The Prodigal Daughter (2 page)

Tearing herself free, she hurried into the stable.

* * * *

Norwood stared after the retreating figure, unable to move. Was she descended from Medusa that she could freeze him so easily?  No one had ever spoken to him like that. Her flashing brown eyes had impaled him like a butterfly on a pin. Yet there was nothing notable about the woman. Her sisters were everywhere – nondescript, brown-haired females clad in widow’s weeds.

But her words reverberated through his mind. Was he really so important that he would condemn a man to death just to get his arm set a few minutes earlier?  Phrased that way, his request sounded ludicrous.

Pain stabbed his arm, his leg, his neck. Damn, but he hurt!  The jump had gone about as badly as possible. Broken glass had sliced through his clothes. He had landed on a slope, his foot twisting to drop him in the exact spot where a burning timber crashed moments later, snapping one of the bones of his left forearm.

The wench’s words again teased his mind, sounding almost like a dare. When a scream of agony erupted from the stable, he unwillingly, almost without thought, moved in that direction.

“There you are,” she snapped as he appeared in the doorway. “You’re late. Grab that leg and hold it still..”

Hardly realizing what was happening, he did as he was told, wedging the foot between his thighs and holding the knee immobile with his good hand. Only then did he note the others’ actions.

The woman was leaning heavily on the victim’s shoulders, pinning them to a rough table. A doctor had applied a tourniquet to the other leg, tied the foot down, and was positioned above it with a knife and a saw. The patient screamed again.

Norwood blanched. The man he was holding was his own valet. His grip loosened.

“Damnation!  Hold him still!” snapped the doctor, slicing deep into the burned flesh.

Fitch bucked, kicking upward with his free foot. New pain exploded through Norwood’s body but he grimly held on. A few quick strokes followed by the rasp of a saw, and the injured leg twisted free of its former body, spilling blood onto the floor. Fitch lapsed into a coma.

Norwood convulsed in horror. Staggering two steps away, he cast up his accounts against the wall, unable to absorb the brutal reality of the past half hour. Neither the doctor nor his assistant took any notice of his prolonged retching. They worked quickly, discussing the fire victims and other patients they had known. Their voices finally broke through the fog that had descended on the duke’s brain.

“Will he recover?” she asked softly.

“Maybe, Mrs. Morrison. The other leg may heal, or it may have to go as well. We should know in a couple of days. The burns are the worst of it. His reflexes are certainly working properly..” They shared an amused smile.

“Poor man. I hope he has family that will take care of him. It is brutal on the streets.”

“Is that where you have spent the last months?” inquired the doctor as he finished sewing up his handiwork.

“Not quite. I have been teaching music in London since I returned, though it is not enough. But things will improve.”

“You deserve far better, my dear,” he said briskly.

“I doubt it. Set his grace’s arm while I see what new casualties have arrived..” She called the boys to move Fitch.

Norwood grimaced as the doctor prodded his arm.

“Did Mrs. Morrison refer to you properly?” Matthews asked as he maneuvered the bones back into position.

“I am the Duke of Norwood,” his grace managed through gritted teeth.

“And I am Dr. Matthews. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Will Fitch really recover?” Norwood asked.

“You know the gentleman?”

“Yes. Will he recover?”

“Possibly. His chances are better if he is well cared for.”

“He will be.”

Amanda returned. “There is another bad one, Doctor. I doubt he’ll live, but perhaps there is something you can do.”

He nodded. “See to Norwood’s wounds, then come help me.”

Norwood gasped as she spread lard on his arm. “How do you come to be so capable?” he said, trying to distract his mind from the pain.

“Too much practice. Thank God Matthews lives here. If anyone can save that fellow, it will be him. Too many country sawbones are inept.”

“You know him well?”

“We worked together for several months after Waterloo,” she replied in a voice that terminated the topic. “Thank you for your help.”

“I did little but disgrace myself,” he muttered.

“Nonsense, though you’ll now remember that there are better ways to hold down a leg..” She grinned as he flinched in discomfort.

