“You’re a very selfish girl, Lizzy,” Mirabelle admonished. “Kate has a novel in which the heroine’s abigail sacrifices her very life for her mistress. It was most touching.”
“I believe I read it, miss.” Lizzy casually folded a blanket at the end of the bed. “I recall thinking at the time that it was very kind of the lady to employ the infirm and that it was probably best the poor girl went at the end. Can’t have that sort of thing being passed down, can we?”
Mirabelle laughed until Lizzy pointed a finger at the cup. “Hold your nose and gulp it down quick. It’s the only way to take that sort of medicine.”
“You’re right,” Mirabelle agreed on a sigh, and followed the instructions. “Ugh, that’s dreadful.”
A light knocking and the appearance of Whit’s head at the door kept Lizzy from responding.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked before his eyes fell on the head of the bed and Mirabelle. “Ah. And how are you feeling?”
“Sore, but otherwise well.” She watched him enter the room fully, his hands hidden behind his back.
“I’ll just see to the cup,” Lizzy began.
“If you’d be so kind as to stay,” Whit said. “I’d like a few words with Miss Browning.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Take a book,” Mirabelle suggested, knowing the girl wouldn’t do so without invitation while Whit was in the room. “I believe you’ll find several of Kate’s recommendations on the vanity.”
“Thank you, miss.” Lizzy selected one before settling herself in a chair at the far corner of the room.
“Won’t you sit down, Whit?” Mirabelle asked, while wondering how she might go about asking him why he’d chosen to carry her up the hill.
“In a moment. I’ve brought something for you.”
She sat up straighter in the bed. She adored presents. Not charity, which smarted the pride, but presents for an occasion—and she rather thought being injured was an occasion—were always welcome. “Have you? Are you holding it behind your back? What is it?”
He grinned and pulled his hands out to show her.
“A cane,” she laughed.
“It’s something of a relic, I’m afraid,” he said, handing it to her. “The last member of the house to require assistance walking was my great-great-grandmother. It seems the Cole women are a sturdy lot.”
“Very sturdy,” she commented, hefting the cane experimentally. It felt stout enough to hold up a lame horse.
“If you’d prefer something more fashionable, I’m sure I could find something in Benton for you.”
“This will do beautifully,” she said, still inspecting the cane. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Whit moved to sit in a chair by the bed. “Mirabelle?”
“Hmm?”
“Were you aware that Evie doesn’t own one of those?”
“Yes.” She looked up and took in his thoughtful frown. “I take it you were not.”
“No.” He picked idly at the arm of the chair. “I stopped by her room, thinking to borrow one for you, and she informed me she’s had no need of them.”
“Evie’s leg is strong, Whit, and it rarely bothers her except in extreme cold.”
“I hadn’t realized it bothered her at all,” he said more to himself than her. “Why would she keep that from me?”
“She hasn’t,” Mirabelle responded instantly, uncomfortable with the brief glimpse of hurt she saw cloud his eyes. “Certainly, not intentionally. It simply isn’t something she speaks of. It just is—much like your blue eyes or my drab hair. And since there’s nothing she can do other than take a hot soak on cold days—”
“There are physicians who specialize in these sorts of things.”
“You take too much on yourself, Whit.”
He visibly started at the comment. “I do nothing of the sort. Evie is an unmarried woman under my care. It’s my responsibility to see to her well-being, her protection—”
“She’d buy a cane fast enough if she heard you speaking of her like that,” Mirabelle scoffed. “If only to beat you about the head with it.”
“I’ve every right to—” He cut himself off and blew out a frustrated breath. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“With great fervor. And without mercy.”
“She’s a bloodythirsty wench. And you may tell your mistress I said so,” he added in a louder voice for Lizzy.
“Very good, my lord.”
“I would have told her in any case,” Mirabelle informed him. And then, quite out of nowhere, she asked, “Why did you carry me up the hill?”
If Whit was surprised by the abrupt question—and she couldn’t imagine anyone not being surprised by such an abrupt question—it was nothing compared to her own shock. Where the devil had that come from? Had she hit her head?
She must have hit her head.
Hit it so tremendously hard during her fall that the impact removed all memory—along with all common sense—of…of having hit it at all. It was the only explanation, even if it didn’t seem to make sense to her at the moment.
“I told you why,” Whit answered with a concerned tilt of his head. “It was too steep and full of bramble for a horse to traverse.”