Zesty lemons teased her senses when she uncorked the vial of bath oil. It smelled of everything she wasn’t. Clean, crisp, and fresh. As she sank into the bath, her muscles protested before loosening under the soothing heat. The water stung her scraped skin, already marked with red and blue splotches. Over the next several days, those would become a colorful road map of abrasions and vivid bruises. What a miserable day.
She’d been in the tub for only a few moments when a knock interrupted her pity party. Lucia Darling poked her head in the room. “We’ve arrived, milady.” Lottie’s maid closed the door, then knelt by the tub, gently grasping Lottie’s chin to tilt her stitches toward the light. “Once the swelling in that eye goes down, you’ll clean up nicely.”
“I’ll be fine. How are you? Is Patrick awake?” Lottie draped the heavy curtain of her hair over one shoulder and reached for the soap.
“A few bumps. I’ll surely feel it tomorrow. Nothing compared to Patrick’s leg. He awoke for a few moments before the men arrived, but passed out again when they loaded him in the wagon. The doctor is getting him settled in a bed now,” Darling said.
“The physician proved competent with a needle.” Lottie gestured toward her own forehead. “Let us pray his bone-setting abilities are as impressive.”
“Aye.” Darling picked up the discarded clothing, hung it on the hook, then recorked the vial of oil by the tub.
“Darling, maybe you should sit. You have your own bruises and bumps to care for.”
Darling ignored the suggestion. She inspected the torn traveling gown with a critical eye—as if they’d launder and mend the thing. “Mr. and Mrs. Pringle seem nice. The rooms are clean. We’ll be comfortable once the men return from the coach with our things.”
“The only drawback I can see is our proximity to Lord Amesbury.” Lottie wrinkled her nose as if the name itself smelled foul. “We had words downstairs. Now I’d prefer never to see him again.”
“Lord Amesbury? Here? Hell on a broomstick, this day is one awful surprise after another.” Darling finally sat in the chair near the tub.
Lottie pushed the topic of Amesbury aside with a wave of her hand and a spray of lemon-scented droplets. “We can talk about him later. I’m most concerned about you and Patrick. I can see you’re worried. Would you prefer to be with him right now?”
Darling shook her head, but the jerky movement revealed her distress. “My duty is here, milady.”
Of course she would say that. “If you wish to keep him company, then go. Let me know what he needs to be more comfortable.”
Darling dipped a shallow curtsy, then darted from the room.
Alone again, Lottie skimmed the pitcher beneath the surface, then tipped her head back. Although she attempted to avoid the suture site, water hit the stitches, eliciting a grimace. Clean hair and body would be worth the momentary discomfort, surely.
When the water grew cool, she stepped from the tub before realizing her problem. Her clothes were with the carriage, strewn about the roadside. Lottie eyed the bloody rag formerly known as her traveling dress hanging by the door. No.
The toweling linen wrapped around her ample curves, with a gap of several inches. Lottie scowled at the skin between the ends of the towel. The bedding would have to do.
Wrapped in patchwork colors worn smooth by years of washings, Lottie wrote a letter informing her father—or rather, her father’s steward, Rogers—of the day’s events. Recounting the facts did nothing to loosen the knot of emotion lodged in her chest. Another note went to her godmother, Lady Agatha Dalrymple. The older woman expected Lottie at her London home this week, but under the current circumstances, the likelihood of that happening was nil.
Even if Patrick’s leg set without complications and there weren’t any unforeseen traveling delays, a swap of staff and carriages would still take several days. She would not leave Patrick here alone. Once he was safely on his way back to Stanwick Manor, she and Darling would continue on to London. Her father would call her weak for prioritizing a servant over her travel itinerary, but her father wasn’t the one making decisions, now was he?
A delay was a better outcome than how the day could have ended. Multiple lives might have been snuffed out like a guttered candle, with such swiftness there would have been no chance to sputter or flare back to life. Just gone. Dead instead of broken. Lottie rubbed at an ache between her brows, then set the letters on a table by the door.
A familiar knock pulled her from gloomy thoughts. Her maid closed the door, then slumped against it. Darling seemed to stare at nothing for several seconds before blowing a lock of hair from her face.
Patrick’s leg must be either set or lost. No third option. Darling’s expression fit both outcomes. Clenching her fists around the quilt’s corner until her knuckles shone white, Lottie braced for the worst. “How is he?”
Tears slipped down Darling’s cheeks in twin trails. “He’ll keep the leg for now. As long as it doesn’t fester.”
“That’s a mercy. Better to gain a limp than lose the leg.” Lottie slumped onto the edge of the mattress.
“The doctor gave me ground willow bark for Patrick’s pain. I’ll add it to his tea. He also gave us laudanum, but the stubborn cuss refused to take any. I have it in case Patrick relents,” Darling said.
“I can’t imagine how hard this ordeal has been for him or for you.” The two had been spending more time together in recent weeks, which made Lottie wonder if a romance might be brewing.
“He fainted when the doctor moved the bone.” Darling swiped under her nose with the heel of her palm, then dried her hand on her skirt. “I haven’t heard from Mrs. Pringle about our trunks. You need clothes.” She shuddered as if just noticing the condition of her gown.
“I hope it won’t be much longer. I’m sure
