The valet hesitated, frowning. “His voice . . . ? I don’t know.”
“He didn’t happen to speak in a certain, say . . . accent . . . perhaps an upper crust accent, or poetical speech?” He didn’t like to lead Connor but didn’t know how else to pull the information from him. He wanted to know. If Preston had shot his brother, Nathaniel would not rest until he had found him and demanded satisfaction of his own.
“Poetical, you say?” In the mirror, Connor’s face puckered. “You’re not suggesting that Poet Pirate might have done it?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
Connor hesitated, considering. “They say he looks and dresses every inch the gentleman, don’t they?”
“Yes. I know the man, and it is true.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “Do you indeed, sir?”
“I’m afraid so. Dashed fiend torched my ship.”
The razor hovered midair as Connor winced in concentration. “He . . . may have spoken a bit pompous-like. But poetical? I’m not sure. I shall have to think about that, sir. See what I might remember.”
“You do that.”
Connor wiped the lingering soap from Nathaniel’s cheek and smoothed on a spicy-smelling balm. “Would you mind, sir, if I looked in on Mr. Lewis myself? I could bring down fresh nightshirts and help the nurse bathe him. Maybe even shave him if she thinks it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“You certainly may.” Nathaniel felt the slightest flicker of wistfulness. Perhaps he ought to have hired his own valet years ago. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”
Connor shook his head, sheepish. “I just want to do something.”
Nathaniel nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel.”
Margaret went through her early morning duties in a haze. She couldn’t believe it. She felt ill at the thought. Who would shoot Lewis Upchurch? Lewis was a flirt, but she could not imagine him challenging anyone to a duel. So what had he done to cause another man to rise up in defense of his honor? Had Lewis insulted the wrong man . . . or the wrong man’s wife, sister, or lover? That she could imagine. Still, she shuddered to think of him hovering near death.
Margaret went upstairs in hopes of offering Helen some comfort, but when she reached Helen’s room, Betty was just coming out, lips pursed.
“She’s not there. And her bed hasn’t been slept in either. Spent the night in the sickroom, I’d wager. Poor lamb.”
Margaret had no appetite, so instead of the servants’ hall for breakfast, she stopped in the stillroom, hoping to talk with cheerful and level-headed Hester. She found Hester bent over her worktable, both hands gripping a scrub brush, bucket of soapy, steamy water nearby. She bent from the waist, using her entire body to push the brush over the surface with grim-lipped vigor, cheeks ruddy from the effort, breath heaving, forearms bulging.
“Hester . . . ?”
Hester glanced up but did not cease her motions. “No matter how many times I scrub it, with salt, lye, soap . . . It makes no difference. I can’t get it clean.”
Margaret had never seen Hester upset before. She touched her shoulder. “Let me have a go. You’re exhausted.”
Hester nodded gratefully, wiping the heel of her hand over her brow. She leaned against the sideboard while Margaret picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.
“Between you and me,” Hester said, “I’ll never be able to roll dough on this table again. I shall always have to cover it with parchment or a tray. No matter how hard I scrub, I still see his blood. Smell it too.”
“I’m so sorry, Hester. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Awful. Never saw the like before and pray I never do again.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“Just having you to chat with has helped already, Nora. I don’t care what the others say, you’re a bit of sunshine to me.”
Chagrined, Margaret scrubbed the worktable for a quarter of an hour, then rinsed away the soap and dried it with a clean towel. “Spotless,” she announced.
“Better,” Hester amended.
Margaret squeezed Hester’s hand and took her leave, realizing it was almost time for morning prayers. She stepped into the passage and nearly ran into Connor, who was just coming into the stillroom. “Oh! Excuse me.”
He nodded dully and stepped aside, face pale. He looked as low over the tragedy as Hester herself. But of course he would, witnessing it firsthand, having to drag Mr. Upchurch’s body into a wagon.
Margaret paused in the passage, listening curiously as Hester greeted the young man in low, comforting tones. “How are you holding up there, Connor?”
His voice rumbled in low reply, almost a groan.
“There now. It wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself so.”
Another low reply.
