Lyons Gate

CHAPTER 28

It was the fault of Major Philly’s cow, who was wandering free in her pasture, chewing placidly on the fresh summer grass as she stared after Dodger, who was still running faster than the wind. The cow was unaware that Charlemagne was running right at her, all his focus on Dodger, who was still a good thirty yards ahead of him.

When the cow saw Charlemagne, eyes wild, head down, she mooed loudly in alarm.

Charlemagne heard the moo but didn’t see the cow, but Hallie did. In a last-ditch effort to avert disaster, she threw herself against his neck, grabbed the reins close to his mouth, and jerked as hard as she could to her right.

Charlemagne ripped the reins out of her hands, jumped straight into the air, slashed out at the cow with his hooves, missed, and sent Hallie hurtling over his head.

Jason saw the whole thing. He was so frightened he cursed until he’d run out of both human and animal body parts. He leapt off Bad Boy’s back, dodged the cow’s butting head, and fell to his knees beside Hallie.

She was pale except for two bloody scratches on her cheek. He felt for the pulse in her throat, couldn’t find it. “Don’t you dare be dead, damn you. I want Lyon ’s Gate, but not over your dead body. Open your eyes, you bloody female, now. You don’t wish to be the first buried here in this cow pasture, do you? There, I found your pulse. You’re alive, so stop pretending you’re not. Wake up, woman.”

“I wonder where all past owners of Lyon ’s Gate are buried?”

Her words were slurred, but he understood them. “Good, you’re here. Keep your eyes open. How many fingers am I waving in front of your nose?”

“A blurry fist. You’re shaking your fist at me. What nerve.”

“Hold still.” He started with her arms, then skimmed his hands lightly over her, ending with squeezing her toes in her riding boots. “Do you have pain anywhere else other than your head? Don’t lie there with a vacant look on your face, answer me. You didn’t groan, is it only your head?”

“Yes, it’s only my head. Get that fist out of my face.”

“My fist is two fingers. Keep your eyes open, Hallie. I saw what happened. Ah, here’s Dodger, come back to see what trouble he caused. I tried to shout after you that Dodger always came home by himself, but you were off to save the day rather than pause for just an instant to see if your assistance was even needed.”

“He comes home by himself?”

“Look at poor old Charlemagne. He’s blowing after that adventure you put him through. Charlemagne could have hurt that cow, and you have no idea how much Major Philly loves his cows.”

“Would Dodger really have come back since Delilah and Penelope were after him?”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t know either since this is the fist time two mares wanted him. He was frantic, Jason. He wanted only to escape. Charlemagne doesn’t come back. Can you teach him to come home?”

“Maybe. Right now, all three horses are standing no more than six feet from me, wondering why you’re lying here on the ground.”

Jason felt in his pocket and gave each horse a sugar cube. “You want one too?”

Hallie looked at him, then at the horses, all three of them still staring down at her, chewing on their sugar cubes. She was glad she didn’t know what they were thinking. The cow mooed. Jason gave the cow a sugar cube too.

“This is humiliating,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Open your damned eyes!”

“No,” she whispered and turned her face into his hand. He felt her warm blood against his palm. “Can I have a sugar cube?”

He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He felt her warm breath, then he realized she was asleep, or unconscious, he didn’t know which. He felt the lump behind her left ear growing bigger. She wasn’t going to like the way she felt when she woke up. Jason sat back on his haunches, popped a sugar cube into his mouth. Dodger, seeing him do that, whinnied. “Well, my fine fellows, what the hell do I do now?”

He looked up when he heard Major Philly say from behind his right shoulder, “I say, Mr. Sherbrooke, what are you doing with my sweet Georgiana? Why is Miss Carrick-she is Miss Carrick, isn’t she?”

Jason nodded. “She was thrown.” He turned back to Hallie to see Major Philly’s Georgiana butting her head, licking her hair and face.

“Get that fist out of my face.”

“It’s Georgiana, not my fist,” the major said. “Is Miss Carrick all right, Jason? She doesn’t look at all the thing, you know. There’s blood running down her face.”

Hallie moaned and didn’t breathe in. She didn’t move.

