Page 4 of Marie’s Merry Gentleman (The Bookshop Belles #2)

CHAPTER 3

Trapped at Alston

M arie tried very hard not to shriek in pain as the earl’s warm fingers probed at her ankle. It hurt, rather a lot. She tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t an actual earl with his hands on her limb. Just pretend he’s Dr Rasley , she tried to tell herself. To absolutely no avail, because there was an actual earl with his hands on her limb! A young, rather dashing earl instead of the town elder from Hatfield.

“I need to remove your boot,” he said, glancing up at her from where he crouched at the foot of the bed. “Is that all right?”

Dear heavens, this was far too intimate for such a short association. Alas, she didn’t suppose she had much choice, so she nodded. Fortunately, the housekeeper Mrs Ellwood bustled in at that moment with cries of horror, so at least they were appropriately chaperoned.

Marie bit down hard on the inside of her cheek as the earl very carefully unlaced and removed her boot. Hard enough that she tasted blood, and had to make herself unclench her teeth.

“It’s swelling already. Mrs Ellwood, would you have Morag go out and gather some clean snow? We need to ice Miss Baxter’s ankle.”

Marie propped herself up on her elbows and scowled down at her ankle, extremely annoyed to see that the earl was correct. Her ankle was distinctly thicker than it should be, and already turning a distressing shade of purplish blue.

It ached so fiercely. She’d never in her life experienced anything like this sort of pain or injury, was entirely unaccustomed to being so helpless. It was a dreadful feeling.

“A sprain, I’m quite sure,” the earl said authoritatively. “Let me consult my book for the correct treatment, but I believe icing it to be the first recommendation, so let us begin with that.”

He left for a few moments, presumably to consult his book, and Mrs Ellwood came over to remove Marie’s other boot and swathe a blanket over her legs, tutting away the whole while.

“Whatever were you doing, Miss, going outside in such weather? Why, your skirt’s all wet too, we must change your gown once the master’s done what he needs to. Ah, here’s Morag!”

The maid was lugging in a pail full of snow; she set it down at the end of the bed and produced some linen strips.

Marie’s breath hissed between her teeth as they wrapped a strip of linen around her ankle and then packed snow tightly around it. Just moving her foot enough to wrap it sent bolts of pain up her leg. Numbness was soon spreading from the cold snow, however, and she rolled her head back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

“What a very stupid thing to do,” she chastised herself quietly.

“Arah, nae worrit, miss, we’ve all tekken a twa hipper skitie afore. Scunners!”

Marie looked at Morag, who was smiling cheerfully at her, and then at Mrs Ellwood, confusion creasing her brow. Mrs Ellwood hid a smile behind her hand.

“Go and brew some fresh tea for Miss Baxter please Morag, and bring up something for her breakfast. Toast and jam, perhaps.”

“Aye, mam!” Morag covered the bucket and rushed out.

“Whatever did she say?” Marie begged.

“She said you shouldn’t worry as everyone’s had a nasty fall on slippery ice. Roughly. She’s Scottish and even when she speaks English, the dialect is a little confusing if you’re not used to it.” Mrs Ellwood took a seat beside the window and seemed disposed to chat. “Where exactly is it that you’ve come from, Miss Baxter?”

“Hatfield, in Hertfordshire. It’s around twenty-five miles north of London.”

“A mort long way from here!” Mrs Ellwood gasped, hand to her throat. “And you came all that way, alone ?”

“I had to deliver the earl’s books. His lordship was quite insistent on it.”

“That one and his books!” Mrs Ellwood gave a delicate little sniff. “Scarcely cares about anything else. Won’t trust any of his staff to fetch them either! Well, I’m right sorry he’s dragged you all the way here only for you to suffer an injury. We’ll take good care of you until you’re well enough to go home, I promise.”

Marie thought bleakly that it wasn’t herself she was worried about, not really; it was her sisters, and the bookshop. She’d come all this way expecting to take a large amount of money home with her. She had the money safely tucked away in her bags, but she needed to get it to Hatfield. At this rate, she might not make it home for another month, or even more!

“I need to write to my sisters,” she said.

“Of course, miss. I’ll get you some writing materials.” Mrs Ellwood bustled off again, passing by the earl as he entered the room.

Book in hand, Renwick stood at the end of the bed, frowning down at the pages and not even looking at Marie. “It says here that if it’s a sprain, it should be tightly wrapped and kept elevated,” he murmured, running his finger down the page. “And yes, iced if possible, but not continuously nor directly against the skin, lest you get frostbite.”

“May I look?” Marie asked as he set the open book down on the bed and frowned over her ankle. He glanced up at her, then shrugged and handed over the book. She read down the page, looking at the diagram of bandaging as he began to unroll a long strip of linen.

“Under the sole of the foot, then cross over the top, then firmly about the ankle,” she directed, and the earl looked up at her with an amused glint in his eye. He followed her instructions, though, eventually tying the bandage off with a neat knot. Marie tried to wiggle her ankle and found that she could not.

“Treated to your satisfaction, Miss Baxter?” the earl asked.

