Page 44 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)
He stepped out of her room. A little nervous that Mr. Winthrop would cause her distress, Kip closed the door behind him. Nearly all the staff had gathered in the corridor, watching him with concern and worry. Their eyes darted between him and the door.
“I am not a physician, by any means,” he said, “but she can walk, her words are lucid and well formed, and though she has sustained injuries, they do seem superficial. I suspect if she’s kept warm and allowed to rest, she will fully and quickly recover.”
They all looked immediately relieved but also quite determined. The people of Guilford Village were good and kind. And Amelia had so quickly won them over. She had allies whether she realized it or not.
“The staff seem very fond of Amelia,” her uncle said as he walked alongside Kip down the corridor.
It was time someone pointed a few things out to the man.
Kip knew he needed to tread carefully, but he thought it might be a good time for the man to realize what he had been ignoring.
“My aunt and I have visited a great many homes and seen how they are run and how those who are so crucial to the success of those homes view the people who stand in positions of authority and ownership. I can say we have never seen a mistress of an estate more dedicated to the well-being of those attached to it, nor have I seen a staff or a local people so entirely devoted to the head of an estate. You must be very proud of her.”
Mr. Stirling didn’t immediately say he was, but he did look ponderous. Kip was full-on shivering by the time he reached his door.
But Mr. Winthrop, in typical fashion for him, made things more difficult. He stood in front of that door and blocked Kip’s way inside. “You are exceptionally attentive to Miss Archibald.”
“I didn’t realize that, to English gentlemen, offering assistance to a lady after she has sustained injuries is so unusual as to be deemed ‘exceptional.’ Apparently, that is one way in which Americans differ from the English.”
Mr. Winthrop ruffled up at that. “There is a marked difference between bringing her back here as a matter of ordinary kindness and giving yourself the right to look after her.”
“I gave her over to the care of her abigail. I am not the one looking after her.” More was the pity, really. He’d hated to leave her there when he suspected the terror of what had occurred had not yet fully settled in.
“What is your design here?” Mr. Winthrop demanded.
Feeling rather put out with the man and exhausted himself, Kip said, “At the moment, my design is to change out of my wet clothes before I develop an inflammation of the lungs.”
Mr. Winthrop still didn’t budge. “I have secured her uncle’s approval and cooperation for this match.
I will not be the last of my line. I refuse to be.
” An unexpected deviation from the topic.
“Miss Archibald is young enough to produce an heir,” Mr. Winthrop continued, “and unlike other young ladies, she can’t refuse if her uncle agrees. ”
In a tone as dry as he wished his clothes were, Kip said, “How romantic.”
With a look of disdain, Mr. Winthrop said, “You have now hit upon something that is different between English and Americans. We do not embrace such sentimental nonsense.”
“And Americans know better than to leave a watermark.” Kip motioned at the floor growing wet beneath him.
He hoped his indifferent tone was believable.
If Mr. Winthrop saw Kip as a rival, the gentleman could likely make things very difficult for Amelia.
Simply shaming Mr. Winthrop into behaving was the better approach.
It must have worked to some extent. Mr. Winthrop gave him one last look-over, punctuated by disapproval, and stormed off.
Beginning to feel very sore and chilled clear to his bones, Kip opened his door and stepped inside. The Guilford footman and Mrs. Finch were both inside with dry clothes and thick blankets ready for him. Thank goodness.
Mrs. Finch crossed to Kip’s door and closed it once more. “I’ll not put you to the blush,” she said. “I’ll look the other way while your man here helps you change out of them sodden clothes. I simply wanted to see for myself that you’ve not torn yourself to pieces.”
The footman helped him undress, which was a good thing because his fingers were so cold he couldn’t work the buttons himself.
“Checking to make sure I’m alive?” Kip said. “Watch yourself there, auntie, I might think you care about me.”
“All of we care about you,” she said. “Might be I care more, but that’s what family does.”
He smiled at that. “Are you claiming me as family?”
“I haven’t any of my family left since losing my husband,” she said. “Though I’ve friends aplenty in Guilford Village, I miss belonging to somewho. If you’ll claim me, I’d like to be family to you.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “And not just because I also don’t have any family.”
“That settles that, then,” Mrs. Finch said firmly. “Before you get new shirt sleeves on he, Jimmy,” she said to the footman, “us had best take a look at whatever it is that’s bleeding.”
“The shirtsleeves are all that I’ve left to pull on,” Kip said. “Now’s the right time for taking a look.”
“I’ll warn you, Mrs. Finch, he has a ...” Jimmy dropped his voice to a whisper. “Tattoo.”
Mrs. Finch waved that off. “I’ve already seen it. Horrid-looking thing.” But there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes when she glanced at Kip after saying it.
“I’ll have you know it’s considered quite fashionable in my time.”
“ This is your time now. You belong here whether you realize it or not.”
He hoped that did prove to be true in the end. He needed to find a way to belong.
Mrs. Finch moved to stand at his side, eying the painful spot high on the back of his right shoulder blade. “It doesn’t look too awful.”
With some twisting, he could see a fraction of it himself. A decent cut, but he didn’t think it went beyond that. “We’d best sanitize it so it doesn’t get infected.”
Mrs. Finch and the footman exchanged confused looks. Did people at this time not understand infections? He felt certain they’d touched on the topic in The Beau , discussing how wounds could kill if they turned putrid. Maybe that needed to be the word he used.
Or maybe it was the idea of “sanitizing” that was baffling to them. Was that something he could safely explain, or was that going to ruin something?
If they didn’t know about the necessity of cleaning wounds, Amelia was at great risk of infection. He had to say something, but what could he safely say?
“I cannot tell you why, only that I have reason to know ...” He gave them pointed looks, hoping they understood that he was referencing future knowledge.
“We need to clean this wound thoroughly. Get out any bits of debris or dirt, even unseen dirt that might be in it. Very thorough cleaning. And if it shows the tiniest hint of putrification”—he was proud of himself for recalling that from a script several seasons ago—“some brandy dabbed on the wound can help.” Alcohol could be a disinfectant, but it was a harsh one that he didn’t particularly want poured all over his one wound, let alone Amelia’s many.
“We need to communicate to Jane that it is of paramount importance that all of Miss Archibald’s injuries be thoroughly cleaned as well.
I cannot overemphasize how deeply important this is. ”
To his relief, they didn’t argue or press. And they believed him.
His wound was cleaned and bandaged, and then he wrapped himself in a thick blanket over his blessedly dry clothing.
He sat in a chair near the roaring fire in his bedchamber, ever more grateful that the people of Guilford knew the tales of the Tides of Time and so readily accepted them.
It had allowed him to help safeguard Amelia without having to reveal things that he ought not.
He’d been warned so extensively and so intensely about the possibility of changing the future by revealing things in the past. And Mr. Winthrop’s presence had already filled his mind with a horrifying possibility.
Malcolm was a Winthrop, and his family had lived in this area for generations. Every interaction he had with Amelia’s would-be suitor came with a risk of changing the future of the Winthrop family.
And Malcolm was that future.