Kidnap Confusion Page 7

  Miss Tolliver understood the delicately trailing sentence, and sighed. She agreed with Mrs. Murphy that with the best will in the world she would still be unable to pin Gillian to the bed should he decide to roll about, but after a moment's thought she volunteered to enlist Jem for that task. Then she asked in what other way she could help.

  Mrs. Murphy patted her shoulder again, and told her handsomely that she could hold the basin. Accepting this lowly position with downcast eyes, Miss Tolliver promised to return as soon as she checked on their second patient. Mrs. Murphy, a martial light in her eye, promised to set her husband to finding the lint and bandages she would need, as well as the knife and basilicum powder. At mention of a knife Miss Tolliver suggested politely that it be held in the fire to cleanse it, and Mrs. Murphy replied just as politely that that would indeed be done. Thereafter, Miss Tolliver retired to the other bedroom, the ladies tolerably well pleased with each other.

  In Peter's room, however, Miss Tolliver found no such helpful nurse. And although a fire burned brightly in this chamber's fireplace also, there was no feeling of warm goodwill, perhaps because of Coachman Johns, who sat glowering and muttering darkly that the lad tossing and turning under the blankets piled upon him was likely to slip his wind before morning, and then whatever would Sir Charles say?

  "Oh, Johns," Miss Tolliver cried, hurrying forward,

  "Don't say so! Is he really that bad?" In a moment she had adjusted the candle that burned by the bed so that she could better see the boy's face. True, he was flushed and muttering incoherently, but she was not as quick as the coachman to take such a dim view of his situation. Any young man just recovering from the influenza who had spent the day in the rain might find himself in the same situation, she thought, and reached for the cloth in the cool basin of water on the table beside them. With it she wiped his hot forehead and hands, lending less than half an ear to Johns's continuing litany behind her as he adjured her to leave the boys to their fate and either return to London or journey on, "for I don't know what Sir Charles will say, miss, that I don't, nor do I wish to."

  About to answer that she had a very good idea what her brother would say, but did not care, Miss Toliiver's attention was diverted as Peter opened his eyes briefly, trying to focus on the face in front of him. He stared at her frowningly for several moments, searching with vague memory until he at last felt he had her identity. "Mama?" he murmured.

  Miss Tolliver, her hand suddenly stilled, returned his doubtful smile with one of her own as the boy sighed and closed his eyes. For the time, at least, he was quieter.

  "Well!" Johns exploded behind her, "I never! Calling you his 'mama,' the little—"

  "Oh, Johns, really!" Miss Tolliver returned, shifting slightly so that she faced him. "The boy is not in his right mind. You might call for your own mother if you were in his state. One only wonders if she would come."

  Not quite sure what to make of her last statement, Johns perceived another argument and warned her portentously that she bore the risk of infection if she were to stay, and she should with all due speed move away from the nasty little varmint and out of the inn before she took the illness and was carried off by an inflammation of the lungs, "for what Sir Charles would say then, I'm sure I don't know—"

  As the coachman began his favorite litany, Miss Tolliver rose and slowly viewed him from head to toe. His words trailed off before her gaze, and instinctively he ducked his head, thinking there was something of the old Sir's look about her, and the old Sir had been something when he was in a taking, that he had. . .

  Several seconds passed before Miss Tolliver said in a cool voice of authority that might well have been her father's, "I have told you several times, Johns, that I wish you would rid yourself of this notion that I am in any way concerned with what my brother thinks, says, or does. I am also—and this should not surprise you—even less interested in your opinion of my actions. I should think that if you had even one shred of Christian kindness in you, it would make you aware of our duty to help these boys. Since you do not, I believe I can well dispense with your services. You and that poor groom of my brother's whom you are always bullying may return to London immediately. Please instruct my own coachman to come for me when he is able. You may take my carriage, and he may bring it back. Now go."

  But Johns, goggling at her, seemed rooted to the spot as the full import of her words hit him.

  "But Miss Tolliver!" he gasped, trying to both justify himself while placating her, for he had a pretty good idea of what Sir Charles would say to a coachman who abandoned his sister, and he did not wish to hear it. "Miss Tolliver, I beg of you!" Earnestly he assured her that it was only his sense of duty to her family that made it incumbent for him to persuade her to remove as soon as possible from this establishment. The lady yawned. He told her that nothing could induce him to leave her unattended at the inn in this hour of danger.

