"That was very good of you, Your Grace." Mrs. Whitcombe's voice had steadied slightly, the demands of social propriety providing a familiar framework within which she could compose herself. "I am sorry to have received you in such circumstances."
"Please do not concern yourself with my comfort, Mrs. Whitcombe." Daniel's voice was low, careful, stripped of its usual clipped formality. "I am here only to be of assistance, if assistance is wanted. If my presence is an intrusion, I shall leave at once."
"No, of course not. You are very welcome." Mrs. Whitcombe glanced at Lillian, and there was a question in her eyes, a mother's instinct perceiving something unspoken, but she did not voice it. "Please, make yourself comfortable in the parlor. I will have tea brought. Lillian, go to your father. He has been asking for you."
Lillian nodded and turned toward the stairs. As she passed Daniel, she let her hand brush against his; the briefest touch, hidden from her mother's view, but enough to convey what she could not say aloud.
Thank you for being here.
His fingers twitched toward hers, almost imperceptibly, and then she was past him, climbing the stairs toward her father's room.
***
The bedroom was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light, and it smelled of blood and medicine and the particular staleness of a sickroom. Mr. Crawford, the village physician, was bent over the bed, his hands busy with bandages and implements that Lillian could not quite see.
Her father lay very still against the pillows.
For a terrible moment, Lillian thought….But no. His chest was rising and falling, slowly but steadily, and as she stepped closer, his eyes opened and found her face.
"Lillian." His voice was thin, roughened by pain, but it was unmistakably his. "You came."
"Of course I came." She moved to the side of the bed, taking his hand in hers. His skin was cool and slightly clammy, but his grip was stronger than she had expected. "What were you thinking, Father? Climbing onto the roof at your age?"
"I was thinking that the study carpet has suffered quite enough water damage, and that my daughter should not have to read her books in a room that smells of mildew." He attempted a smile, though it turned into a grimace as some movement shifted his injuries. "I confess the execution left something to be desired."
"Miss Whitcombe." Mr. Crawford straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was a man of perhaps fifty, with a kind face and capable hands, and Lillian had known him since childhood. He had attended her through childhood illnesses, had set her wrist when she fell from a tree at age seven, and he had been a steady presence through all the small medical crises of her life.
But she had never seen him look quite so grave.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He is fortunate to be alive." Crawford moved away from the bed, gesturing for Lillian to follow him to the corner of the room where they could speak without being overheard. "The fall was severe. He has broken his leg—the left one, above the knee. The bone did not pierce the skin, which is a mercy, but the break is significant. It will need to be set properly if he is to walk again without a permanent limp."
"Can you set it?"
"I can. I have." Crawford hesitated. "I have done my best, Miss Whitcombe. But I must be honest with you; I am a country physician, not a specialist. In London, there are physicians who deal with nothing but bone injuries, who have tools and techniques that I do not possess. If your father's leg does not heal correctly..."
He did not need to finish the sentence. Lillian understood. A permanent limp. Chronic pain. The possibility that her father, an active man who had always taken pride in his daily walks, his management of the estate, his independence, might never move freely again.
"What else?" she asked, because Crawford's expression told her there was more.
"Cracked ribs. Two, perhaps three—it is difficult to tell without the sort of examination that would cause him more pain than it would relieve. They will heal on their own, given time, but he must remain still. Any exertion could cause one of the cracked ribs to break fully, and if that were to happen..." Crawford shook his head. "Internal injuries. Punctured lung. I cannot predict the outcome."
"And his head?"
"The blow was significant. He lost consciousness for some minutes, which is concerning. I do not believe the skull is fractured, but head injuries are unpredictable. He must be watched closely for the next several days; any confusion, any persistent headache, any difficulty with vision or speech, and you must send for me at once."
Lillian absorbed this information, her mind cataloguing the details with the same practical efficiency she brought to household management. Broken leg; serious but survivable. Cracked ribs; dangerous if not properly managed. Head injury; unpredictable. All of it requiring rest, care, and time.
And expense. The thought surfaced unwelcome but undeniable. Medical care was not free. Crawford's fees were reasonable, but they would mount over time; visits, medicines, bandages, all the small costs of extended illness. And if her father could not manage the estate during his recovery, if the income suffered, if the debts that already pressed upon them grew heavier still...
"Thank you, Mr. Crawford." She kept her voice steady, refusing to let fear color her words. "What do you recommend for his immediate care?"
"Rest. Complete rest. He must not attempt to move the leg under any circumstances. I have taken care of it, but it is temporary. I will return tomorrow with proper materials to create a more permanent support." Crawford reached into his bag and produced a small bottle. "Laudanum, for the pain. A few drops in water, no more than three times daily. It will help him sleep."
"And the other injuries?"
"Keep the ribs bound—I will show your mother how to change the bandages. For the head, there is little to be done but watch and wait." He paused, his kind face creased with sympathy. "I am sorry, Miss Whitcombe. I wish I could offer you more certainty."
