The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2) Page 7

  Before he knew it, Giles was back in the familiar surroundings of a carriage, barely a day after leaving one. This time he had the entire interior to himself, at least for a while, which was helpful, since he’d brought a couple of warm blankets, a fur and two pillows, with the expectation of returning with a woman who was not at her best.

  He turned over the problem of the new Lady, wondering how to explain to her who he was and where he was taking her. It was those first moments that defined so much of what lay ahead, and they were different every time. A year ago, Adalyn had been so desperate for help that she’d taken his arm with relief, not apprehension.

  Would the Dowager Countess feel the same?

  Less than two days later, having made excellent time and with fresh horses, Giles found himself staring in horror at what remained of a building. Part of the roof was gone and the bits still standing couldn’t possibly offer much in the way of warmth to whoever was left inside. He had to wonder if this was the right place, since it was so far off the beaten path as to be almost non-existent. And over an hour’s drive from Kilham Abbey.

  He had stopped there first, expecting it to be close to his final destination, and considered it a courtesy to let the family know his plans for the Dowager.

  He’d met with an abrupt and somewhat rude greeting, where he had been told to stay on the road for another ten miles. The Earl, he was informed, was not at home. Then the door had been shut in his face.

  With a sinking heart, he’d followed the directions, realising now how grave the situation might be.

  Telling the driver to be ready for another passenger, Giles made his way across a weed and leaf covered path to the door. It was warped, badly, with the hinges rusting. It took a leap of faith for him to rap his knuckles on it.

  The sound was hollow, echoing inside, but causing no footsteps nor any sign of life coming to open up and let him in.

  He waited, then gave up and pushed at the door.

  It opened easily; the lock dropping off as it did so, clattering onto a dirty stone floor.

  His heart in his mouth, Giles walked carefully inside. The hall, for such as it once must have been, was quite a large room, with windows on the opposite wall, now boarded up.

  There was enough cold daylight for him to see doors leading away from where he stood, but only one showed a tiny flicker of light coming from beneath it, and he’d have missed even that if he hadn’t been looking for it.

  With a great deal of caution, he moved slowly toward that side of the hall, doing his best to avoid the debris on the floor—bits of wood and plaster, a puddle of water that probably leaked through the ceiling over the winter, and a useless branch of candles, empty now and half shattered.

  A sense of dread rose up in Giles’s throat. This was appalling—to think of the Dowager Countess Kilham living amidst such squalor. And where was the alleged housekeeper?

  “Hullo?” His voice echoed dully. “Is anyone here?”

  He paused. There was nothing. No sound at all except for the odd creak of the house itself and an unpleasant skittering noise he recognised with a shiver of disgust. He couldn’t tolerate rats.

  Reaching the closed door, he stopped again. This time there was a faint crackle of firewood. Or at least he thought that was what he heard.

  He pushed…and it refused to budge.

  He tried again, and on the third time, he slid whatever was blocking it aside just enough so that he could get through.

  What he stepped into was the stuff of nightmares.

  Hardly any light, a fire that struggled to stay alive, slop buckets that stank worse than a village midden, and several large rats scurrying around a plate that had been on the floor.

  Swallowing down a surge of disgust, Giles turned to see a low, filthy couch, and on it…a figure lay swathed in ancient blankets, ripped and mended.

  Could this be the Dowager Countess? His mind refused to accept it, but he cautiously picked his way across to the bundled figure. Perhaps it was the housekeeper. Yes, that was it. The housekeeper.

  Leaning over, he carefully moved a part of a blanket from the face.

  One look, and he knew it wasn’t the housekeeper.

  The skin was colourless, white as paper, but the features were delicate and refined. Her hair…well it might have been any number of shades, but at the moment it was just filthy. He was willing to bet on other less pleasant things sharing it as well.

  Was she alive?

  He heaved a sigh of relief as her hands clutched at the blanket, thin and clawing, aware of something moving the nest she’d made for herself.

