The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,7
bowl. She moved on to the large, lead-paned window, paused to glance out at the skeletal trees, half buried under snow and slowly disappearing into the encroaching gloom of a winter twilight, then briskly drew the curtains closed.
She turned and looked again at the bed—at the long figure stretched out beneath the mounded covers, his dark-auburn hair contrasting starkly with the white linen of the pillows—and her heart, silly thing, thumped again.
Sternly, she told herself she was behaving in an utterly missish way. Yes, Cavanaugh was handsome—in her view, handsomeness personified—but she’d seen handsome men before. Yes, he’d kissed her, but she’d been kissed any number of times before, and had there really been anything special about that barely-there kiss?
He’d thought she was perfect.
Swallowing a humph of self-derision, she crossed to the fireplace and inspected his clothes, which had been hung on a rack before the fire. It was nearly twenty-four hours since he’d collapsed in the front hall, and the recent interlude had been the first time he’d opened his eyes since then.
Concern for him—for his recovery and his health—remained very high in her mind.
She set about shaking out and folding the now-dry clothes. The feel of the fabrics beneath her fingers testified to their quality. The cut of his coat and trousers, let alone the quality of his boots, suggested he was a wealthy man.
She was laying aside his coat when a tap fell on the door, and it opened to admit Mrs. Kemp.
The matronly woman nodded a greeting and bustled to the bed to lay a hand on Cavanaugh’s forehead. “Hmm. Still cool, but I’ll be surprised if that lasts.” The housekeeper straightened and frowned at her patient. “Has he stirred at all?”
“Yes.” Ellie approached the other side of the bed. “He spoke—rambled—but slid back to sleep again. I don’t think he truly woke.”
Mrs. Kemp waggled her head. “Still, that’s a good sign. Well, a better sign than him lying there unmoving.”
Ellie forced herself to say, “He got very cold—he was almost frozen. Do you think he’ll recover?”
Mrs. Kemp screwed up her face. “Seems like he was out in that blizzard for an hour or so. And he’s not got a lot of fat on him—all long, lean muscle, he is—so not so much protection.”
Ellie hadn’t been in the room when Kemp, Mike, and Mrs. Kemp had stripped Cavanaugh of his sodden and partially frozen clothes and decently gowned him in one of her father’s nightshirts; she tried not to allow Mrs. Kemp’s description to raise any picture in her mind.
“But you’re right—chilled to the bone, he was.” Mrs. Kemp clucked. “I’ve heard of men who, after less than what he’s been through, took to their beds and never rose again.”
Her gaze on Cavanaugh’s still and silent form, Ellie said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of sending for the doctor?”
Mrs. Kemp shook her head. “Not until the thaw, and with more snow still coming down, Johnson reckons it’ll be a week or more this time, before it clears enough for riders to get through.”
Johnson, the stableman, was their oldest resident and the most knowledgeable when it came to the local weather. As he spoke from experience and long memory, his pronouncements were rarely wrong.
Ellie frowned at Cavanaugh. “He has to recover.” She wouldn’t allow herself to imagine any other outcome.
“Well, he’s youngish and looks to be in excellent health otherwise, and I daresay he’s strong enough.” Mrs. Kemp neatened the covers and tucked them in, then straightened and studied her patient. “Once he wakes, we’ll get some of my honey balsam on his chest and, depending on how he does, perhaps a mustard plaster or two, and likely he’ll be on his feet soon enough.”
Ellie sincerely hoped so.
Mrs. Kemp noticed the folded clothes. She bustled across and gathered them up. “I’ll get Meg to iron these. Excellent quality, they are. And Johnson and his lads are raving over the gentleman’s horses and his carriage as well. High-steppers, the nags, and the curricle bang up to the mark, to hear them tell it.”
Ellie studied the sleeping man as her imagined vision of Mr. Godfrey Cavanaugh, artwork authenticator, adjusted yet again; she hadn’t expected such a person to be notably wealthy.
A tap on the door was followed by it opening, and Harry stuck his head around the edge. He grinned at Ellie and Mrs. Kemp. “The other man—Cavanaugh’s groom—is awake and asking after his master. He’s wanting to get up and come and see for himself.”