“Here’s a sugar cube,” Jason said and stuck it in her mouth. “Suck on that and I’ll get you home.”

“I say, Mr. Sherbrooke, poor Georgiana is overset. Her eyes are rolling in her head.”

“Give her another sugar cube, sir, she’ll be fine.”

When Jason carried Hallie into the house, Martha yelled, “Heaven’s groats! There’s blood dripping off her face. She’s dead!”

Petrie, to Jason’s surprise, said as placid as a vicar who’s drunk the sacramental wine, “Calm yourself, Martha. Master Jason would have told us if she was dead. She looks bad, though. Shall I fetch a doctor, or is it too late?”

“I suppose it would be best to have her head checked. Send Crispin. He knows where Dr. Blood lives.”

“Yes,” Corrie said, coming into the drawing room, “he can ride Petunia, my mare. Dr. Blood is such a good physician, but such an unfortunate name.”

“Hello, Corrie,” Jason said. “You and James came for a visit? Everything’s all right at home, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, but Hallie-”

Before Petrie took himself off, he said to Corrie, “I can see her chest moving, my lady. Well, since she’s a female, it’s not quite accurate to say chest, but you know what I mean-”

“Everyone knows exactly what you mean, Petrie. Go.” Jason sat beside her, held her hand, told her that even though Major Philly wasn’t pleased with her for scaring the bejesus out of his cow, Jason had talked him around. “Keep those eyes open and listen to me. Twenty years ago, James and I helped him herd his cows into another pasture when his dog, Oliver, was ill and couldn’t do it. He always called us Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“Because he couldn’t tell us apart,” James said.

“Probably not, but it was a nice touch, made us both feel very important. The thing is that Georgiana is a very sensitive bovine. It’s possible her milk has been adversely affected.”

“All right, if it isn’t her fault, then it’s Dodger’s fault.”

Jason tucked the lovely afghan his grandmother had knitted over her. “Do I recall preaching about taking responsibility?”

“You listened to what I said to Lord Carlisle about Elgin Sloane, did you?” asked Hallie.

“I had to remove a pebble from my boot. My ears didn’t stop working. When you’re upset, Hallie, you’re loud.”

When Dr. Blood, a Scotsman from John O’Groats, so far north that throwing people into the frigid sea was the preferred method of murder, arrived and looked down at Hallie, he stroked his chin. She still smelled like cow, sugar cubes, and carrots, and had a blinding headache, but Dr. Blood was pleased she was awake and alert. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t want any man named Blood near me.”

“Too late, young lady,” said Jonathan Blood. He finally had to shove Jason out of the way. “Do you want to vomit?”

Petrie said, “See here, she can’t vomit, not in the drawing room where there’s no chamber pot in sight.”

“No, Petrie, I’m not nauseous, thank God.”

Dr. Blood felt the lump behind her ear, looked at her eyes, kneaded her neck, felt her ankles after he’d removed her boots, frowned at her torn stockings, and ordered strong tea without sugar. “You’ll do,” he said. “Nothing like a woman to have a hard head. You remain lying there, Miss Carrick, all limp and female and let Jason here wait on you. Jason, you can give her some laudanum now. The headache should be gone when she wakes up.”

“The master doesn’t do that,” Martha said from the doorway. “I do that.”

“No, it is I who dole out the laudanum,” Petrie said. “I am the one ultimately responsible for curing Miss Carrick’s headache. I am the butler.”

Hallie groaned.

“Oh dear,” Petrie said.

“She’s not going to vomit,” Corrie said. “Are you, Hallie?”

“No.”

James said, peering down at her, “Now that we know you’re all right, Hallie, my wife and I will see ourselves out. You’ve enough to deal with without family hanging about, even though Bad Boy saved the day, and I’ve yet to hear a single thank-you.”

Jason threw a wet cloth at his twin, who caught it out of the air, and said, “It smells like cow. Not good.”

Corrie laughed, took her husband’s hand, and dragged him from the drawing room. “Rest, Hallie. I will come back in a couple of days to see how you are doing. Angela, don’t worry, your fallen chick will be just fine.”

