Page 4 of A Gifted Earl

“Oh! Venetia! I am so glad that you’re finally awake!”

Confusion filled her, and she tried very hard to remember why her head hurt, and why her mother might look so relieved. What had happened? What had she done, to end up in bed like this? Because she was utterly, completely certain that it was the result of something she had done – anything bad usually was.

Her memory remained blank. There were misty glimpses of a man’s face, slightly tensed in concentration, and the sense of warmth in those deep brown eyes – but she didn’t know if the man was real, or a dream. He certainly wasn’t anyone she’d ever met. Beyond that, only blackness. There was nothing for it then, she’d have to ask.

“Mother… why am I like this? Why does my head hurt?”

Her mother’s mouth formed a shocked ‘O’.

“You don’t remember?”

“No…. If I did, I wouldn’t need to ask.”

Her mother sighed.

“From the description the groom gave me, you were, as usual, entirely rash. You sent your horse at the big hedge amongst the copse of trees – the one with the drop into a ditch on the other side. The ground was a little wet, and your horse slipped on take-off. You went through the hedge, and the smaller trees. It’s a wonder that your head wasn’t broken open on one of the bigger ones.”

Venetia took that in, thinking hard, trying to remember.

But little came to her beyond a blurry image of trees rushing past, and pain followed by darkness. Then something important occurred to her.

“My horse…? Is he…?”

“By some miracle he also survived – bruised and scratched, with sprained muscles I am told, but nothing worse.”

A wash of relief filled her.

Cautiously, she lifted her hand to her forehead, where the stinging pain seemed more intense by the minute. Her fingertips met a pattern of ridges, and little bumps at the ends, with tiny tails of thread. Icy cold horror slid through her veins. There was no possibility that this could end in any way but with her having a very noticeable scar on her face.

“My face…?”

“Was a gory bloody mess, if you’ll excuse me being blunt. One of the maids fainted and I very nearly did so when I saw it. Yes, you’ll have a scar, but you’re lucky that it’s not far worse.”

“How… why…?”

Her mother laughed then, a bitter, sad sound.

“How does your face come to be stitched up like this?”

“Yes – there’s no surgeon within a day’s travel…”

“I can only say that you were granted a miracle. A man had just arrived to collect the horse we sold to Lord Crosswood. He got here just as the grooms carried you in on the stretcher. I was upstairs, and the staff were all struck by horror and fear. He walked in, took one look, knew exactly what to do, issued orders, and did what was needed when Mrs Jenkins provided everything he asked for. When I came down, he was already cleaning your face and preparing to stitch it up. What could I do but let him continue? Without help, you would just as likely have died, from blood loss or infection and, even if you’d lived, you would have had the most horrific scar.”

She shuddered and Venetia wondered just how bad it had been.

“And this is not ‘the most horrific scar’?”

“No, it is not. Far from it. The stitches are tiny, delicate, better than all but the best embroidery. He spent a very long time trying his best to disfigure you as little as possible. But one cannot repair a gaping wound without some stitches, so there will be a scar. It will be dark to begin with, but like all scars, it will fade with time, and become less obvious.”

Venetia absorbed her words, trying hard to accept that she would be scarred for the rest of her life. It was a most difficult concept to accept – especially as there was no one to blame but herself.

“Then… we won’t be going to London in the Autumn, won’t be attending Balls and Soirees? Because surely a scar will make people turn away from me, especially when it is still relatively new, and dark in colour?”

Her mother took a deep breath, and shook her head sadly.

“Venetia… we have no choice. We will wait until late September, to give it some time, but we will still go, and you will still do your best to make a match. The money we have will not last much past Christmas, although I have still managed to keep aside a small dowry for you. Last year’s harvest was bad, and this year’s looks only a little better. And that is all we have – the harvest from this estate. Your uncle may have inherited your father’s title, but the man feels no compulsion to assist us at all.”

Venetia felt the pain in her head acutely, her mother’s words crushing all of her hopes for the future. There would be no charming younger man for her now – only the old men in search of a young wife would accept a woman with a scarred face – the men who cared more for a woman’s body than her face…

A sob broke free, despite her attempts to stop it.

“But… they will mock me, I am sure…”

“Then you will be strong, and ignore them, and show the quality of your character. Now rest – I will send for some tea, and with that, you can have a few drops of laudanum, to help you sleep and heal. In a few days’ time, it should begin to not hurt so much.”

Venetia nodded, but that hurt too, and a small laugh escaped her, full of near hysterical bitterness.

“I promise, Mother, that in future, when you tell me not to be so wild and rash, I will actually listen.”

Her mother pulled the bellpull, then turned back to her with a true smile.

“I know that you mean that now, but I do not, for one minute, believe that intention will last. Being a little wild is simply part of you, my dear daughter, and I do not think I would like a totally sedate and obedient version of you, no matter how much trouble that might save me.”