  Dear God. When had she last eaten? She had the look of a starving child.

  He leaned even closer. “My Lady,” he said quietly. “My Lady Kilham. Wake up…”

  Slowly her eyelids rose. Brown eyes stared at him blankly, and she blinked as if trying to find her way out of a fog.

  “Wha…who…” A shudder took her, and she moaned.

  He gently touched her forehead and was shocked at the heat. In spite of her pallor and the freezing cold room, she was on fire.

  “You are sick, my Lady. I am come to take you away from all this.”

  “Yes. It is time. I am ready to die…”

  “You won’t die. Not if I have my way…”

  But she didn’t hear him. As if his brief statement had given her a measure of relief, her body relaxed into unconsciousness.

  Giles sighed as he gathered her up from her cocoon. Two unconscious passengers in as many days. This was getting to be a rather annoying habit.

  Chapter Seven

  Carrying her to the waiting coach was not going to be a problem for Giles, since his burden weighed less than one of Evan’s magnificent fruit cakes.

  The smell of her, however, was decidedly unpleasant, and he could not imagine being enclosed with it for the time it took to get her back to Wolfbridge. He tucked her up and headed out of the foul room to the carriage, reaching in for his bag and taking the robe out of it. Thank God he’d had the forethought to add it to his luggage.

  He also picked up a thick fur.

  “I won’t be long,” he called to the driver. “My passenger is not well, so I’ll be carrying her out in a few minutes.”

  “Aye, gov’,” the man touched his hat. “We’re out o’ the wind ‘ere. Ready when you are.”

  Giles returned to the disaster that held the new Lady of Wolfbridge.

  She hadn’t moved a muscle, and he hated to pull her from what little warmth she’d created, but lying there wasn’t doing her any good at all.

  She moaned as he unwrapped her, tossing the filthy and rotting blankets aside for the rats, mice and whatever else had chosen this ruin for their home.

  She was wearing some kind of flannel night gown that was not fresh at all, so Giles took a breath and managed to strip her down.

  She shook and shivered, staring at him through eyes that might have betrayed a little fear, but mostly showed resignation. She was dying, he thought. Or believed she was.

  “Come now, my Lady. We’re going to get you into this lovely warm robe.” He worked her arms into the sleeves and finally wrapped it around her bare, hot flesh. What there was of it. Her ribs protruded, her limbs were slender to the point of being skinny, and her skin was dry, even though she clearly had a fever.

  Her hair…it was just foul. And Giles was at a loss.

  However, at this time, he had one purpose only, and that was to save her life. He reached into his boot for the small dagger he always kept there when travelling.

  And in moments, a pile of matted hair lay on the floor. Her Ladyship’s head was shorn, not bald because he didn’t trust himself with a sharp blade that near her scalp. But the shorter lengths lay close to her scalp and would be easier to clean once they got her into the bath she so badly needed.

  Satisfied that he’d done all he could, he wrapped the fur around her, and managed to get her upright for a moment while he secured everything against the c
old. Her feet were in grubby stockings, but he had none to spare, so they would have to do.

  Looking over the mess surrounding them, he wondered if there was anything she would like to bring with her. Most of the items he could see were either dirty or broken, but there were two books, their covers free of dust, and that made him think she’d read them. Or was reading them.

  He scooped them up and put them in his pockets, then picked her up in his arms. She weighed little and he was easily able to work them both from the squalor and outside to the waiting coach.

  She shivered beneath the fur, great shudders he could feel through the thick pelts.

  “Hush now, Lady Gwyneth. Hush. All will be well.”

  She moaned, coughed and shivered again.

  “‘Ere now, she ain’t got no plague, ‘as she?” The driver frowned at Giles.

  He glanced up as he freed a hand and opened the door. “No. She is merely suffering the effects of malnutrition and poor living conditions.”

  “I ain’t surprised,” muttered the man from the box. “That Kilham, the Earl? Not liked much, ‘ereabouts. Don’t keep ‘is tenants in good nick.”

