Page 35 of A Duke Under Her Spell
“Marybeth,” the Duke’s voice gently soothed from behind her placing his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to calm her frantic heart and mind. “He is alive, but he has received a terrible blow to the head. Let us move him to a bed where you might tend to his wounds with relative ease. This is no place for you to offer up your remedies.”
Marybeth nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she gazed down at Oliver’s pale, still face. There was a line of blood down the side of his head that had dripped upon the floor, creating a rust colored stain upon the grey wood floorboards. The Duke helped Marybeth to her feet and moved her back away from Oliver so that his men could come in and lift him from the floor. Marybeth followed as the men carried him out of the room and down the hallway.
“You may put him in my sitting room. I have made a place for him upon the settee,” the head housekeeper, Mrs. Taylor, informed them, holding the door open for them to pass.
“That is most kind of you, Mrs. Taylor. We will see that you have another place to conduct your business elsewhere in the house during Oliver’s recovery,” the Duke praised her generosity.
“Do not worry about me, Your Grace. I will do just as well sharing an office with Mr. Wheatly in the meantime,” Mrs. Taylor reassured him. When the Duke look to Mr. Wheatly for confirmation, the butler nodded his assent.
“Very well,” Felix allowed, then followed Oliver into the sitting room.
Upon entering the room, Marybeth knelt down beside Oliver and took his hand in hers. “Hold on, Oliver. I am here,” she whispered in encouragement. “I will do all in my power to heal you, but you must help me by fighting back. Please, Oliver, return to me. Do not leave me to face this world alone. You are the only person I have remaining who loves me and whom I love in return.”
The Duke stiffened beside her but said nothing. Marybeth was not certain what she had said to cause him to react in such a way, but she did not have time to analyze it. Oliver’s life was in the balance and she could not waste a single moment on anyone else. She examined the wound on his head and found that the skin had split open, but the bones of the skull remained intact. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured, moving on to examine the rest of his body for any other signs of damage.
Upon completion of her examination, Marybeth turned to the housekeeper and requested that Mrs. Taylor bring her the needed medical supplies. “I will need to wash the wound and stitch it closed. Please bring me a needle and sturdy thread. I will also need my herbs from the Dowager Duchess’s rooms.” The housekeeper nodded, then scurried away, barking orders to the household maids as she went.
Marybeth moved across the sitting room and placed a pot of water over the flames burning in the fireplace. “Mr. Wheatly, could you please inform the cook that I am going to need another pot of honey?”
“Yes, I will do so immediately,” Mr. Wheatly answered and left the room.
“Is there anything I can do to be of help?” the Duke asked stepping forward to place a comforting hand on her arm.
Seeing the helpless look on the Duke’s face, Marybeth knew that he needed a task to accomplish if for no other reason than his own sanity. “Roses, I need a fresh supply of rose petals. I believe the garden has a copious supply?”
“Yes, of course. I will make haste.” The Duke exited the room, leaving Marybeth alone with Oliver.
She smoothed the hair back from his face, once so lively with roguish charm, now nearly as white as the man who haunted the walls, devoid of any expression. “Stay with me,” she begged placing a kiss upon his forehead. The sound of feminine weeping caused her to turn and, in the doorway, she found the kitchen maid from the hay loft in the stables. Smiling reassuringly, she motioned for the girl to come to her.
“What is your name?” she asked as the girl came to kneel beside her on the floor next to the settee.
“Betty Wilson, Miss,” she answered sniffling.
“You care for Oliver very much, don’t you?” Marybeth observed.
“Yes, Miss,” the girl nodded in reply.
“He will be well in time. I know it looks frightening now, but with rest and care, he should make a full recovery.” Marybeth spoke to herself as much as to the young kitchen maid. She prayed that her words were true, but she knew better than most the mysterious nature of head wounds. Out of all the patients who had come to her grandmother with head injuries, some had lived while many had not. Those that lived were sometimes changed from the people they once had been into someone else entirely.
Fight, Oliver! Fight!She pleaded silently.
Mrs. Taylor returned with the requested supplies, followed by Mr. Wheatly, and then the Duke. Marybeth took the kettle of water from the fireplace and poured it into a bowl. She next poured in some of the honey and a large handful of rose petals. She stirred the sweet-smelling concoction around and around then dipped a clean cloth into the water.
Marybeth carefully cleansed Oliver’s head wound with the mixture, repeating the action over and over again until she was content that she had removed all dirt from the opening. She then proceeded to stitch up the wound with nice, neat orderly stitches, just as her grandmother had taught her all those years ago when she was but a young girl. She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for her grandmother’s patience in training.
Once she had completed the stitches, she tied off the thread and cut the needle loose. Next, she ground up a poultice of honey and garlic, smearing it onto the stitched wound in a thick layer. She then took a clean white bandage and wrapped it around the crown of Oliver’s head. When she was done, she cleaned up her supplies and set another kettle to boiling. When Oliver awoke, he would be in a lot of pain and it would be best if she had some white willow bark tea waiting for him.
Marybeth sat in vigil the remainder of the day and all through the next night. The Duke came and went frequently looking in on her. Betty the kitchen maid brought her food and drink, sitting with her whenever the cook would allow her to leave the kitchen. Time seemed to drag on forever as she awaited her friend’s awakening. By the second day she was good and truly exhausted. Unable to remain awake a moment longer she drifted off to sleep holding his hand.
* * *
Felix stood in the doorway and watched as Marybeth dedicated all of her energies to saving her friend. She had only left his side to see to the Dowager Duchess’s medicinal needs and then had returned immediately to Oliver’s side. He had never seen such devotion between two people who were not married to one another. An errant jealous thought had him shaking his head in shame.
Here the poor man lies in pain, suffering, and yet in this moment I envy him more than I have ever envied another man. What I wouldn’t give to have her look at me with such loving devotion.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but the Earl of Bredon and Lady Cordelia await you in the library above stairs,” Mr. Wheatly’s voice cut into his thoughts.
“Thank you, Mr. Wheatly. Please inform the Earl and Her Ladyship that I will be with them shortly,” Felix replied. He was not pleased with the idea of receiving guests during such a difficult time but knew for propriety’s sake that he had little choice. He had already sent Lady Cordelia home the morning of their shared breakfast. He had completely forgotten about his promise of a hunt with the Earl. Time had gotten away from him.
