Marrying Winterborne Page 10

  After quickly shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her hat, Dr. Gibson handed them to the maid. She approached Rhys and gently removed the makeshift sling. “Before you lie down, Mr. Winterborne,” she said, “we’ll need to remove your coat.”

  He nodded, cold sweat trickling down his face.

  “How can I help?” Severin asked.

  “Begin with the sleeve on the uninjured side. I’ll take the other. Pray do not jostle the arm any more than necessary.”

  Despite their extreme care during the process, Rhys winced and groaned as he was divested of the coat. Closing his eyes, he felt himself sway in his seated position.

  Severin immediately steadied him with a hand on his good shoulder. “I think we should cut off the shirt and waistcoat,” he suggested.

  “I agree,” Dr. Gibson said. “Keep him steady while I attend to it.”

  Rhys blinked his eyes open as he felt his upper garments being removed with a few strokes of a wickedly sharp blade. One thing was certain—the woman knew how to wield a knife. Glancing at her small, dispassionate face, he wondered about what it must have taken for her to earn a place for herself in a man’s profession.

  “Holy hell,” Severin murmured, as the bruised flesh of Rhys’s back and shoulder became visible. “I hope saving that ragamuffin was worth it, Winterborne.”

  “Of course it was,” Dr. Gibson said, having turned to rummage through a cabinet. “He saved the boy’s life. One never knows what a child might become someday.”

  “In this case, definitely a criminal,” Severin said.

  “Possibly,” the woman said, returning with a small glass filled with amber liquid. “But not definitely.” She handed the glass to Rhys. “Here you are, Mr. Winterborne.”

  “What is it?” he asked warily, taking it in his good hand.

  “Something to help you relax.”

  Rhys took an experimental taste. “Whisky,” he said, surprised and grateful. A decent vintage at that. He downed it in a couple of swallows, and extended the glass for more. “It takes more than one to relax me,” he told her. At her skeptical glance, he explained, “Welsh.”

  Dr. Gibson smiled reluctantly, her green eyes sparkling, and she went to pour another.

  “I need to relax as well,” Severin told her.

  She looked amused. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remain sober,” she replied, “as I shall require your assistance.” After retrieving the glass from Rhys and setting it aside, she slid a strong arm behind his back. “Mr. Winterborne, we’ll help you to lie down. Slowly, now. Mr. Severin, if you will lift his feet . . .”

  Rhys eased to the leather surface, letting out a few curses in Welsh as his back settled on the table. Agony radiated through him in continuous spikes.

  Dr. Gibson used her foot to depress a pedal several times in succession, raising the level of the table. She moved to his injured side. “Mr. Severin, please take a position on his other side. I will need you to reach an arm across him, and place your hand on the side of the ribcage to stabilize him. Yes, there.”

  Severin grinned down at Rhys as he followed the doctor’s directions. “How do you feel about those Hammersmith shares now that you’re at my mercy?” he asked.

  “Still want them,” Rhys managed to say.

  “I doubt you’ll need this, Mr. Winterborne,” Dr. Gibson said, bringing a section of leather strap to his mouth, “but I’d advise it as a precaution.” Seeing Rhys’s hesitation, she said, “It’s clean. I never re-use supplies.”

  Rhys took it between his teeth.

  “Are you physically strong enough for this?” Severin asked Gibson doubtfully.

  “Would you like to arm-wrestle?” she offered with such cool aplomb that Rhys let out a huff of amusement.

  “No,” Severin said at once. “I can’t take the chance that you might win.”

  The doctor smiled at him. “I doubt I would win, Mr. Severin. But I would at least make it difficult for you.” She took Rhys’s wrist in her right hand. With her other hand, she gripped beneath his upper arm. “Keep him steady,” she warned Severin. Slowly, smoothly, she exerted traction while pushing the arm upward and rotating it until the joint popped back into place.

  Rhys made a sound of relief as the stabbing misery eased. Turning his head, he spat out the leather and drew in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

  “Right as rain,” the woman said in satisfaction, feeling the shoulder to make certain everything was in place.