  “He certainly doesn’t, if this lady is an example.”

  “‘Oo is she, then? Relative of yourn?”

  “Something like that, yes.” He managed to get her inside, and followed her, glancing at the driver. “There’s extra guineas in it if you can get us back as fast as you can.”

  Giles’s words were greeted with a nod and a grin. “Faster ’n lightnin’, gov’. ‘Ang on ter yer lady, there. Be a few bumps…”

  Giles slammed the door shut just in time as a whip touched the horses and they wheeled into a fast trot back out through the woods.

  He shifted and groaned a little as he sorted himself and the woman bundle in thick furs into positions that wouldn’t cramp either of them.

  Fortunately, she was small in stature, besides being starved, so he could tuck her on her side on the seat across from her, and hold her in place with another rolled blanket. She seemed comfortable enough, but one touch of her forehead told him she still had a fever.

  He reached for his bag and pulled out a spare cravat, wrapping it around her head to keep it warm. And also to prevent any remaining creatures from inhabiting the blankets and fur.

  Sighing, he realised there would have to be a bonfire at Wolfbridge when he returned. Scrupulous about such things, any garments or items that might have picked up a flea or two…well, they were immediately thrown away.

  His mind ticked over the tasks that awaited them when they got home.

  First, get her clean. He didn’t worry about how sick she was; she’d be a damn sight less miserable once she was clean. Then…well, Royce could probably tell better than he could, but she would have to be checked for injuries, infected cuts, that sort of thing. Giles had seen none when he’d stripped her, but the light had been poor and his need to get her into fresh, warm clothing had outweighed his need to examine her health.

  Food, of course. Broth. Evan would know what she needed. Something to help her fight whatever was giving her a fever and how to build her strength back up.

  He looked at her, the daylight starting to fill the carriage as the sun rose higher in the sky. Her bones were prominent, but fragile. She was no sturdy countrywoman, nor was she a perfect beauty. She was somewhere in between, fragile now because of her condition, but probably attractively delicate once returned to full health.

  Her hair, the parts that hadn’t been matted and filthy, showed chestnut and copper tints. He’d be interested to see what colour it was once soap and water had cleared away the dirt.

  Would she be an adequate Lady of Wolfbridge? Could she hold the reins of power when it came to the Manor, the estate and the people involved?

  He watched her, his thoughts wandering, troubled, over grounds he’d not had to face before. All the Ladies of Wolfbridge he’d known—and he’d loved them all, but would never tell them—they’d come with needs. A home, a sanctuary, a desire to learn, to grow, and to love. To leave their pasts in the past, where all the tragedies and horrors belonged, and to build a new life for themselves as the person they were destined to be.

  It was the concept of Wolfbridge and had been for more than a few generations now.

  But he’d never had to rescue a Lady from such dire straits. None had been starving, ill and pretty much at death’s door.

  It was hard to believe, looking at the sad, shorn bundle across from him, that this was truly the Dowager Countess of Kilham.

  For a few moments, Giles found his fists hardening. If he could have had five minutes with the current Earl, he’d take great pleasure in pointing out the disgust he felt for what had been wrought upon a defenceless woman. But he caught himself up and forced such thoughts aside, knowing well that they would only lead to frustration.

  It was a sad but true fact that in this day and age, men had all the power. They had titles, estates and fortunes. Should a woman have the same, everything she possessed would become her husband’s upon their marriage.

  Only rarely was there a chance for a woman to rise to a position of power equal to a man’s.

  Giles had often thought how very wrong that was. But he was too intelligent and too inured to the inhumanities he’d seen to spend hours railing against such injustices. It would change at some point in the future, and until then he’d devote himself to ensuring that at least one woman had a chance to become a fully-fledged human being, not hidden in the shadows of a man.

  Lady Gwyneth moaned a little and opened her eyes.

  He leaned over. “You’re safe, my Lady. Safe and warm. I am taking you home to Wolfbridge.” He touched her cheek, still afire with fever. “Sleep now. All will be well.”

