Yorkshire by Lynne Connolly Page B

showed us in the day before took the doctor straight up to the new earl’s room. I accompanied them, to see if I could assist in any way. I seemed to be the unofficial nurse, for now.
    Lord Hareton lay on his comfortless bed. Extra bedding had been procured, probably by Martha, and piled on top of the coverlet. A fire had been lit. The room’s austerity startled me, even compared to the ones we had. I had thought the occupants of the house must have some extra comforts, but it was not so. No ornament or drapery lifted the mood here. A well-thumbed Bible by the cheerless bed was the only book in evidence.
    The new earl was alarmingly pale. His breath came in small, shallow gasps. “There’s no time to waste.” The doctor lifted out his knife case. I was relieved to see the instruments were reasonably clean.
    He rolled the man’s sleeve up several turns, glancing at his face as he felt for a vein. Nodding, he directed me to the bowl on the nightstand. I picked it up and held it under the arm as the doctor cut deeply into it. I stood back as far as I could as I’d had enough of blood for one day. I had just changed my dress, and my supply of fresh clothes wasn’t limitless.
    The blood dripped into the bowl. The doctor watched it closely. Lord Hareton still slept, breathing heavily, not in the least disturbed by the bloodletting.
    The doctor felt Lord Hareton’s forehead with his free hand. “No fever. That’s good.” He staunched the wound, binding it tightly. I put down the half-full bowl carefully, watching the discarded blood leave small dots of intense colour where it swilled around. The doctor stood back, assessing his patient.
    He put a hand up to his chin, and sighed heavily. “I can do little more for him. We must let nature take its course. Either he recovers, or he doesn’t.”
    He examined Lord Hareton’s head more closely, running his fingers over the scalp. “Ah. There’s a bad wound here, but little blood. The poor man seems to have received a blow to the back of his head which has crushed part of his skull. It’s soft and yielding.”
    Despite my lack of squeamishness, I paled at the thought and made no move to examine the wound. I could imagine it only too well. “Can we do anything?”
    “No. We must keep him kept quiet and as still as possible.” We stood by the bed and watched the shadow of a man laid out so straight under the thin covers.
    The new earl took several deep, dragging breaths. The last ended on a choke, the kind I’d heard once or twice before in my life, and hoped not to hear again.
    The doctor didn’t need to tell me what had just happened. That sound only meant one thing, together with the eerie silence that followed it. The man died as he had lived—quietly, without fuss. I had barely heard him speak. The fifth Earl of Hareton was dead. Long live the sixth earl.
    My God. James. My own breath nearly stopped at the thought.
    The doctor went on to Mr. Pritheroe’s room, but he could set a simple break on his own and tired now, I went downstairs to see my family. I left a tearful maid to do the laying-out. I wasn’t sure how my family would take the news.
    Mr. Kerre, James, Martha, Lizzie, Steven, and Mr. Fogg the lawyer all sat in the small parlour. It was crowded but warm now, unlike when Lizzie and I had found it earlier in the day. Chairs had been brought in from the dining room. I sat, gratefully. Mr. Kerre lifted his head and stared at me.
    “There seems to be no danger to Lord Strang, but we must pray the wound doesn’t become infected. They can kill so easily when that happens.” I stopped abruptly, choked by the thought.
    Mr. Kerre promised to send word to Miss Cartwright when she awoke. He added, “I wondered if I should leave to inform our parents, but I don’t think there’s any need if Richard is in no immediate danger. I’ll write.” That surprised me; I would have thought his mother would want to be present, but I supposed he knew his own family