“Wretch. You could have warned me.”

“Experience teaches best..” She finished wrapping his arm and tied off the bandage. “There. Most of the burns are not deep. You will have a scar on the back of the hand and another near the elbow, but the rest will heal without a trace.”

He had not even thought about scars. His face drained of color, dizziness again assaulting him.

“Put your head down,” she ordered, pushing it toward his knees. “I should not have mentioned it. You’ve had enough shocks for one night.”

“You must be a witch. How did you drag me into this?”

“You dragged yourself in, your grace. It is good for even the highest to reduce themselves to being human once in a while. And don’t feel guilty over your reaction. It is nearly universal the first time.”

The traumatic events of the evening had left him floating in a dream – the mad sort where people said and did mad things, and events raced illogically from crisis to crisis. Or was it a dream?  The witch had said something about being human.

“Is that why you coerced me into helping with this?” he asked as she smeared salve on his cuts. “Were you trying to bring the aristocrat to his knees?”

“Not really,” she lied. “We needed the help, you needed something to occupy your time until Dr. Matthews could set your arm, and my other patients needed to be spared a temper tantrum.”

“You make me sound like an infant,” he growled.

“Think about it, your grace,” she suggested. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Poor Fitch,” he murmured again as she disappeared, leaving him in a blood-stained stall with only a mangled leg for company.

* * * *

Amanda thought about the Duke of Norwood as she assisted Matthews. It was the only way she could keep other memories from crowding too close. If her nightmare had cracked the door leading to the past, the surgery and Matthews’s presence threatened to burst it wide open.

There was something about the duke that piqued her curiosity. Despite the hauteur that must be expected from so lofty a lord, she sensed a softness underneath, a vulnerability that she had not expected to find there. Had she misjudged him?  Perhaps his initial tirade had been a reaction to the fire rather than his usual demeanor. She really should not have pushed him to help. The sight was bad enough for anyone unprepared, but he had already suffered other shocks while escaping the blaze. That he had coped as well as he had indicated a strong character. She owed him an apology.

In retrospect, her own behavior had been unconscionable, reverting to the deliberate perversity she thought she had shed along with her childhood. Now she knew that nothing had changed. The trigger had merely been missing – that icy arrogance she so heartily despised. The realization did not bode well for her errand.

Dawn finally broke across the eastern sky. The worst injuries had been treated. Those still fighting the waning blaze bore only minor burns.

A yard of tin sounded as another London-bound mail coach approached this busiest of coaching inns. Several stages and private carriages were already being harnessed for departure. Horses whinnied. Shouts arose as people scrambled for possessions.

Taking leave of the doctor, Amanda picked up her valise and boarded her stage.

Chapter Two

Amanda jumped down from the wagon and thanked Mr. Wilson for the ride. Nervous terror almost paralyzed her. Somehow, her imagination had left off at this moment, never considering the actual confrontation with her father. And she had to admit to cowardice. Jack would have been disappointed, but there it was.

Sighing, she turned down the oak-shaded lane that led to the dower house. If anyone would welcome her back, it would be her grandmother.

Tears stung her eyes at the familiar sights and sounds. The double-arched stone bridge that carried the main drive across the stream was beautifully framed by a pair of trees, the ancient willow still shading its far end. Old Gordy whistled his dog into action, the sound immediately followed by bleating as a brown blur chased dots of white over a distant hillside. The creak of the wheel wove through the musical trickle of water as she neared the ancient mill, precariously perched on the banks of the stream. Even the heights that marked the moor brought a lump to her throat. Oh, how often she had dreamed of escaping that sight, wishing for adventure, for excitement, for the least glimpse of something beyond this valley. And she had found it. Her life had not been dull since she left. Nor had she suffered any regrets. Not once had she wished to return. So why was she suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling of coming home?  Thornridge Court had never been home.