  Her mouth worked. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice low and rough. And then she closed her eyes once more.

  It was a start.

  *~~*~~*

  In one of the Wolfbridge bedrooms, a man opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by three other men, all staring at him.

  He gasped in fright and tugged the linens up to his chin.

  “Where…who…”

  “Easy now,” said Jeremy. “You’re safe. Among friends.”

  He blinked. “I think I remember. You’re Jeremy?” His eyes shifted. “And…and Evan, yes?”

  Evan smiled and nodded. “Yes, that’s right. And I’m happy you remember, since it means you don’t have any damage to your mind.”

  “That remains to be seen,” remarked Royce in dry tones.

  “I don’t know you,” Gabriel turned his head on the pillow.

  “I dressed your wounds, lad. You’ve a cracked rib and a lot of bruises. There’ll be a scar or two, I’ll warrant, but I’m sure the ladies won’t mind much. I’m Royce.”

  They were dressed informally, shirts open, bare feet; Royce had stretched out his legs and his crossed feet rested on the quilt.

  Gabriel pulled himself a little higher and winced. “I think you’re right about the rib…”

  Jeremy got up and helped him, adding a couple of pillows so that he could look around. “How’s that?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  “I’ve some broth here. You should have something now, and tomorrow we’ll see about some decent food. Think you can manage that?” Evan picked up a large tankard and neared Gabriel.

  “It smells heavenly,” he breathed, taking the cup with a smile of thanks.

  “So.” Royce leaned back, his fingers dancing along the arm of a chair to a rhythm only he could hear. “Gabriel. Gabriel Parr. What’s a member of that family doing rolling around the English countryside covered in blood?”

  There was silence for a few moments as Gabriel drank, his eyes wandering over the room and the men so at home there.

  He licked his lips and put the broth down on the table next to him.

  “You know who I am then,” he said quietly.

  “You told us, lad. We had to strip you, bathe yo
u and tend your wounds. I don’t know how much you remember, but yes, you told us your name.”

  His leg twitched beneath the blankets and Jeremy shot a quick glance at Royce, before turning back to Gabriel. “We know your name, and you know ours. Won’t you tell us how you came to be on the road?”

  Gabriel looked down at his hands, splaying the fingers, the bruises and scabs obvious against his fair skin. “I’m an abnormality. A defective human being. I have no right to live amongst others.”

  “Who the hell told you that, lad?” Royce leaned forward with a frown. “That’s utter nonsense if ever I heard it.”

  “Lad,” Gabriel turned his vivid blue gaze toward Royce. “You keep calling me lad.”

  “Should I not? I’m years older than you…”

  Gabriel gave what might be termed a quick laugh. “I will be twenty-seven this year, Royce.”

  Once again a silence descended on the room, but this time it reflected the shock on the faces of all three men around the bed.

  “By God, you age well,” sputtered Jeremy, his eyes wide.

  “I’d never have guessed that,” said Evan, also stunned.

  “All right,” sighed Royce. “I suppose the term ‘lad’ isn’t going to work, is it?”

  “No. But I expect I should thank you. I’ve been called a great many more unpleasant things.” Gabriel shrugged carefully and reached for the broth, sipping some more. He glanced at Evan. “This is very good. Very good indeed.”

  Evan nodded back. “As I said, solid food tomorrow if Royce here approves.”

  “So you’re of an age with the rest of us,” said Jeremy quietly. “Although yes, you look years younger, and I’m sure you’ve heard that a lot.”

  Gabriel dipped his head. “I’ve heard that and a lot worse. When you look like me…unusual…people make assumptions.”

  Silence fell as the men digested that statement.

  Evan tilted his head to one side. “From your tone of voice, Gabriel, I’d guess that the assumptions they made were not good ones. Not for you anyway.”

  “You are correct.” Gabriel looked up at him, and swallowed, a harsh sound they all heard. “My tutor was the first.”