Lady Knightley's Secret. ANNE ASHLEY
RICHARD BEGAN SEARCHING THE CELLAR ONCE MORE.
“I’m looking for more candles. We may as well try to keep as warm as we can.”
Elizabeth watched in some amusement as he began to light them. “I feel like a sacrificial lamb placed at the altar,” she quipped, seeing the semicircle of light.
There wasn’t so much as a ghost of a smile around Richard’s mouth, however, and the expression in his eyes was faintly disturbing. “That, my dear girl, is precisely what you shall be if we’re not rescued soon.”
Anne Ashley was born and educated in Leicester, U.K. She resided for a time in Scotland, but now lives in the West Country with two cats, her two sons and a husband who has a wonderful and very necessary sense of humor. When not pounding away at the keys of her typewriter, she likes to relax in her garden, which she has opened to the public on more than one occasion in aid of the village church funds.
Lady Knightley’s Secret
Anne Ashley
Contents
Chapter One
1815
Sir Richard Knightley woke with a violent start. He was sweating profusely and his every muscle seemed suddenly to have grown taut. What in the world had woken him? he wondered. Cannon fire? No, it couldn’t have been. Just a bad dream—that was all: nothing more than vivid memory; a deep-seated fear. It was over…Surely it must be over? He just couldn’t go through it again, not that carnage! He detected the distant rumble once more and released his breath in a deep sigh of relief. Thunder…only thunder.
Trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his shoulder, and the sudden darting pain in his left leg, he eased himself into a sitting position. His night-shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to him like a second skin. Ye gods, wasn’t it oppressive tonight! he thought, pulling the offending garment over his head and tossing it aside in disgust.
Perhaps this storm might clear the air. Mary had warned him earlier that there was one brewing. He could quite easily discern those claps of thunder getting steadily louder, even if he was oblivious to the flashes of lightning.
Instinctively he raised a hand to touch the bandage over his eyes. The sabre gash in his right shoulder had been excruciating, and so too had the lead ball which had torn through the flesh in his thigh, but it had been the damage to his eyes when that pistol had been discharged which had caused him most concern. To be deprived of one’s sight didn’t bear dwelling on. To be led about by the hand for the rest of one’s life…
A further clap of thunder, which seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, broke into his depressing thoughts and brought him back to the present by reminding him of how oppressive it was in the room. Had Mary inadvertently closed the window when she had paid that last visit before retiring for the night? He turned his head in the direction in which he knew the window to be, and after a moment’s indecision decided to make the attempt.
Wincing slightly as he moved his injured leg, he swung his feet to the floor, and then reached out a hand to the wall. Mary had not delayed in encouraging him to exercise his muscles by taking a gentle turn about the bedchamber twice a day. He quickly discovered, however, that it was one thing having that blessed girl to guide him, and quite another trying to feel his way about a room he had never yet seen, a room where every object was a potential danger to a man who had been as good as blind for the past month.
‘Oh, confound it!’ he muttered as his elbow made contact with something, sending it crashing to the floor. What the devil had he broken? he wondered before his toes came into contact with a wet patch on the floor. It must have been the pitcher.
‘Don’t you be taking another step, sir!’ came a gently warning voice, spiced with an unmistakable West Country accent, ‘otherwise you’ll be a-stepping on broken porcelain.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mary. I hope it wasn’t valuable.’
He discerned the slight click as she closed the door, and then heard that soft footfall of hers as she came across the chamber towards him.
‘As you know, sir, this don’t be our ’ouse, so whether it be valuable or no I can’t rightly say, but it’s of no matter, anyhow. What be you a-doing out of bed? ’Ave you need of the chamber-pot?’
He couldn’t prevent a smile at this rather base enquiry. But then, he reminded himself, anyone less matter-of-fact, less practical would hardly have coped so admirably in nursing the six British casualties brought into this house.
Not that he retained any memory whatsoever of the journey back to Brussels in that lumbering cart filled with the dead and wounded. It had been Sergeant Hawker who had informed him that it had been Mary herself who had agreed to the army surgeon’s request to offer sanctuary to the injured men, and it had been she who had insisted that three of those six must be men from the lower ranks. There would be no discrimination under her roof, no preferential treatment to those higher born.
Richard couldn’t recall being carried up to this room, nor had he any memory of those first few days after the surgeon had tended the deep gash in his shoulder and had removed the piece of lead shot from his thigh. The last thing he could remember was having his mount shot from under him and seeing a blinding flash whilst he lay, momentarily stunned, on the scorched, bloodstained ground; though who had discharged the firearm, a fellow soldier or the enemy, he had no notion. Then, as he had made to rise, his vision blurred, his eyes smarting, he had been felled again by a French cavalryman wielding a sabre. The next thing he remembered was someone gently raising his head and coaxing him to take a little water.
That, of course, had been Mary, several days after he had been carried into this house. Since then she had administered to his every bodily need, had