Page 19 of Romancing the Scot
“When a person battles a fever,” the physician said, “the mind responds in ways we don’t understand.”
“Do you remember being aboard a ship?” Jo took hold of her hand. “You arrived here inside a crate. It came from Antwerp. Do you recall any of that?”
“I recall . . . darkness.” Grace shivered. She pulled her hand away and drew the blanket up to her chin. “I couldn’t get out. I cried out, but no one heard me. It felt as if I were trapped in a coffin. No light or air. Nothing but the dank, terrible smell of death.”
Emotions overwhelmed her. She was not acting. She struggled to breathe. She’d lived through that horror. The fear was real. She’d prayed for death.
“Easy now.” The physician motioned for Jo to give her a drink. “We need to go slow. Give her time. After what she’s lived through, we shouldn’t be surprised.”
A cup was lifted to her lips. Grace took a sip, thankful for it. In her entire life, she’d never pretended to be anything but what she was. She couldn’t do this.
She had to get away. She had to get to those she knew in Brussels. But how?
* * *
After riding down to the lake to inspect the old dam, Hugh and Truscott returned to the house and handed off their horses to the grooms by the front door.
“So we know what must be done,” Hugh said. “The dam needs to be repaired before the autumn rains. If it lets go, the flood downstream will take out the mill and the miller with it.”
“We can’t pull men from the farms right now to do the job,” Truscott said. “We don’t have the extra hands.”
Hugh looked out past the cattle and sheep grazing in the meadows toward the fields stretching out in the distance. The cotters had just begun the haymaking and needed to finish if the barley and oats harvests were to happen on schedule. If they got behind now, the farmers would be looking at a lean winter.
“We’ll need to hire from outside,” Truscott suggested. “We’ve had a number of Irish workers coming through lately, looking for work.”
“Is it in our best interest to employ men whose value we don’t know? What about the villages?”
“Workers are scarce everywhere right now,” Truscott responded. “The Irish are transient, but they’re available.”
Something had to be done about the dwindling population, Hugh thought. If it wasn’t the growing number of manufactories drawing men to the cities, it was the farm folk leaving Scotland after the blasted land clearances. Scots were leaving and the Irish were coming in.
“Let me think about it,” he said, turning toward the front door.
The question of the Irish in Scotland was a growing concern for many. Around Glasgow, where most of them were disembarking and looking for work, problems with local authorities had been reaching the public’s ears and the dock in his courtroom, as well.
Striding into Baronsford’s wide entrance hall, Hugh paused and handed his gloves and hat to the footman. Here, at least, the place was alive with workers. Mrs. Henson’s household staff were hard at it, scurrying in and out of the salons and the great ballroom. Preparations for the annual ball next month had begun.
The tiny housekeeper spotted him and hurried over. With her pinched face, reddish hair, and constant nervous energy, Mrs. Henson had always reminded him of a crossbill that Jo found injured in the garden when they were children. She’d nursed the red bird back to health, and the creature had lived out a long life fluttering back and forth from bedstead to chair to wardrobe in Jo’s room. He could see it now, hopping along his sister’s arm.
“M’lord, Lady Jo was just looking for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henson. Any idea where might I find her?”
“In the downstairs library with Dr. Namby. I believe he was hoping to have a word before he left.”
“Any change in our guest?” Hugh asked.
“I know she’s awakened,” the housekeeper told him. “If I may ask, after you consult with Dr. Namby, perhaps your lordship might consider sharing any news of the young lady. The staff is somewhat anxious, I must say.”
Hugh understood the concern. Numerous members of the household who worked here were the second or third generation to serve the family, and strangers in the house always raised questions. For some, the infamous accident that nearly killed Hugh’s father decades ago was still a fresh memory. These were folk who cared about Baronsford. They were invested in its well-being.
“I’ll see what the doctor has to say,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to share any information I can.”
Heading to the library, Hugh realized he was very relieved to hear Grace had awakened. He felt responsible for her. She’d arrived in a crate that was addressed to him, and she was a guest under his roof. Still, he’d been trying to forget the surge of protectiveness he felt for her the other night as she clung to him, afraid. And that other feeling that was less comfortable to recall, that nether edge of awareness. It was unusual, but she’d already made an impression on him. He wondered if it was because of her peculiar interest in his law books, or reciting a ballad on death’s door. Or if holding her brought back dark memories and tore open old wounds.
Winding his way through the hallways, Hugh reached the library. The door was open and he entered without knocking. He’d always found this room to be one of the most comfortable at Baronsford, but it didn’t feel that way now. Jo was pacing, and the doctor was sitting on the edge of a chair, eyeing his pocket watch. The tension was palpable. Namby stood immediately when Hugh entered.
“I’m so happy you’ve come,” Jo said, brightening. “Dr. Namby has other patients to see. I’ve been trying to convince him to stay and take some lunch.”