  She asked him roundly what a danger he thought two sick boys posed her, adding that she was not unattended while Mrs. Murphy was present.

  Snatching at his cousin's name, he suggested that Mrs. Murphy could easily look after the boys alone, for all her bossy and forward ways, she had a good heart, did his cousin. . .

  Miss Tolliver told him she was glad someone in his family had a good heart, and the look in her fine eyes made him cringe. But, she added, she could not dream of impos­ing on Mrs. Murphy to that extent, and she turned a deaf ear to his almost tearful entreaty that it would not be an imposition.

  "Besides," he said, voicing the argument chief in his mind after all other avenues had been exhausted, "I don't know what Sir Charles will say when he learns I've left his only sister alone with the two young men who tried to kidnap her—"

  He got no further as Miss Tolliver smiled—no, positively beamed—at him. "Why, Johns," she said silkily, taking his arm and leading him, resisting, toward the door, "—just think—you're to have the opportunity to find out!"

  With that she fairly thrust him from the room, paying no heed to his redoubled arguments. Mrs. Murphy, about to reenter Gillian's room from the hall, nodded calmly as Miss Tolliver informed her that her cousin was leaving, and a silent message passed between the women. Taking a firm hold on his arm, Mrs. Murphy led Johns toward the stairs; Miss Tolliver shut the door behind them, and quickly heard the perturbed coachman's voice fading away. She returned to Peter's bedside feeling very grateful for Mrs. Murphy.

  Chapter 7

  When Jem arrived to tell Miss Tolliver there was no other doctor available to wait upon Mister Gillian and Mister Peter, he was met with the pleasing intelligence that in the absence of such a helpful member of the medical profes­sion, he—Jem—was to take part in the upcoming surgery. His wide eyes and the involuntary step back he took at her words told Miss Tolliver he was not overjoyed at the prospect, and his stammered profession that he would willingly lay his life down for Mister Gillian, but he was unable to see that Mr. Gillian lay down—quietly—during the removal of the ball from his shoulder left her regarding him in vexation.

  "But Jem," she protested, "surely you're not afraid you can't handle a wounded man who has lost blood and might toss about a bit—"

  Jem drew himself up to his full height and told her with a dignity that sat oddly on his bedraggled shoulders that he could handle Mister Gillian wounded, drank, or stone sober; he certainly wasn't one to shrink from a struggle.

  "No, miss," he said, gazing down at the cap he was twisting uneasily in his hands, his eyes avoiding the omi­nous preparations by the bed where even now Mrs. Murphy was laying out bandages and lint and a wicked-looking knife glinted in the firelight. "It's not that Mister Gillian can best me in a wrestle—at least, not without a fine fight! It's just that—that—"

  Miss Tolliver looked toward Mrs. Murphy, who nodded sapiently.

  "He's afraid of the sight of blood, miss," Mrs. Murphy said, pursing her lips as she looked him up and down. "A big, brawny lad like that! Just another lummox like that man of mine."


  "What?" Miss Tolliver turned her full attention back to Jem, who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, his color rising with Mrs. Murphy's words.

  "Oh, surely not!" Miss Tolliver's rallying tone suggested that Jem could at any moment counter these charges impugning his courage, but he did not do so. Instead, he was heard to mumble to the floor that while he wasn't afraid of the sight of blood, exactly, there was something about it that made him want to cast up his accounts immediately.

  "And that wouldn't be a good thing to do, would it, miss?" he asked, gazing hangdogged into Miss Tolliver's bemused face.

  She had, perforce, to agreed that it would not be a good thing, and Jem watched anxiously as she cradled her chin in her hand and thought deeply. Mrs. Murphy, standing by the bed tapping her foot and frowning ferociously at the unhap­py young man, muttered darkly that if they were to ask her which was the weaker sex—which no one would, of course, not at all—well, it wouldn't be women she was saying, no sir. It wasn't the women turning coat this night. Resigned to letting Jem go with no more than the sharp edge of her tongue, she turned her attention to Miss Tolliver, who was made of sterner stuff.