  “Well done,” Severin said. “You’re very clever, Dr. Gibson.”

  “I prefer the word ‘competent,’” she said. “But thank you all the same.” Using the table’s foot pedal mechanism, she lowered the level of the table. “I apologize for the loss of your shirt and waistcoat,” she commented, reaching into a lower cabinet for a length of white cloth.

  Rhys shook his head to indicate that it was of no importance.

  “The shoulder will become increasingly sore and swollen over the next few days,” she continued, “but you must try to use your arm naturally in spite of the discomfort. Otherwise the muscles will weaken from disuse. For the rest of today, keep it supported in a sling and refrain from exertion.” After she helped him to sit upright, she expertly tied a sling around his neck and arm. “You may have difficulty sleeping for the next few nights: I’ll prescribe a tonic that will help. Take one spoonful at bedtime, no more.” She retrieved his coat and carefully draped it over his shoulders.

  “I’ll step outside and wave down a hackney,” Severin said. “We can’t have Winterborne walking outside in all his bare-chested glory or the pavement will be cluttered with swooning females.”

  As Severin left the room, Rhys awkwardly reached for his wallet, tucked in an inside pocket of his coat. “What is your fee?” he asked.

  “A florin will be sufficient.”

  The sum was half of the four shillings that Dr. Havelock, the staff physician at Winterborne’s, would have charged. Rhys fished out the coin and gave it to her. “You’re very competent, Dr. Gibson,” he said gravely.

  She smiled, neither blushing nor denying the praise. He liked her, this proficient and unusual woman. Despite the obvious odds against her, he hoped she would succeed in her profession.

  “I won’t hesitate to recommend your services,” Rhys continued.

  “That is very kind, Mr. Winterborne. However, I’m afraid my practice will close by the end of the month.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes became shadowed.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Patients are few and far between. People fear that a woman has neither the physical stamina nor mental acuity to practice medicine.” A mirthless smile curled her lips. “I have even been told that women are unable to hold their tongues, and therefore a lady doctor would constantly violate her patients’ privacy.”

  “I understand all about prejudice,” Rhys said quietly. “The only way to fight it is to prove them wrong.”

  “Yes.” But her gaze became absent, and she went to busy herself with rearranging a tray of supplies.

  “How good are you?” Rhys asked.

  She stiffened and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

  “Recommend yourself to me,” he said simply.

  Gibson turned to face him with a thoughtful frown. “While I worked as a surgery nurse at St. Thomas’s, I undertook private tuition to obtain certificates in anatomy, physiology, and chemistry. At the Sorbonne, I took honors in anatomy for two years, and the top prize in midwifery for three. I also studied for a brief time with Sir Joseph Lister, who instructed me in his techniques of antiseptic surgery. In short, I’m very good. And I could have helped a great many people, given the . . .” Her voice faded as she saw Rhys withdraw a card from his wallet.

  He extended it to her. “Bring this to Winterborne’s on Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp. Ask for Mrs. Fernsby.”

  “May I ask for what purpose?” The doctor’s eyes had widened.

  “I keep a staff
physician on retainer to look after the health of a thousand employees. He’s an old codger, but a good man. He’ll have to agree to hiring you, but I don’t expect he’ll object. Among other things, he needs someone to help with midwifery—it takes hours at a time, and he said the process is hard on his rheumatism. If you’re willing—”

  “Yes. I would be. Thank you. Yes.” Dr. Gibson held the card with whitening fingertips. “I’ll be there Monday morning.” A wondering grin crossed her face. “Although it hasn’t turned out to be a fortunate day for you, Mr. Winterborne, it seems to have turned out well for me.”

  Chapter 9

  “MR. WINTERBORNE,” FERNSBY EXCLAIMED IN horror as she entered the office and saw that Rhys was filthy, battered, and bare-chested save for his coat. “Dear heaven, what happened? Were you set upon by thugs? Thieves?”

  “By a building, actually.”