By eight o’clock that evening, Hallie was so bored, she was ready to tear raw meat apart. Not a minute later, Jason obligingly came into her bedchamber, whistling and carrying a tray.

She eyed the teapot. “I hope Cook made the tea for you. If not, it will taste like hot water with oak bark in it.”

Jason set the tray down, poured a cup and tasted it. “No, not oak bark. Hmm. Elm bark, if I’m not mistaken.”

She laughed, drank some delicious tea, eyed the single scone he handed her. “You lied to her. Well done.”

“I told Cook I needed sustenance to see to your care. She commiserated; not verbally, of course. She didn’t swoon.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen your face since you carted me upstairs.”

“Someone has to work around here,” he said, and handed her the scone. “Don’t stuff it in your mouth. I don’t want you getting sick to your stomach.”

“Petrie came here three times, and each time he pointed out the chamber pot to me. Everyone else was nice enough not to mention it.”

“Angela told me you didn’t look too bad. The scratches on your cheek, I don’t think they’re deep enough to scar.”

“My father always told me I was like him. I could get knocked about, even stomped on, and never show a mark. I like Bad Boy. Do you think James would sell him to me?”

“Not in this lifetime. But he is talking about breeding him. I’ll come to an agreement with him. How do you feel?”

“You know that Normandy church in Easterly? I feel like the bells are clanging inside my head.”

“Good. They’re lovely, those bells. Would you like some more laudanum?”

She shook her head. “Are the horses all right?”

“Dodger seems quite content to whinny over his stall door at both Delilah and Penelope. As for Charlemagne, he got extra oats and a good brushing. Henry told him even though he had a rotten bloodline, he was a steadfast lad, one could count on him.”

“I want to race him next week at Hallum Heath.”

“I’m riding Dodger in that race.”

“You’re too big. You’ll lose.”

“I know, it simply sounds nice to say it. We’ve a jockey arriving early next week, in time for that race. He’s ridden for the Rothermere racing stables for seven years now, ever since he was fifteen. He’s marrying a local girl, moving here, and we are the ones to benefit from Rothermere’s loss. His name is Lorry Dale. Phillip Hawksbury, he’s the earl of Rothermere, said Lorry stuck to a horse’s back like a tick. He only weights eight and a half stone.”

“Hmm.”

“We can both attend, make certain nothing bad is taking place, shout ourselves hoarse, and have some fun. Dodger will win with Lorry on his back.”

“I weigh eight stone.”

“This isn’t Baltimore, and you aren’t Jessie Wyndham. You will not race here, Hallie. Living with me is difficult enough for people to accept, and they only do it because of my family. Your riding in a horse race wouldn’t be tolerated. You’d have to shoot yourself dead to be forgiven that transgression. The winner’s purse is one hundred pounds. Money we can well use.”

“But-”

He lightly placed his fingertips over her mouth. She froze. Jason did as well. Neither moved. Suddenly, Jason took three steps back from her bed, stuck his hands behind his back. He looked toward the door. “I’m going out.”

Hallie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. She watched him walk backward, looking at her like he wanted to-what? She didn’t know. He was flushed, his eyes looked funny. He wanted to leave? He’d touched her mouth and he couldn’t wait to get away from her? “What do you mean you’re going out? You said nothing before. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. Jason, wait, where are you going?”

“I’m going out now.” And he was gone in the next thirty seconds. It wasn’t the first time he’d absented himself abruptly in the evenings, for no particular reason that she knew of. Four times now, five? And when did he come home? That was a good question.

Hallie heard him walk by her bedchamber near dawn. She jumped out of bed, nearly fell over at the drumming pain in her head, but managed to stumble out into the corridor. She saw him with his hand out to grasp the door handle on his bedchamber door.

“You just got home. You’re whistling? It’s almost daylight!”

He jerked around like he’d been shot. He saw it was her, saw she was weaving in her open doorway, and started walking back to her. “Yes, I’m home. Let’s get you back to bed, Hallie. What were you doing awake?”

“I was nearly awake when you walked by. Oh dear, where’s the chamber pot?”