Page 7 of Cinders and Smoke

“Ol’ Darcy and even his boy, that newly made Earl o’ Pemberley, would’a opened their granaries to feed th’ Irish, if only ’cuz Mrs. Elizabeth, may God rest her soul, would hae insisted on it.

“I met the Darcys back in the twenties when the place I wuz workin’ closed up ’cuz the owner refused ta switch from water ta steam. The Bosun dragged me up ta Selkirk’s stables and tried ta put me ta work shovelin’ horse dung.

“I tell ya this now, Master Thornton, e’en then, I be a power-loom lead man. I ’ad a big ’ead, but I vow that ’twas fur good reason. Knew whut ’twas doin’, I did. Standin’ behind the southbound end o’ a northbound ’orse was no way, fur as I was concerned, ta live.”

Thornton smiled at the thought of the grey-headed weaver as a youngster trying to fit in as a groom on one of the great Derbyshire estates. He heartily agreed with Higgins that life as a stable hand was impossible for a town-bred boy.

Further conversation and thoughts were tabled when Dr. Donaldson joined them in their lair.

∞∞∞

Margaret grimaced. She evaluated her appearance with her eyes closed. The pain radiating from her temple sketched itself across the planes of her face. She mused that no expression she bore could be pleasant, so she settled upon defining her countenance as ‘grimacing.’

She began an inventory of body parts, amusing herself with a vision of John Thornton sorting through the components of a disassembled spinning mule spread out upon the shop floor—picking up one piece and then another, inspecting each for wear. Oddly, that picture left a warm glow in its wake. Margaret began by wiggling her fingers and toes and, later, her limbs. Her head, however, persisted in plaguing her with a dull ache. Moving that member was not to be borne!

Sound grew clearer as her hearing improved.

“Doctor…doctor! I thin’ she be comin’ ’round now!” That was dearest Dixon; the maid’s strident tones colored with worry and relief rolled into one.

A cool cloth laved Margaret’s face, soothing some of her discomfort. She cleared her throat.

“How long?” The croak that broke free in place of her normally well-modulated alto surprised her.

A cool compress replaced the busy rag on her forehead. Margaret could imagine her family’s old retainer kneeling beside her, squeezing excess water into a basin. The soundscape was vivid as Dixon spoke, Margaret’s sense of sight subtracted. “Nigh unto two hours, Miss Margaret. But the doctor says that ’twas ta be ’xpected.”

Her eyes fluttered open in time to see Dr. Donaldson arrive. He hovered above while Dixon dropped to her knees near the head of the sofa upon which Margaret reclined. Donaldson was focusing on a spot in her hairline near her left temple. His questions to Margaret were gentle, meant to gauge the extent of her injuries: questions about her symptoms, the date, the monarch, and the city.

Then he shifted from inquiry to caution. “This may hurt a bit. If you would be so kind, Miss Dixon, as to hold Miss Hale’s hand…” Then he gently probed with his fingers, pushing Margaret’s hair aside.

Margaret gasped as a wave of pain scorched her nerves.

Donaldson leaned back. “There now. Finished. My apologies for causing you any discomfort.

“Normally, I would not burden my patients with weather reports, but I know your history with your mother’s illness.”

At this, he lifted his head to include Dixon. “I feel that you will take my diagnosis pragmatically, leaving emotional outbursts unspoken.

“Physicians always find head injuries, particularly those involving violent impacts, worrisome. For the layman, such wounds are all the more terrifying because scalp lacerations bleed—pardon my frank language—like the devil. Such was the case with yours. I fear your gown is ruined. And I think your incapacitation overset your Mr. Thornton, at least according to Mr. Higgins.”

MY Mr. Thornton? How would Nicholas know what bothered John?

The doctor continued, “Now, as for your condition: from what I can tell, you were struck a glancing blow by a brick or a paving stone. Either weapon might have done severe—fatal—damage if it had struck you directly. However, something deflected the trajectory enough to lessen the impact.

“Your head is laid open for about an inch within your hairline. With a cut like that, I would usually stitch it closed. However, as the skin is stretched tightly at this spot, embroidery would be difficult at best. I have decided to allow the cut to heal naturally. I will clean it, apply some of Maturin’s blue mold salve, and cover it with a plaster. Dixon must do the same daily: clean, apply ointment, and lay on a fresh plaster. You will have a scar, but only those closest to you will notice: your father, Dixon, and your husband.”

My HUSBAND? I may have received a blow to my head, but I am sure I would remember if I had recently wed.

Seeing a look of confusion reshape Margaret’s features, Donaldson amended, “Might I correct myself, Miss Hale? I meant to suggest that only a man on the most intimate terms with a lady such as yourself…like a future husband… could apprehend the mark.

“I do not believe you are concussed. Dixon tells me you have not vomited. Your pupils are equal, and you show no mental impairment. The headache will subside after a brief period, maybe two or three days. Dixon can visit the apothecary for a powder that I have prescribed.

“My final injunction is that you move slowly, rest, and drink plenty of liquids. No gamboling around, young lady. Allow your woman to fetch as needed.”

The servant vigorously nodded in agreement with the doctor’s orders. Donaldson stood tall, tugged his waistcoat, shot his cuffs, and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit. “I shall go tell Mr. Thornton and Mr. Higgins that you have rejoined the land of the living.”

An unaccountable thrill coursed through Margaret. While the men were absent, she fussed to organize her gown until Dixon carefully rearranged a blanket around her, decently covering her legs and feet. However, nothing could hide Margaret’s bloodstained collar short of enshrouding her from chin to toe.

∞∞∞