“Now, don’t you worry. Mr. Lewis may yet recover. You just see if he don’t.”
Clearly, Margaret was not the only person who sought out Hester for comfort.
After prayers that morning, Nathaniel followed Clive back out to the stables to speak with him in private. When he returned several minutes later, he sought out Mr. Saxby. He found him in the guest room, overseeing his valet’s efforts in packing too many articles of clothing into too few valises.
“Give us a moment, will you?” Nathaniel said to the valet.
With a glance at his master, the slight man bowed and departed.
When the door closed, Nathaniel said, “I spoke with our groom just now. He verified the approximate time Lewis left the house yesterday morning, his valet with him. He also mentioned that you called for your horse soon after.”
Saxby shrugged. “So? I was restless and went for a ride.”
“So early? It isn’t like you.”
Saxby smirked. “You have no idea what I’m like. But if you must know, I tried to follow Lewis. He called me a liar when I suggested he was seeing a local girl. I thought I would follow him, catch the two together, and prove him the liar. But I never caught up with him.”
“Then where were you all day yesterday?”
Saxby’s eyes flashed irritation. “I rode over to Hunton to see my cousin George. I didn’t realize I needed to report my every move to you.”
Nathaniel studied the man’s heated expression. Yes, there was defensiveness there, but guilt? He did not know.
Mr. Saxby took his leave later that morning. He stayed long enough to visit Lewis in the sickroom, emerging pale and stricken. He asked to be kept apprised of Lewis’s condition, then bent over Helen’s hand and gave Nathaniel a somber bow.
“You have my sympathies.”
From the hall windows, Nathaniel and Helen watched the man walk across the drive and step inside his carriage.
Staring out the window, Helen said, “Tell me he is going to live.”
Nathaniel swallowed as he reached over and squeezed his sister’s hand. “He’s going to live.” To himself he added, Lord willing.
Dr. Drummond, a longtime family friend, had been away attending at a birth, but he came that afternoon. He examined Lewis, not only the wound itself, but the rest of Lewis as well. Afterward, he redressed the wound and then took Nathaniel and Helen aside and gave his report.
“I see no sign of infection setting in. His internal organs—heart and lungs—seem to be functioning normally, which, considering how near the bullet came to damaging both, is a miracle in my book. If you believe in such things.”
“I do,” Nathaniel replied.
The physician nodded. “He did sustain a knock to the head when the shot felled him—I found a raised lump, nothing alarming, but a concussion might account for his insensibility. That and, of course, the laudanum Mr. White administered when he removed the bullet. I wouldn’t give him any more laudanum unless he displays signs of distress or discomfort. It is important he lie still to allow his wound to heal, so his insensible state has its benefits. It is sometimes a body’s way of coping with shock and trauma.”
Before he took his leave, Dr. Drummond left instructions for Nurse Welch, said he would return on the morrow, and asked to be advised if there was any change in Lewis’s condition.
Nathaniel sat with Helen at Lewis’s bedside that evening, trying to read an agricultural journal but mostly staring at the taper as it burned and guttered. “Did Lewis say anything to you about a woman?”
“Barbara Lyons, do you mean?”
He shrugged, knew he was grasping at straws. “Saxby suggested a local woman. But according to the valet, Lewis and Saxby argued over Miss Lyons.”
Helen lifted her hands. “Lewis made no secret of admiring her. Why do you mention it?”
He held up the blue ribbon Mrs. Budgeon had found in Lewis’s pocket. “This piece of feminine frippery has me thinking. And Lewis’s valet said he thought the duel was fought over a woman’s honor.”
A maid entered, head bowed as she maneuvered a tray through the door. She glanced up, and he saw it was Margaret.
With no pause in conversation, Helen gestured her forward. “But Mr. Saxby is not even engaged to Miss Lyons.”
Nathaniel watched Margaret approach. “But a gentleman could feel his honor offended should a friend seduce the woman he loves.” Nathaniel thought back to how Lewis had suddenly begun showering Miss Macy with attention after he had begun courting her. Lewis seemed to find other men’s ladies irresistible.