  "You know, Jem," Miss Tolliver said, smiling brightly in a way that would have instantly warned Sir Charles that she was out to change his mind about something, "one of the most exciting things about life is that it allows us to face new challenges daily, and to meet our fears and conquer them."

  Jem was not a quick study, but a lifetime with a sister of his own made him greet her words suspiciously. "Miss?" he questioned, taking a step backward. That put him nearer the bed, and since that was the direction in which Miss

  Tolliver wanted him to move, she followed, watching in satisfaction as he stepped back again.

  "What I'm saying, Jem," she told him in the same encouraging tone, her smile growing brighter each moment, "is that tonight you have the opportunity to meet one of your fears and conquer it. You have the opportunity to help a friend—one of your best friends, one you tell me you would lay down your life for—"

  Jem shook his head obstinately and stepped back again. "I'd die for Mister Gillian, miss, and that's the truth. But dying for someone and watching him bleed is two different things, and the latter I won't do."

  "But you will, Jem," Miss Tolliver assured him, her smile now a positive beam. "You will, because you must. And we will hear no more about it. Now grasp his shoulder like a good boy, and quit your nonsense."

  Perhaps it was the way she uttered the last sentence; perhaps it was something he had heard from his own sister since birth and responded to reflexively; but when Jem turned with some idea of escape to find that he was, instead, standing at the edge of Gillian's bed and looking down at his young master, he did what he was told. In a moment Mrs. Murphy had laid bare the wound, which bled sluggishly as she probed it. Gillian moaned unconsciously, and Jem joined him.

  "Courage," Miss Tolliver commanded, picking up the bandages and basin and joining Mrs. Murphy on the other side of the bed as that good lady set competently to work. "I am to hold the basin, and you are to hold the patient."

  Sweat appeared on Jem's forehead, and he stared at her wildly.

  "Now, Jem," Miss Tolliver commanded, holding his eyes. "Don't look down. Look at me. Thinking of some­thing else. Count, Jem. Count!"

  "Count?" he repeated blankly.

  Mrs. Murphy did not look up as she entered the conversa­tion to say, "He can't count, miss. Look at him. A regular slowtop."

  Thus distracted, the "slowtop" let his eyes drift toward the surgeon and her patient, and his face, which had been so red a moment before, turned chalk white.

  "Jem!" Miss Tolliver commanded, watching him. "Jem! Look back at me! I'm sorry I said count. It's something I do in times of trauma and I thought—maybe I could teach you—"

  Begging her pardon, and carefully avoiding looking down, Jem suggested that it might not be the best of times for him to learn to count.

  "Quite right." Miss Tolliver agreed promptly with an encouraging smile. "That is a very wise decision on your part. This is not the time at all. Your realizing that proves how well you are doing, Jem. Doesn't it show how well he is doing, Mrs. Murphy?"

  The question was a mistake, for when Miss Tolliver directed her gaze toward Mrs. Murphy, Jem did likewise, just as the landlady's skillfully wielded knife drove home for the bullet, and fresh blood spurted from the wound. Gillian's body protested, and Jem felt blood ooze through his fingers as he lost his hold on his unconscious friend and reached for it again.

  "Hold him, Jem!" Miss Tolliver cried, also grabbing the restless patient. "Hold him! And look up, Jem! Look up, and—and—and sing!"

  "Sing?" The suggestion so startled Miss Tolliver's audi­ence that for a moment Jem was distracted from the twisting of his stomach, and Mrs. Murphy from her task of busily dusting basilicum powder over Gillian's wound.

  "Why, miss," Mrs. Murphy protested, "All you have to do is look at him to know he can't sing! A big lummox like that—"

  Her disparagement ended in open-mouthed amazement as Jem, casting frantically about for something to take his mind off the red fluid he could feel on his fingers, threw his head back and burst into the only song that entered his mind.

  Thus it was that Gillian Manfield had the bullet in his shoulder removed and his wound competently bound by an innkeeper's wife who learned her medicine nursing the smugglers who plied their trade along the coast; a maiden lady he had only recently tried to abduct; and his frantic, faithful groom, singing at the top of his lungs a song so bawdy that Miss Tolliver knew without a doubt that her brother would have blushed to hear it.

  The lady herself remained remarkably unmoved.

