With no regard for the sensibilities she ought to have, she rushed forward, and doing her best to avoid looking at the actual vomit, she held his head, rubbing his back until he seemed to be finished.
“Mr. Beckworth?” Her voice shook a little.
When he made a dismissive gesture with one hand, daring to imagine he could send her away, she caught sight of something alarming on the back of his head.
It was dark, but whereas his hair gleamed like silk, this patch was sticky and matted. She narrowed her eyes, studying him properly now, and felt a little panicked when she noticed a rectangular red mark swelling on the side of his face.
“You are injured,” she said.
Accusingly.
“Damned runner.” He spit, his head bent over the chamber pot.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He slanted her a sideways glance and then winced. He looked… defeated. “It didn’t come up,” he answered.
Was he swaying? He needed help. But when she looked around the room, she saw no signs of a valet.
Because, of course, Mr. Beckworth would never hire a person to tend to his personal needs.
Furthermore, all the servants had long since retired.
In the moment, all he had was her.
She could do this. She could help him. Recalling her own nurse tending to her when she was sick, Amelia went right to the washing bowl, poured some water on a cool rag, and then rushed back to swipe it at his mouth.
He allowed a few dabs before grabbing her hand weakly.
“You should go…”
“Absolutely not.”
All he had was her.
Yes, he had histeam, the men and women who’d come to work at Smuggler’s Manor. But he had no real family. Had he ever known a mother’s love? Most likely not.
“Can you walk?” Without waiting for him to answer, she all but dragged him across to the chair she’d just vacated. He was shivering now, and that renewed her resolve to make him comfortable.
After that, she’d find Bessie. Because he needed a physician.
Once he sat, she left him again to soak two more washrags, rushing to wring out the excess water before she returned right away.
“What happened?” she asked, dropping to her knees before him. All manner of horrors played out in her mind as she dabbed at his mouth. She used the second linen to cool his cheeks and forehead.
“Who did this to you?”
He wasa smuggler.
Up until that moment, she hadn’t really considered that his choice of vocation meant a lifetime of putting himself in danger. It took all her will to keep from breaking down—something she refused to do.
He didn’t answer, but just stared at her from beneath hooded eyes, swaying in the chair when a violent shiver shook his entire body.
“Oh, Mr. Beckworth.” He needed the wound on his head cleaned.
He needed to be in bed.
He needed out of his wet clothes.