“Nothing about this situation is to my satisfaction,” she said. Her words were harsh to her own ears, and she wished she could be more polite. Pain had a way of making her irritable.

“Understandable, and I am sorry for it.” He came around beside the bed. “Your pillows are slipping; allow me?”

She nodded, pushing herself up on her arms. The earl leaned over her to shove the pillows back in.

“Father!” a youthful voice shouted, high with glee. “Father, there’s a donkey in the stables; did you buy him? Can we pet him?”

Startled, Marie looked over towards the door, noticing almost absently that the earl stood up straight very quickly, a flush darkening his face. For an instant she thought she was seeing double, but no; there were two boys at the door, near-identical at first glance, though as they came into the room she saw there were differences. One was an inch or so taller, his hair a lighter shade of brown, his eyes blue where his brother’s were brown.

It was the shorter of the two boys who had spoken, his dark eyes turned curiously on Marie now. “Who’s she?”

“That is rude, Richard,” the earl chided, though his tone was not unkind. “When you meet a lady, that’s not how you ask to be introduced. You have to ask someone already acquainted with her for the honour of an introduction.”

Marie guessed the two boys to be about eleven or so, around her cousin Brutus’ age or a little older. They could not be more obviously the earl’s sons, though now she wondered at her initial assessment of his age at around thirty; he seemed too young to be their father. Unless he’d married young himself, which she supposed was quite likely. Especially if he’d been the only heir in line to the title; the aristocracy often arranged marriages when their heirs were still children, she knew.

“I beg your pardon, Father,” Richard said penitently. “Will you introduce us to your lady friend?”

“Indeed I shall, since you have remembered your manners. Miss Marie Baxter, please allow me to present my sons. Richard William and,” his voice changed a little, becoming oddly strained, “George Francis.”

The boys made very creditable bows, looking at her curiously, and Marie smiled. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” George edged forward, eyeing her foot. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Badly, she thought, blaming herself for being so foolish in the first place. “I’m afraid so, I slipped on the front steps and have turned my ankle.”

“Sprained,” the earl corrected.

She shot him an annoyed look. “Possibly sprained,” she conceded reluctantly.

“Gosh, how jolly awful! But why have you come to visit?” Richard asked.

They were curious boys, if somewhat socially inept - but considering their father’s awkwardness, what else was to be expected? Marie rather liked them both immediately.

“I came to deliver some books your father ordered,” she confided.

“Books!” Two pairs of eyes lit up, and she smiled.

“Of course you are raising two more book connoisseurs,” she said to the earl, who smiled rather reluctantly in return. “I shall take note of potential future customers for the shop.”

“You have a bookshop ?” they chorused in near-unison.

Oh, she liked them even more now!

“Boys, you mustn’t bother Miss Baxter,” the earl began, but Marie shook her head at him.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but with my present injury, I have literally nothing else to do. I should be delighted to tell your sons anything they should like to know about my family’s bookshop.”

“They do have lessons to attend. Where is your tutor?” the earl asked.

Richard and George both looked a little evasive, mumbling something about the stables. Marie hid a smile. Typical boys, they would far rather be doing anything but conjugating their Latin verbs, unless she missed her guess.

Footsteps outside heralded the arrival of the boys’ tutor, who was duly presented to Marie as Mr Charles, a young man of around her own age.

“He’s going to be a vicar,” George confided, sitting down in the window-seat, “but he’s quite nice anyway. Not preachy.”

“An excellent quality in a vicar,” Marie agreed, thinking glumly of the Reverend Millings, back home in Hatfield. “I am regularly afflicted with an extremely preachy vicar. We call him Old Brimstone!”

The boys both giggled, Mr Charles tried to look disapproving and failed, and even the earl cracked a small smile.

“Would you like to join us for nuncheon, Miss Baxter?” George asked eagerly, as Mr Charles attempted to herd his charges back to their lessons. “We always have nuncheon with Father, would you join us?”

“Is this an attempt to get out of your French lesson?” the earl asked severely. “Because it won’t work. We always converse in French at nuncheon,” he advised Marie.

French? How wonderful! “Oh, I should be delighted to join you then, my lord. I speak excellent French,” she replied cheerfully.

The earl gave her a slightly doubtful look as he left the room in the boys’ chattering wake, and Marie smirked to herself. The earl was in for a surprise, and she found that she was rather looking forward to nuncheon.

As the boys, their tutor and their father departed the room, Mrs Ellwood came back in with tea on a tray and a black bottle Marie recognised.

“Laudanum?” she questioned.

“It’s up to you, dear,” the housekeeper said kindly. “His lordship told me to bring it up. Thought it might help you rest for a while.”

Marie thought about it. Her ankle was throbbing quite agonisingly, and the pain was beginning to give her a megrim. While she usually only developed megrims from extended periods of noise, when they came they could be quite incapacitating. She had found in the past that judicious use of small amounts of laudanum could help.

“One drop,” she said, “in the tea, please. And even if I ask, please don’t give me any more until tomorrow.”