  When Jem awakened in his position on the floor—it was unfortunate, Miss Tolliver informed him kindly, that he had happened to look down just as Mrs. Murphy picked up the basin containing the bloodied towels and water—it was to find Miss Tolliver kneeling beside him while the landlord cradled his head and held a glass of brandy to his lips, and the landlord's wife stood at his feet shaking her head and muttering "lummoxes, lummoxes, every last one of them!" Jem noticed in her a striking resemblance to his sister.

  Coloring and scrambling hastily to his feet, Jem was grateful for the landlord's grasp on his arm when the quick movement sent his head spinning. "I must have fallen," he stammered, and Miss Tolliver agreed gravely that he had. Mrs. Murphy was not so kind.

  "Fallen!" The redoubtable landlady harrumphed. "Oh, yes, my brave buck, that you did. Right after you fainted dead away at Miss Tolliver's feet. Knocking against her like that, it's a wonder you didn't push her over, you big lump!"

  Jem looked from the landlady to Miss Tolliver in embar­rassment, and the latter assured him in a grave tone at odds with her dancing eyes that she had been in no danger of toppling. Solicitously she asked if he had been injured in his fai—er—fall.

  A self-conscious shake of his head was the only answer as he shrugged off the landlord's sustaining hand, his eyes anxious as he looked toward the bed where Gillian lay, his head moving fretfully on the pillow. He asked if Mister Gillian was going to be all right, and Mrs. Murphy snapped that if he was, it was no thanks to his weak-kneed friend. That Miss Tolliver would not allow, however; she told the miserably blushing Jem that he had performed his part admirably, even going so far as to point out that he had not, as he feared, cast up his accounts.

  This observation so cheered the young groom that only one worry remained, and it was with a sheepish face and a slight stammer that he voiced his concern that Mister Gillian and Mister Peter never learn of his—ah—fall. His voice had no sooner trailed off than Miss Tolliver assured him that it would never be known—in fact, it was forgotten already.

  His painful gaze of entreaty toward Mrs. Murphy made that good lady hmmph and announce to the ceiling that she certainly was not one to be carrying tales, and nor—her severe gaze transferred to her mate—was her husband, seeing as how it could just as well have
been him there on the floor. . .

  Said husband shifted uncomfortably and, bethinking him­self of a task left uncompleted below stairs, bore young Jem off to the taproom, there to recoup his strength as the landlord liberally poured his ale and shook his head repeatedly, with many sighs, over the puzzle known as Woman. It was in the taproom that Miss Tolliver eventually found them, commiserating heartily with each other over their vaguely expressed but deeply felt ills.

  Both straightened and ducked their heads at sight of her, the landlord glad he had no other customers present to see the lady in these common surroundings, for it was not the thing, not the thing at all. Hurrying forward, he suggested that she might be more comfortable in the small private dining room reserved for those few of his clients who could afford it, but Miss Tolliver merely smiled and said no, thank you, she and Jem needed to talk, and their present surround­ings would do nicely.

  Recalling their last talk and its outcome, Jem blanched slightly and swallowed a big portion of his ale before taking a hesitant step forward.

  "Yes, miss?" he asked, hoping mightily that whatever she required of him would in no way involve blood.

  His thoughts were apparent in his face, and Miss Tolliver schooled her expression to inform him kindly that there was one last favor he must do his ill friends, and that was to go at once to the Earl of Manseford, and inform him of the accident befallen his brothers.

  Once again the color drained from his face as Jem, assimilating her words, gaped at her. In the excitement of the evening, he had forgotten that the earl knew nothing about their adventures, and would very likely be extremely— even intensely—interested in them. Nor had it occurred to him that in the absence of Mister Gillian and Master Peter—both of them being indisposed and unable to apprise the earl of their conduct—the task of informing his lordship would fall to the young groom whom, Jem felt fairly certain, the earl would feel should have told him of their scheme immediately it was hatched. It also occurred to Jem that Mister Gillian and Master Peter—to say nothing of Jem himself—would much rather the earl knew nothing of the night's encounter, and swallowing mightily, he tried to make Miss Tolliver aware of that fact. She regarded him with tolerant amusement, and a certain amount of sympathy, but could not agree that the earl should be left in the dark.