Angrily, she repressed her thoughts, afraid of becoming maudlin. The last thing she needed was to face her grandmother while thinking of the past. Both marriage and age now left her free. The family could control her life only if she allowed it. Pigs would fly first. This was no sentimental journey, but a business trip. She would say her piece, listen to her father’s response, and then leave. But she must remain calm. Anger would defeat her purpose.

The lane topped a rise, and she could see the dower house. It was in perfect condition, of course. Every landowner had a duty to maintain his possessions, and if there was one thing all Sternes understood, it was duty. Only Amanda had failed to learn that lesson.

She shook away the memories. Details of the house became clear as she moved closer. The freshly pointed stone was bare of ivy, though new vines already poked up near the foundation. Blinking at this first sign of change, she looked around for others. Instead of the familiar flower beds with their rigidly geometric blocks of color, the herbaceous border now enclosed a riotous collection of miscellaneous blooms. The topiary animals that had gazed across the stream for a century were gone, as was the ancient yew that had always marked the gate. The house suddenly appeared alien, the home of a stranger. Nine years was a long time.

Forcing her feet to continue, Amanda drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a controlled sigh as she tried to relax. There was no reason to be afraid. The worst that could happen was being turned away, and that would leave her situation unchanged. She would survive. If she could not face this least fearsome of her relatives, she might as well retreat to town.

I need some of your courage, Jack,
she mouthed silently. And it was there.

Buck up, my dear. You know that courage mounteth with the occasion, his voice whispered in her ear. Remember Badajoz....

Her back stiffened.

The butler was new. For a moment she panicked, terrified that the house was now occupied by strangers, or worse. But that was impossible, she reminded herself as she clutched at her fraying composure. She would have heard of her father’s demise. And Englewood had spent the Season in town.

“Is Lady Thorne at home?” she asked.

“I will see..” The butler’s eyes flicked disparagingly over her nondescript black gown.

“Tell her that Lady Amanda would like a few words with her,” she ordered in a voice she had never before employed, even when living at the Court.

He motioned her to a chair in the foyer and left. She bit her lip, pushing the snub aside. It was no more than she deserved. At the very least her father would have disowned her. Seeking her grandmother’s home first was a deliberate ploy to circumvent whatever standing orders he would have issued regarding her. Why had she come?  Surely her situation was not so bad that she must grovel at the one place she had sworn to never again visit.

Questions chased themselves around her head, but the answers were as elusive as ever. If only Jack had not died. If only she had been able to support herself. If only Jessie had not decided to remarry. If only, if only, if only.... Had she been wrong to try to establish herself in London?  Perhaps some other town would have been better. Bath?  York?  Birmingham?  Any one of them would have required less money to live decently. She would not have had to work as hard to scrape out her share of the expenses. But would she have found as many students in those places?  Could she have charged the same fees?  The questions never ceased. The answers were unavailable. She had made her choices. It was too late to repine.

The butler returned, his face as impassive as before, but his eyes seemed slightly warmer. It gave her hope.

“Follow me, my lady,” he intoned.

The drawing room was exactly as she remembered it. French furniture dating to the middle of the last century was arranged on a beautifully worked Axminster carpet. Rich red silk adorned the walls. Gold and scarlet draperies had already been closed as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The lady sitting regally on the settee had not changed either. Her height was hard to judge, but Amanda knew she was tall, taller even than herself. Not a flicker of emotion showed on Lady Thorne’s face or warmed her pale blue eyes. Snowy hair peeped from under a lacy cap, but the effect was icy. Her spare frame was as straight as ever. As usual, she held a piece of exquisite needlework in her lap. As a child, Amanda had often wondered how someone so cold could produce such beauty. It still seemed incongruous.

“Amanda..” She spoke the single word without inflection.

“Grandmama..” Amanda returned the greeting the same way.

“Why are you here?”

“I must speak with Father and wondered what reception to expect.”

“A needless question, as you must know.”

“I presume he disowned me..” Amanda still stood just inside the door of the drawing room. There had been no invitation to sit. But her demeanor in no way hinted that she was poised for flight. She returned her grandmother’s stare unflinchingly.