“Very wise, miss,” Mrs Ellwood nodded gravely, and carefully tapped one drop into the teacup. “Now, just leave the cup there beside the bed when you’re finished, and try and get some rest.”

Marie’s eyelids were drifting by the time she finished the tea, so she set the cup aside, snuggled down in the comfortable bed and drifted off into a blessedly pain-free sleep.

She woke to find Mrs Ellwood gently packing snow around her foot again, but the housekeeper hushed her and told her to get some more rest.

“I don’t want to miss nuncheon,” Marie mumbled.

“Never fear, you won’t.” Mrs Ellwood chuckled. “Those boys won’t let you.”

Marie smiled as sleep pulled her under again.

She woke a second time to a tap on the door, heralding the arrival of the earl and his sons, the two boys asking eagerly how she was feeling and was she ready to come to nuncheon.

“Indeed I am, I’m quite famished!” Marie smiled at them, and unwarily tried to get up. The moment she moved to swing her legs off the bed, she wished she hadn’t. Bolts of pain raced up her left leg and she sucked in her breath, trying not to shriek in agony lest she frighten the boys. Very slowly and cautiously, she eased her legs back to where they had been.

Young George looked perceptively at her, his eyes full of concern, before turning to the earl. “Father, could we have nuncheon in here with Miss Baxter instead?”

All eyes turned her way and she felt guilty for holding them back.

The earl nodded and said, “If Miss Baxter cannot come to nuncheon, then I suppose nuncheon can come to Miss Baxter.” Then he added in French, “I shall not, ah, compare you to a mountain, nor… Mohammed.”

Marie smiled broadly and corrected his grammar, also in French.

His eyes rounded in surprise.

Marie beamed with confidence, despite her aching foot, pride surging through her with her skills in her mother’s language.

Mrs Ellwood and Morag bustled in with trays of tea, and plates of sandwiches sliced into peaks, making them appear like the surrounding Pennine mountains. Two footmen soon followed with a selection of side tables and chairs.

Mr Charles took a seat and directed his attention to the boys. His next remark, in French, directly translated as, “This is a select lovely of food bites.”

The earl looked to Marie to correct him, because he’d heard the poor delivery as well.

Marie gladly provided the more correct, “Oui, c'est un délicieux repas léger.” Yes, it’s a delicious light meal.

The earl’s smile filled her with warmth and confidence.

Throughout their meal, Marie gladly spoke her mother’s language freely, gently correcting the boys through some truly tangled sentences. When she’d hurt her ankle, she had berated herself for being stupid and making herself useless to anyone. Now she could be of use after all; she had skills the boys very much required.

Still speaking in French, she asked Mr Charles about how the boys were faring at Eton. Through stilted words and mangled verbs, he managed to convey they were doing very well in Latin and Greek.

Which was a credit to them, but French clearly came a distant third, which Marie deplored. How many occasions were the boys likely to have a need to speak Latin and Greek in their lives? French was far more likely to be useful, as was mathematics.

Cricket was something else at which they apparently excelled, although it wasn’t a specific subject like the languages, the boys explained. It was something everyone enjoyed playing in the lead-up to the King’s Birthday every June.

They did their best to explain how the school halves worked, and when they were due back, slipping into English when they struggled.

Mr Charles wasn’t that much help, as he valiantly tried to explain in tortured speech, “More boys at Eton stay at Christmastide and special boys these are.”

“Voulez-vous dire que la plupart des élèves restent à l'école pendant la période de No?l au lieu de rentrer chez eux?” Do you mean that most students stay at school over Christmas instead of going home?

“Oui,” he replied, with a relieved, heavy sigh. He appeared to have a sore head from thinking so hard. No wonder the children were not doing well in that language when their tutor was not so well-versed himself.

“We shall speak in French as much as you like,” she told the boys in that beautiful language, “To help improve your skills in the time that I’m here.”

Mr Charles curled his lips down with a sad expression and managed, “Dans ce cas, il n'est pas normal d'être heureux que vous vous soyez fait du mal. Mon francais est vraiment déficient.” In this case, it's not right to be happy that you've hurt yourself. My French is so lacking.

True, but kind of him to say nevertheless. She didn’t remark on his poor French, just accepted a slice of cake from the plate George was offering to her, and thanked him.

The tea was hot and welcome as Marie sipped and smiled. Her ankle hurt like blazes now that the laudanum had worn off. But the distraction of the lovely food, the sweet boys, the struggling tutor and the surprisingly charming earl all worked a spell on her and she found she could go several minutes at a time without thinking about her pain. They talked long into the afternoon and Mr Martin arrived with the boys’ French readers, so that they could study what was expected of them.

Marie read out a range of verbs, the boys repeated them back. Mr Charles joined in as well, the tutor temporarily becoming the student.

“Je marche, Je marchais, Je vais marcher,” she read out to them. All three replied, trying hard to mimic her accent. I walk, I walked, I will walk.

She added something relevant to them. “Je vais marcher jusqu'à Alston et remettre une lettre.” I'll walk to Alston and deliver a letter.

As much fun as this was, she really did need to get a message to her sisters. It would be most convenient if someone could walk to Alston and post a letter for her.