You May Kiss the Bride(101)

Afterwards Livia would only remember in little fragmented memories what happened next: the quiet competence of Miss Cott, fluttering maids, a horrified Mrs. Penhallow. White cloths turning red with ominous speed, and piling up too quickly in a basin. The still, white, handsome face of the injured man. Dr. Fotherham, square, stocky, grizzled, curt, and unflappable, brushing aside everyone in the room and setting to work at once by ripping open the bloody waistcoat and shirt beneath.

“Wounded, eh?—hmmm, hmmm, looks like a bullet went in, and deeply too—whoever got it out made a hash of it. It’s reopened, and infected. Somebody hand me that bottle, and that roll of lint—”

Miss Cott complied, and Livia had to turn away as the doctor began to clean the gaping hole, nausea rising within her. Gabriel came in then, dressed in riding clothes and muddy boots; he flung his hat and gloves onto a table and strode to the sofa.

“Hugo! What the devil!”

“Were you expecting him, Gabriel?” asked his grandmother, sitting very straight in her chair, looking pale and strained.

“Absolutely not. When last I heard from him, he was near Canada somewhere. What’s the matter with him?”

“Took a bullet, probably a couple of months ago,” said the doctor, packing the wound with a professional briskness that only made Livia feel queasier. “He’s sick as a dog now. You say he only just now arrived, eh?”

“Yes, on a horse,” Livia said. “He fell off it.”

“Remarkable stamina! A lesser man wouldn’t have been able to get into a saddle. Good thing he didn’t break his neck falling off the horse. I’ll just check for broken bones—hmmm, hmmm. See how he flinched just then? Hurt that leg at some point. Not broken now, though, just not perfectly right. Overall he’s sturdy as an ox. No—the bones aren’t a worry. That’s a blessing, to be sure. Well, I’m done. He’s going to need a lot of care, day and night. Can you keep him in here? The sofa’s a decent enough bed—though I may as well warn you, it’s already ruined—and I don’t want him moved. He’d likely start bleeding again.”

“Yes, of course he’ll stay where he is,” said Gabriel. “You’ll leave us instructions?”

“Yes. Writing them down for you. Here. I’ll pop by again in a few hours. He’s going to get restless tonight, I’ll wager. I’ll bring some laudanum and some other things. Make certain you don’t leave him alone, or he’s likely to fling himself onto the floor. No women! Get the footmen to watch over him. He’s a strong ’un.”

Dr. Fotherham gathered up his supplies and left as briskly as he had come. Gabriel studied the list of instructions while Miss Cott carefully adjusted Hugo’s head; one of the maids squeamishly took away the basin of bloodied cloths. Livia stared at the pale face of Hugo Penhallow, so dreadfully vulnerable-looking.

Hugo. Gabriel’s cousin. She remembered, now, that conversation in the Spotted Hare—so long ago, it seemed!—when Gabriel had mentioned him to her. How different the two men were in looks, yet both tall, strong, good-looking.

Gabriel began issuing directives to Crenshaw. When he had finished, she said, “May I help?”

“No. Thank you,” Gabriel answered shortly.

She nodded—she had expected no other reply—and quietly went away.

She hoped that Hugo would live. She would wait for that, too.



Hugo Penhallow did survive. Not only that, he made an impressive recovery, so much so that a mere five days later, as Livia was coming along the main corridor from the Great Hall, she heard a robust voice issuing from within the little saloon, through a door left partway open:

“Oh, damn and blast, I’ve dropped the cursed thing!”

Livia looked up and down the corridor, but there was no one else in sight, so she pushed open the door and inquiringly put her head in.

Hugo Penhallow was on his sofa-bed. He was no longer so ominously pale, although as he twisted his torso, trying to reach something on the carpet, he winced and lay back on his pillows. The blankets had slipped down to reveal enormously broad, muscled shoulders and a great wide barrel of a chest.

“May I help you?” Livia asked shyly from around the doorframe.

Startled, Hugo Penhallow met her gaze and then smiled in a friendly way. “Saw you the other day, didn’t I? When I arrived? Gad, I didn’t fall on you, did I?”

Livia smiled back. “No, but nearly.” She stepped into the saloon. “How do you do? I’m Livia Stuart. I’m Gabriel’s fiancée.”

“His fiancée?” Hugo looked astonished. “Gabriel’s to be leg-shackled at last? He hasn’t breathed a word of it, although to be fair I haven’t been particularly lucid these past days. Well, well, will wonders never cease? That is—I mean—my felicitations, Miss Stuart!” He smiled again, adding confidingly, “I must apologize for having the manners of an ape. I’ve been so long away from Society that I’m really not fit to be around a lady. Went straight from school into the Army, you see.”