Page 3 of A Lovely White Christmastide
Checking him over, Daniel saw no other major injuries. Placing the strap a few inches above the deep slash upon the captain’s forearm, he cinched it tight.
He probed the deep gash. “Good news, Captain,” he said to the unconscious man. “You may be able to escape amputation. The bad news is you are going to be quite humiliated when you realize you fainted like a squeamish school miss at the sight of your own blood.”
Chapter One
KETTERING, ENGLAND, DECEMBER 1815
Carswell Bingham dipped his quill in the inkwell, then, ever so slowly wrote the new figures down in his ledger. Writing with his left hand still drove him nearly to bedlam. Gone were the days of neatly penned letters and evenly scrawled numbers, but at least he still had his right hand—for all the good it did him.
A knock sounded on the study door. “Enter.”
His butler, Wentworth, a tall, dignified man, quietly opened the oak door. “A Mr. Kaye to see you, my lord.”
Carswell paused, the new title still so foreign to his ears. Gone were his days of being a captain in the Royal Army. And unfortunately, thanks to his brother’s penchant for drink, horse racing, and impetuous bets that had got him killed, he was now stuck with the title of baron.
Setting the quill back in its holder, he shut his ledger and placed it in the drawer. “Who did you say has come?”
“Mr. Kaye, my lord.”
Carswell let out a sigh. “Show him in.”
So much for a day of peaceful, silent work. If only some other man had come out of the line to save him and then stubbornly fight for the surgeons to keep trying when the fever almost took him. But of course it had been Daniel Kaye. The perpetually happy, always in motion, bringer of chaos who would never allow him to forget the debt of gratitude he owed him.
“Good morning, Captain. Is not the sun glorious today?”
Carswell stared at the dim light coming in through the large windows. “Seems a bit overcast to me.”
“Only because all you can see is the clouds. Behind them is a cheery sun that is begging for you to leave this stuffy office and enjoy the out of doors.”
“In this frigid weather? I think we have vastly different ideas of enjoyment.”
“That is what hats and coats are for. Besides, a little air will do you good. Have you even been outside your house at all this week?”
Carswell noticed a paper out of place. Moving the edge so it lay a quarter inch from his inkwell, he thought over the last several days. When was the last time he’d gone out?
He turned his quill so the edges of the feather were facing exactly east and west. The vicar had come by, as well as his sister and her small army of children. He’d made sure Cook had prepared charity baskets for a few of his poorer tenants, but he had not delivered them, sending the housekeeper instead.
He could not remember when he’d actually left the house. A hair floated down onto the surface of his desk and he deftly plucked it off, glaring at the offending head that it had come from.
“Do sit down, Kaye. I have no intention of leaving at present.”
“Why not?”
“I need to organize my desk.”
“You mean this spotless wooden slab with each item placed exactly one quarter inch apart from one another?” He pointed to a paper as the waft of air from his movement displaced it.
Carswell carefully aligned the paper again, making sure to space it the correct distance from the edge.
“See. You are too particular. You need to let go and live a little, Captain.”
“I do live, quite comfortably too.”
“Yes, that is the problem. You live too comfortably. So comfortably that you are miserable.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
