Page 173 of Feathers in the Wind
I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. ‘An injection, you dolt. When did you have your last tetanus injection?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think I have ever had an...injection.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand you re-enactors. I’ve been to a few of Alan’s musters and quite honestly it amazes me that more people don’t get seriously hurt.’ I paused in cleaning the wound and looked up. ‘I only saw Alan last night and he didn’t mention anything about a muster today. Where is the rest of your lot?’
He frowned. ‘The rest of...my lot? Safely in their quarters, I would hope.’
‘Oh, so you’re not playing… mustering, or whatever you call it, around here then?’
‘No...’ he replied with deliberate slowness as if talking to an imbecile.
I straightened and crossed my arms. ‘Look, you don’t have to keep up this facade with me. You live in the twentieth century and it would be easier for both of us if you stopped the pretence and gave me straight answers.’
My visitor glanced at me and ran his hand through his hair. He shook his head, looking around the room with genuine confusion in his eyes.
‘Mistress, I crave your pardon. The...twentieth century?’
When I worked in ER, I encountered people from all walks of life--the drug addicted, the delusional, the paranoid...but this man seemed different. His clear gray-green eyes betrayed puzzlement, but not fear.
‘Perhaps if you start by telling me your name?’ I ventured.
His fingers drummed on the tabletop. ‘Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’
‘Heatherhill Hall?’
His eyes brightened. ‘Aye. That is my home. You know of it?’
‘I’ve visited it a couple of times. It’s only a few miles from here.’
He frowned. ‘I am sure I would recall your visit.’ For the first time a smile caught at the corner of his lips. ‘Particularly if you habitually wear such fetching outfits.’
I ignored the last comment. ‘Do you live in one of the cottages on the estate?’
‘Of course not. I live in the Hall. My family has owned the manor of Heatherhill for centuries.’
‘They may well have done, but, unless you have some sort of caretaker’s flat, you can’t possibly live there, Mr. Preston. It’s been in the hands of the National Trust for years.’
He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. ‘Mistress, you truly talk in riddles. Who, or what, is the National Trust?’
I sighed. The pretence had begun to get wearying. He really must have had quite a knock on the head if he actually imagined he belonged in the seventeenth century.
‘Are you going to let me look at your head?’ I asked.
His hand hit the table and I jumped. ‘Mistress, my head is quite clear. I have taken no hit to it. Now if I could trouble you to bind my arm, I will be gone.’
‘Your arm needs to be stitched and I do not have any local anaesthetic.’
‘Do what you must, but hurry. Those scurvy roundheads will no doubt return in search of me, and I have no wish to get you into trouble.’
Scurvy roundheads indeed. I rose to my feet and squinted at the wound. ‘Do you want me to suture this now?’
‘I do not require you to do anything, mistress.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Stitch it or not, it is all one to me.’
‘I should take you to hospital.’
The chair screeched on the flags as he pushed himself back from the table. ‘Hospital? I am not dying. If it is too great a trouble for you, I assure you my grandmother has skill enough to see to it.’
He rose to his feet and turned for the door, and then as if remembering something, he turned back, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘Perhaps if I could trouble you for a loan of a horse, I would be grateful. It is a long walk home. You have my word that I will return it anon.’
