Page 2 of A Gifted Earl

Chapter One

1817 – Early June in the English Countryside

“Eeeeeee!”

A piercing scream rent the air, shattering the peaceful warmth of the early June afternoon. The scream was followed by a dull ‘thud’, and Lady Venetia Chater thought, as she drifted in and out of the darkness, that someone must have fainted. But why? Why was everything black, why did her head hurt so much? Why…? She faded into unconsciousness, questions unanswered.

*****

Mr Morgan Follett had just left his horse with a rather distracted looking stable boy, and turned towards the main house at Brightwood Chase when the sound of a scream came to him on the summer air. A scream from the direction of the house. Concerned, he sprinted across the gravelled forecourt, and flung himself through the partly open door. Just inside, he near collided with a footman, who stood, stunned, staring at the scene before him.

A scene which, for a moment, took him back to places far from England.

He shook his head, trying to take it in. Two grooms held the ends of a makeshift stretcher, on which lay a woman. A woman whose head was covered in blood.

To one side, a maid lay crumpled on the floor, having apparently fainted, and a white-faced older woman bent over her, trying to rouse her. The man he assumed to be the butler stood not far from Morgan, trying, it seemed, to deal with the chaos.

They were all useless.

Morgan pushed past them, and went to the stretcher, bending down to look closely at the woman. There was certainly a lot of blood, but the cut was on her forehead, and not too deep – rather it was as if a section of her skin had been peeled back on one side of her brow, but not torn off completely. That was good – he could fix this – she would have a scar, of a certainty, but there was no threat of death, so long as infection was prevented.

He stood again, and took charge.

“Is there a parlour with good big windows and a large table? Large enough to set her upon, so that I can work on her forehead in good light? I’ll also need basins of boiled water, clean – and I mean utterly clean – cloths, and the sewing basket of a Lady – this woman’s, or another, it doesn’t matter, so long as it contains good quality fine needles and thread. Oh, and laudanum, plus a tincture of Thyme if you have it. If not, a strong lye soap will do.”

The staff stood in stunned silence for a moment, then the butler, apparently deciding that following the instructions of someone who seemed to know what they were doing was better than standing there, doing nothing, waved at the others, then spoke.

“Follow me – we will go to the grand parlour. Mrs Jenkins, please arrange the water, cloths, soap, laudanum and the like, and send a maid to gather one of the sewing boxes. You’d best send someone to inform her Ladyship, too.”

That said, he walked past Morgan, speaking as he did.

“This way.”

Morgan followed, and the two grooms brought the stretcher carefully. As they entered the parlour, the woman’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, and settled on Morgan’s face. They were a deep green shade, like leaves in the midst of summer, although clouded by confusion now. He felt an odd connection then, to this woman he had never seen before. But there was no time for such whimsy – her hurts needed to be dealt with.

They shifted her carefully onto the stout polished oak table, which was blessedly fairly close to the large windows.

“Open the curtains wide please, but also bring me a good oil lamp.”

A footman scurried off to do as he’d bid, and moments later the Housekeeper hurried in, followed by two maids and a footman, all carrying various items. Morgan pulled a smaller table over to stand beside the large one, and set out the basins and other tools upon it. The Housekeeper handed him a sewing box.

“Will this suit? It’s mine, and has the best needles I can afford.”

Morgan opened it, and drew out the small tin she pointed to, which contained a number of slips of fabric with needles piercing them for storage. He sighed in relief – they were, indeed, high quality, and fine enough. There was also fine linen thread – not silk, which might have been better, but linen would do.

“This will do admirably. The laudanum?” The Housekeeper produced a small, tightly stoppered bottle from her pockets. “Thank you. Please give her just a drop or two, on her lips, so that she swallows it.”

He took off his coat – no time for propriety here – rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands with the soap. Then, into the other basin of water, he dripped some of the tincture of Thyme, before soaking a clean cloth in it. Then he threaded a needle, and set it to one side, ready.

Cleaning her wound took some time, for if she was to have the smallest scar possible, every speck of dirt and earth needed to be removed.

Every so often, her eyes flickered open, but eventually the laudanum took effect, and she slipped into sleep. Partway through the cleaning process, an older woman came into the room, and he heard a gasp, and a sob. Then the Housekeeper’s voice.

“Come my Lady, you don’t need to watch – he’s doing a grand job of it, and you can’t help her by watching. I’ll get you some tea in the small parlour, shall I?”

They went away, without him having even lifted his eyes to see them. He was far too focused on the woman he tended.

Once it was as clean as he could get it, he gently tugged the loose flap of skin back into place and began to sew.