Page 3 of A Gifted Earl

There would be a scar – an almost leaf shaped scar – but he would make it as unobtrusive as he could. Tiny stitches would be required, keeping the skin as flat and smooth as possible as he went. Not that it would matter, he thought, with a sad twist to his lips – she was a woman of the upper classes – such women were expected to be perfect, and the ton would likely be cruel to her for any scar at all. But he would do his best for her, because he had discovered that he felt compelled to help, to heal if he could, whether that was people or animals.

The laudanum began to wear off as he finished, and her eyes opened again, looking up at him. He stopped, not wanting her to frown, or move at all. They stayed that way for some time – likely only seconds, or at most minutes, but it felt like forever – and then she dropped back into sleep. He made the last few stitches, and tied it off neatly. Then he set the needle aside, wiped the whole area gently with the thyme infused water, and sat back.

Only then did he realise that the room was full – the Butler, Housekeeper, maids, footmen, and grooms had all been there, watching him work, silent and respectful. Morgan rose, and went to an armchair which stood to one side. The Housekeeper came to stand before him.

“I don’t know who you are, but today you have saved the daughter of the house, and we are grateful. What can we do for you?”

Morgan shook his head.

“I came to collect the horse for the Baron of Crosswood. I’ve the money here. I’d appreciate a cup of tea, but then I’ll be on my way. I’d suggest moving her to her own bed, and give her small – only small, mind – amounts of laudanum over the next few days, to ease the pain as it heals. But make sure that she wakes, and talks to you regularly, for it seems her head was hit hard. Gently wash the wound frequently with a clean, soft cloth soaked in water with Thyme tincture in it, but don’t cover it, or use any salves or the like. That way the final scar will be as small as possible. The stitches will need to be carefully removed in about two weeks’ time, once it’s well sealed.”

He stood then, rolled his sleeves back down, took his coat from the chair where he’d left it, and retrieved the pouch of money, before putting the coat on. The butler smiled.

“I’ll leave Mrs Jenkins to arrange moving my Lady, and Molly here can get you that tea. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to Lady Hardenwell, and you can give the money directly to her.”

Morgan followed him from the room, and was led to a smaller parlour, where an older woman sat, twisting her fingers. She looked up when the Butler showed him in.

“Is she….?”

“Your daughter will be well, my Lady, although she will have a scar. I have made it as neat as I possibly could, but it is impossible to completely avoid. But I am here now to give you this - the money from Baron Crosswood. If you are happy with that, I’ll collect the horse and be on my way back to Crosswood Hall.”

He held out the pouch, and the Lady took it, not even bothering to glance at its contents before setting it aside.

“Thank you… I don’t know what I would have done…”

“There is no need for thanks – I could not have left a Lady in distress like that. Now I’ll go out to the stables and collect the horse, if you’ve someone who can show me which one it is?”

She nodded, and looked to the Butler.

“I’ll arrange that, my Lady.”

Morgan bowed, and the Butler led him away, first to the kitchens for that cup of tea – and the cake that Morgan was given with it – and then he summoned one of the grooms to show Morgan the horse.

In the stables, Morgan finally heard the explanation for how the young Lady had come to be carried in on a stretcher.

She was, it seemed, a crack rider, and prone to being a little rash. A groom had been following her, and seen her send her horse at a huge hedge, with a drop on the other side, and a narrow space between two trees. There had been nothing he could do – her horse had slipped slightly on the take-off, and they had gone crashing through the top of the hedge, down into the drop on the other side, and slid down the hill, narrowly missing the larger trees, but being cut and scraped by the smaller saplings along the way.

Morgan thought, on hearing it, that she was lucky to be alive.

“What condition is her horse in?”

He’d had to ask… he was incapable of potentially leaving an animal injured if he could help. The groom shook his head in wonderment.

“Scratched up, but not severely damaged – it’s a miracle. He’ll be bruised for weeks, but he’ll recover.”

Morgan was glad to hear it.

Half an hour later, he was on his way, riding his own horse, and leading the one that Lord Crosswell had purchased. He wondered, as he rode, what would become of the young woman he’d just stitched up – had her rashness cost her any chance of a good match, because now she was scarred? Could he have done any better job of it?

He doubted that – and it wasn’t his to worry about anyway.

*****

There was something cool on her forehead – cool and wet. She frowned, an automatic response to her puzzlement, and then wished that she hadn’t. Her head hurt – both in the ‘aches like the very devil’ way, and in the ‘feels like a healing cut’ way.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes.

With a squeak of shock, her mother dropped the wet cloth – which fell completely over Venetia’s face. Moments later, it was snatched away.