. What do you think?”

“Methinks it is a good idea. Let us try the
one I have been administering to His Grace.” He lowered his book
and got up to help her down the last rung of the small stepladder.
He kissed the top of her head before looking at the volumes at eye
level.

“It helped lower the father’s morning fevers,
although the duke’s condition is much more grave than I expected
when first we arrived. As soon as we prepare them, we should return
to the abbey. I fear we will be ensconced in that cold, barren
fortress for the duration of the illness.”

“How much longer before the consumption
overcomes his defenses?”

“I cannot tell yet if he will rally. The
severe fever and chills complicate a recovery. If I cannot cure the
evening fever within the next few days, the duke will depart this
mortal coil, and we will have a critical, new younger
employer.”

Her brother looked up from his book.
“Especially if you continue to force your perceived poisonous
ministrations on his lordship, Charlotte.”

She was used to her family’s plain speaking.
“Father, you know we could return to London on the next mail coach
if need be. Why, we even had a handful of letters yesterday from
several patients begging your return.”

“Yes, I’m for all that if the old man does
kick off,” her brother said.

“James, a little respect, thank you,” Dr.
Kittridge snapped. “Nevertheless, a calming stay in the country is
what we all need. A country practice is all I’ve ever really
wanted. After France—” Charlotte’s father stopped speaking and
looked down at his book.

“It’s all right, Papa,” she said as she
walked toward him.

“
Elle me manque aussi
.”
I miss her
too
.

“I’ve asked you not to speak that… that
language, Charlotte.”

“I’m sorry, but when I think of Maman, I
think in her language.” Charlotte gazed at her father’s faded blue
eyes.

“It is dangerous to forget. To forget is to
court folly. It is one of the very reasons I wanted to leave
London. The English are foolish to think they are immune from the
power of an angry lower class. If they would but open their eyes
and see the dissatisfaction of the masses, they would fear
rebellion, fear revolution.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Papa.” His favored topic
had long ago lost its fervor for her. She and James exchanged
knowing glances. Her brother rolled his eyes.

“Charlotte and James, you must listen to me.
Do not ever discuss your heritage with anyone here. There is no
benefit to anybody knowing. Only detriments.”

“Father, we’ve discussed this ad nauseum.
Your fears are unwarranted. There are so many displaced people in
England. And what do you expect to happen here in this small corner
of England? You could not have found a more remote place—unless we
had flown to Yorkshire,” said James.

The father paled. “Your nonchalance surprises
me, given the past.”

“Father, I’ve begged you and begged you to
let me make reparations.”

“Ah, James, you know not of what you speak.
I’ll not let the only son of mine think he can avenge his family by
shedding more blood. I’ll hear no more from you on this
subject.”