  “What—”

  “I’ll explain later, Fernsby. At the moment, I need a shirt.” Uncomfortably he fished the prescription from his coat pocket and gave it to her. “Give this to the apothecary and have him mix a tonic—my shoulder was dislocated, and it aches like the devil. Also, tell my solicitor to be in my office within the half hour.”

  “Shirt, medicine, solicitor,” she said, committing them to memory. “Are you going to sue the owners of the building?”

  Wincing in discomfort, Rhys lowered into the chair at his desk. “No,” he murmured. “But I need to revise my will immediately.”

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go to your house to wash first?” she asked. “You’re rather . . . begrimed.”

  “No, this can’t wait. Tell Quincy to bring hot water and a towel. I’ll scrub off what I can here. And bring some tea—no, coffee.”

  “Shall I send for Dr. Havelock, sir?”

  “No, I’ve already been treated by Dr. Gibson. She’s coming for an interview on Monday at nine, by the way. I’m going to hire her to assist Havelock.”

  Mrs. Fernsby’s brows arched high over the rims of her spectacles. “She? Her?”

  “Haven’t you heard of female doctors?” Rhys asked dryly.

  “I suppose so, but I’ve never seen one.”

  “You will Monday.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fernsby muttered, and rushed from the office.

  With effort, Rhys reached for the jar of peppermint creams, took one and popped it into his mouth, and resettled his coat around his shoulders.

  As the peppermint disintegrated on his tongue, he forced himself to confront the thought that had horrified him during the ride back to Winterborne’s.

  What would have become of Helen if he had died?

  He had always lived fearlessly, taking calculated risks, doing whatever he pleased. Long ago he had accepted that his business would someday go on without him: He had planned to leave the company to his board of directors, the group of trusted advisors and friends whom he’d collected over the years. His mother would be handsomely taken care of, but she neither wanted nor merited any controlling interest in the company. There were also generous bequests to certain employees, such as Mrs. Fernsby, and sums to be distributed to distant relatives.

  But so far Helen hadn’t been mentioned in his will. As things stood, if the building accident had been fatal, she would have been left with nothing—after he had taken her virginity and possibly left her with his child.

  It terrified him to realize how vulnerable Helen’s position was. Because of him.

  His head throbbed viciously. Bracing his good arm on the desk, he lowered his forehead to the crook of his elbow, and trammeled his frantic thoughts into coherence.

  He would have to move quickly to safeguard Helen’s future. The question of how to protect her in the long term, however, was a more complicated question.

  As usual, his staff was fast and efficient. Quincy, the elderly valet he had hired away from Devon Ravenel only a few months ago, brought a fresh shirt, waistcoat, a can of hot water, and a tray of grooming supplies. Upon witnessing Rhys’s condition, the concerned valet clucked and murmured in dismay as he washed, brushed, combed, dabbed, and smoothed until Rhys was presentable. The worst part was donning the fresh shirt and waistcoat; as Dr. Gibson had predicted, the injured shoulder was becoming more painful.

  After Mrs. Fernsby had brought a dose of tonic from the apothecary, and a tray with both coffee and brandy, Rhys was ready for the solicitor.

  “Winterborne,” Charles Burgess said as he entered the office, glancing over him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “You remind me of a rough and tumble lad I once knew on High Street.”

  Rhys smiled at the stocky, gray-haired solicitor, who had once worked for his father on small legal matters. Eventually he had become one of Rhys’s advisors as the grocer’s shop expanded into a vast mercantile business. Now Burgess was on the private company’s board of directors. Meticulous, insightful, and creative, he was able to pick his way through legal obstacles like a North Wales sheep through upland heath.

  “Mrs. Fernsby says that you were caught in a construction mishap,” Burgess commented, sitting on the other side of the desk. He extracted a notebook and pencil from the inside of his coat.

  “Aye. Which brought to my attention the need to revise my will without delay.” He proceeded to explain about his engagement to Helen, giving Burgess a carefully expurgated version of recent events.

  After listening closely and writing a few notes, Burgess said, “You wish to secure Lady Helen’s future contingent upon a legal and consummated marriage, I assume.”

