Page 46 of Winterset
Mrs. Owensby lowered him into an armchair by the dying fire. Needing more light, she added another log, stoked the flame back to life, and then lit the lamps, illuminating the room.
By the time she turned back, Mr. Jennings’s breathing had evened out, and he was still with sleep.
Mrs. Owensby leaned close and inspected his wound.
From my position, I could see only the top of Mr. Jennings’s head poking over the back of the armchair, but his injury was severe enough to elicit a wince from her.
She straightened and moved toward the drawing room door, where I hid.
“Is he all right?” I whispered as she passed.
“Kate!” Mrs. Owensby startled and looked over her shoulder at Mr. Jennings to ensure he hadn’t heard her, then turned back to me. “No, I’m afraid not. His wound is deep and wide and requires stitches. I am going to tell Bexley to fetch Doctor Foster.”
My insides clenched. A memory of Doctor Foster standing over Papa’s lifeless body flashed through my mind. Although the doctor was not directly responsible for Papa’s death—Mr. Cavendish was—he had done little to help the situation. “Doctor Foster is likely as drunk as Mr. Jennings,” I said.
“We will have to hope that is not the case tonight,” she said. “I can’t sew Mr. Jennings’s wound; my eyesight is too poor, and my hands are unsteady.”
I held Mrs. Owensby’s gaze. “I will do it.”
“Don’t be absurd, child. What if Mr. Jennings wakes and sees you?”
“He hasalreadyseen me,” I reminded her.
Mrs. Owensby frowned her displeasure.
“Luckily,” I added, “he believes I am a ghost. And even if he does see me again tonight, he is too drunk to remember it accurately in the morning.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but you have never stitched a wound before.”
“No,” I said, “but I am proficient enough at embroidery.”
“Stitching skin is vastly different from stitching silk, Kate.”
I grimaced at her words but pushed the feeling aside. “I don’t trust the doctor not to do more damage, Mrs. Owensby. And we shouldn’t delay Mr. Jennings’s care.”
She bit her lower lip, seeming to consider.
“Please let me do this,” I said. “Think of it as my penance for all my pranks.”
“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Owensby said, “but you’re right; his care should not be delayed. Use his cravat to wipe away the excess blood while I fetch supplies,” she said and hurried toward the servants’ quarters.
Alone now, I walked slowly and quietly through the drawing room, never taking my eyes off Mr. Jennings. His head was propped against the armchair wing, and his curls fell across his forehead, covering his wound. His arms were draped over the armrests, and his legs were splayed on the floor.
Heart pounding, I retrieved a chair from the corner and sat close to him.
My goodness. Had hebathedin drink? I should not be surprised if he slept until spring.
Feeling more confident that he wouldn’t wake, I moved to loosen his cravat. It was intricately tied, and it took me a minute to work out the knot and then another to unwind the cloth. My fingers brushed the soft skin of his neck. Despite his wet clothing, his skin was warm.
Using one hand, I pushed back the golden curls that had fallen across his forehead to reveal the gash above his left eyebrow. It was not long but appeared deep. What had happened? Had he gotten into a fight? Fallen?
I folded his cravat in my free hand and lightly touched the linen to his temple. The blood wiped away easily, but it took more effort to clean his cheeks, where it had already begun to dry.
He really was handsome.
But just because he was handsome did not mean he was good. In my experience, good looks often seemed to indicate the opposite; the more handsome the man, the worse his behavior.
The sheer symmetry of his face demanded artistic admiration. Most people had one eye that was slightly lower than the other, a nose that was alittle crooked, or ears that protruded unbecomingly. But Mr. Jennings possessed strong, sturdy features that were implausibly balanced: eyes equidistant from a straight nose, high cheekbones, and plump, red lips.