  “No, starting now. If something should happen to me before the wedding, I want her to be taken care of.”

  “You have no obligation to make any provision for Lady Helen until she becomes your wife.”

  “I want to put five million pounds in trust for her without delay.” At the solicitor’s stunned expression, Rhys said bluntly, “There may be a child.”

  “I see.” Burgess’s pencil moved rapidly across the page. “If a child is born within nine months after your demise, would you wish to make a provision for him?”

  “Aye. He—or she—will inherit the company. If there is no child, everything goes to Lady Helen.”

  The pencil stopped moving. “It’s not my place to say anything,” Burgess said. “But you’ve only known this woman for a matter of months.”

  “It’s what I want,” Rhys said flatly.

  Helen had risked everything for him. She had given herself to him without conditions. He would do no less for her.

  He certainly didn’t plan on meeting his maker any time soon—he was a healthy man with the greater part of his life still ahead of him. However, the accident today—not to mention the train collision a month ago—had demonstrated that no one was exempt from the vagaries of fate. If something did happen to him, he wanted Helen to have everything that was his. Everything, including Winterborne’s.

  KATHLEEN AND DEVON arrived at Ravenel House just in time for afternoon tea, which had been set out on a long, low table in front of the settee.

  Striding into the room, Kathleen went to Helen first, embracing her as heartily as if they’d been apart for two months instead of two days. Helen returned the hug with equal strength. Kathleen had become like an older sister to her, at times even a bit maternal. They had confided in each other and grieved together over Theo. In Kathleen, Helen had found a generous and understanding friend.

  When Theo had married Kathleen, everyone had hoped it would help to settle him down. Generations of Ravenels had been cursed with the volatile temperament that had distinguished them in battle as they fought alongside the Norman conquerors in 1066. Unfortunately it had been repeatedly proven in the following centuries that the Ravenels’ warlike nature wasn’t suited for any place other than the battlefield.

  By the time Theo had inherited the earldom, the estate of Eversby Priory had nearly fallen to ruins. The manor house was decaying, the tenants starving, and the land had gone without improvements or dece
nt drainage for decades. No one would ever know what Theo might have accomplished as the earl of Trenear. Only three days after his wedding, he had lost his temper and gone out to ride an unbroken horse. He had been thrown, and died of a snapped neck.

  Kathleen, Helen, and the twins had expected that they would have to leave the estate as soon as Devon, a distant Ravenel cousin, took possession. To their surprise, he had allowed all of them to stay, and he had devoted himself to saving Eversby Priory. Along with his younger brother West, Devon was making the estate viable again, learning everything he could about farming, land improvement, agricultural machinery, and estate management.

  Kathleen turned from Helen to embrace the twins. In the gray winter light from the windows, Kathleen’s auburn hair was a lively shock of color. She was a little slip of a thing with distinctive feline beauty, her brown eyes tip-tilted and her cheekbones prominent.

  “My dears,” she exclaimed, “I’ve missed you—everything is glorious—I have so much to tell you!”

  “So do I,” Helen said with an uneasy smile.

  “To begin with,” Kathleen said, “we brought some company from Eversby Priory.”

  “Has Cousin West come to visit?” Helen asked.

  At that exact moment, the sound of high-pitched barking echoed from the entrance hall.

  “Napoleon and Josephine!” Pandora exclaimed.

  “The dogs were pining for you,” Kathleen said. “Let’s hope they don’t cause trouble, or back to Hampshire they go.”

  A pair of black cocker spaniels burst in the room, yapping excitedly and jumping on the twins, who both dropped to the floor to play with them. Pandora was on all fours, pretending to pounce on Napoleon, who flopped onto his back in joyful surrender. Kathleen opened her mouth to protest, but shook her head in resignation, recognizing that any attempt to calm the boisterous girls would be useless.

  Devon, Lord Trenear, entered the room and grinned at the mayhem. “How soothing,” he remarked to the room at large. “Like a Degas painting: ‘Young Ladies at Afternoon Tea.’”